There is a hole at the bottom of the lake where the movies come from. Jane Schoenbrun’s Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma sits comfortably within that space that reflects the back of your mind and the pit of your desires. Like Camp Miasma’s resident slasher Little Death (Jack Haven), Schoenbrun’s film is a spear-wielding sex fiend with a penchant for penetrating the viewer with a bloody taste of reality.
With the upcoming release of their first novel Public Access Afterworld, Schoenbrun will have completed their “Screen Trilogy”, alongside We’re All Going to the World’s Fair and I Saw the TV Glow. Schoenbrun delineates the screen as a mirror for self-reflection. Who you see on that screen is the ideal version of yourself, or perhaps, the only version of yourself that feels real, while the tangible body you sit in floats in a region somewhere far and indiscernible.
Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma marks Schoenbrun’s leap outside of this trilogy, still engaging with the relationship between queer identities and media consumption, but on a grander scale with stylistic experimentation. Schoenbrun’s directorial voice will always command anything they create, but Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma feels like a swing in a bold direction. If TV Glow and World’s Fair lie on a dreamlike plane, Camp Miasma is awake, confident in a manner that suggests Schoenbrun knows their worth and the lengths their unleashed creativity can take them.
Their work never fails to be quite personal, mostly through the abstracted portrayal of internalized emotions central to the queer experience in the digital age. In Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma, Kris (Hannah Einbinder) is an obvious stand-in for Schoenbrun. A young non-binary filmmaker who got their start through a Sundance success on a shoe-string budget, en route to reboot the in-universe Camp Miasma slasher series, a once iconic but now dead IP. The series itself is unsubtly reminiscent of the transphobic cult-classic with a devoted queer fanbase Sleepaway Camp, which funny-enough, exists in Schoenbrun’s universe with the name-drop of original actress Felissa Rose (my horror-heart soared at this).
By this, it almost feels as if this film was made for me with its clear understanding of horror fan culture, and specifically, the attraction that queer subcultures feel towards a genre riddled with problematic elements. Admittedly, I’m a sucker for nostalgia-bait. A fictional Fangoria magazine cover in the opening credits couldn’t not get me. And as a result, I would understand how this film could be less effective for those who don’t share the same nostalgia. Yet, I feel quite strongly that Schoenbrun’s film does not utilize its references cheaply, because they are not merely represented, but rather dissected. Schoenbrun is here to investigate why horror means so much to people, and beneath that, the hidden desires one who has shaped their identity from horror may feel amidst the schlock and carnage.
Beyond having rudimentary knowledge of the slasher canon, I suggest giving Carol J. Clover’s seminal text Men, Women, and Chainsaws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film a read going into Camp Miasma to appreciate its expertly interwoven references, and near-academic approach to exploring the orgasmic appeal of horror. While Schoenbrun’s previous work is concerned with the cinema of affect, Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma gives words and direct intellectualization to the sexual confidence Kris gains from her infatuation with the Camp Miasma series. Sex becomes death. Death becomes release. And that release is reanimation into a more realized, powerful version of yourself.
This cerebral execution made my viewing experience less emotionally compelling than with their previous work (I’ll never forget the way my stomach twisted walking out of I Saw the TV Glow), but what made me appreciate this more unambiguous turn was its flirtation with triumph. I Saw the TV Glow ends with an apology, but Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma ends with acceptance. Without doubt, the viewer understands why Kris, against all modern notions of political correctness, just wants to run for her life in a skimpy outfit with her tits bouncing . Or maybe it’s not so obvious as I make it out to be, and I’m just the target audience. I’ll let audiences be the judge of that.
Judging by initial reception, I reckon Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma might be Jane Schoenbrun’s most loved, and even accessible, film to date, which is funny to confidently proclaim considering the wild and uncommercial places it goes. In fact, Kris’ saga of conflict with her agent and the studio system at large directly condemns Hollywood’s laser-focus on commercial appeal, likely reflecting Schoenbrun’s personal experiences in the industry as their work draws more and more attention. However, rather than draw the film farther from the common audience, I feel these scenes work to break the barrier between filmmaker and viewer. After all, it’s hardly cryptic that artistic integrity is not at the top of these fictionalized industry leader’s minds.
So, when Camp Miasma veers deep into, well, camp, we are fully on its side, prepared to give a big middle finger to those who contradict. Even if the more satirical industry-focused scenes veer a bit into SNL-esque, sketch comedy territory, I appreciate their function in the film for that reason. And if that is not what gets audiences invested, than Hannah Einbeinder and Gillian Anderson’s charmingly ridiculous, surprisingly tender, dipping sauce coated, and blood-soaked romance certainly will. Anderson’s work here especially is utterly batshit yet completely human.
Until Schoenbrun’s next cinematic outing, I’ll be busy admiring, dreaming, and salivating over Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma’s sky-scraping blood fountains and glistening painted backdrops, which will make me happy to rewind the film in the late hours of the night, preferably on a CRT TV stuffing greasy popcorn and sour candy ropes down my trap.