By Jane Schoenbrun seems to be embarking on a similar career path to Wes Anderson: complete devotion to a nearly identical thematic hook that deeply resonates for some people. Theirs is “my obsession with ‘so and so’ media from my youth shaped my queer awakening.” I struggle to reconcile with how much I scoff at their execution of these stories considering their impact on folks who are far more emotionally linked to them. These movies actively make me feel less queer. I don’t just dislike them. I am outright unplugged from them. TEENAGE SEX AND DEATH AT CAMP MIASMA, Schoenbrun’s tribute to ‘80s slasher movies and their iconic actors who serve as comforting figures in the lives of outsiders, might be my final attempt to latch onto their work. I am a horror fanatic. This concept appeals to me very much on paper. However, I just don’t think that Schoenbrun ever truly delivers on the promise of their premises. The setup is a hoot—and then we dive into hacky surreality.
We follow Kris Williams (Hannah Einbinder), an indie filmmaker and lifelong fan of the fictitious Camp Miasma slasher franchise. She scores the potential gig of a lifetime: the elevated reboot of the now-defunct series. Determined to tap into the DNA of the first movie, Kris sets a meeting with former final girl Billy Presley (Gillian Anderson), who now lives alone in a stodgy cabin where that entry was shot. The two quickly emotionally bond and Kris becomes determined to cast her in the lead role of her adaptation. The intellectual connection eventually becomes sexual. As that dynamic blossoms, the series’ slasher Little Death (Jack Haven) appears to emerge from the waterlogged “hole where the movies come from” to inflict pain and suffering in reality.
I can appreciate how genuine Schoenbrun’s fandom for FRIDAY THE 13TH and SLEEPAWAY CAMP is. We open with a lengthy sequence that tracks the history of the Camp Miasma series through VHS tapes and newspaper clippings. It’s a cute fake history that in itself pays tribute to the genre. About midway through, we’re treated to an extended clip from the original Camp Miasma featuring Zach Cherry, a massively mohawked Eva Victor, and a few other stupid teens. This sequence masterfully captures the style and dialogue cadence of that era, culminating in a wildly amusing killfest that toys with the camera in an uneasy, visceral way. We feel as though you are swiveling around inside of Little Death’s cumbersome square mask. I have to wonder if Schoenbrun is guilty of over-intellectualizing their artistic urges. I’d love to see a more straightforward genre effort from them that channels the likes of BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER or these slasher classics in an original way without having to turn them inside out for a convoluted metaphor.
On that note, TEENAGE SEX AND DEATH AT CAMP MIASMA starts to fall flat when leaning on the core relationship between Hannah Einbinder and Gillian Anderson. Einbinder is the movie’s strongest asset. She perfectly captures the essence of this repressed, mildly pretentious creative whose hyperfixations shape the work that defines her personality. Kris could’ve easily been a carbon copy of Einbinder’s iconic turn as comedy writer Ava Daniels in HACKS, but she finds a completely fresh angle for the neurosis of this millennial worker bee. Sadly, Gillian Anderson just doesn’t give her a lot to play off of. Billy is certainly an idea for a character, a reclusive woman who is far more ethereal in Kris’ eyes because of a legacy that has haunted and broken her. Anderson’s performance, drenched in a Kentucky Fried accent, is just too cartoonish to thread this interiority in a way that feels human. This attraction between director and actor is supposed to be unknowable and cosmic. Instead, it is just far too hokey for how self-important this movie reveals itself to be.
I had a nearly identical experience watching this and I SAW THE TV GLOW. The first half tricked me. It leans more on Schoenbrun’s offbeat Lynchian humor; Einbinder and Anderson’s chemistry plays far better as a cheeky sendup of messy creative situationships. However, it completely nosedives once Einbinder is forced to deliver a lengthy, self-important monologue about her inner turmoil that is nearly identical to Jack Haven’s nonsensical diatribe in TV GLOW. From here, the story shifts from a quirky entertainment industry comedy into a deconstruction of the film’s world that sends any authentic character work completely off the rails. It ends with a final reveal that is more annoying than inventive, turning this evocative story of unlikely attraction into an “Aren’t I clever?” genre experiment. Different strokes for different folks. TEENAGE SEX AND DEATH AT CAMP MIASMA will undoubtedly resonate with some on a bone-deep level. Schoenbrun is making entirely personal expressions that invite viewers to follow if they want to ride the wavelength. I can respect that—I just wish that they were more concerned with entertainment than abstraction.
Comments