RIGA IFF: Pusaudžu sekss un nāve Miasmas nometnē

Jane Schoenbrun

Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma

Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma

US, CA

2026, 112’, en

Age 16+

The Cannes Queer Palm-winning horror by the rising star of American directing, Schoenbrun, incites, amuses, and reminds us of ‘the good little deaths’. It is Schoenbrun’s play on the attempt to revive a beloved series, which induced anxiety and 'la petite mort' in its excited viewer. Gillian Anderson’s character Billy, the franchise's ‘final girl’, reassures: “When it gets too real, you can always turn it off.”

Camp Miasma is not just a place for summer idlers and first tummy butterflies. It is the name of a cult franchise that is set to make its return to the screen once more. For the rising star of American independent cinema, director Kris, the rules of the game set by the film studio are clear: horror franchises are like vampires – they require blood to survive. However, Kris longs to create a film with meaning, hoping that the franchise icon Billy Presley, who lives in Miasma, will return for a role. Contemporary standards have written the 'hormone epic' off, yet both have some ideas on how to revive it. Kris realises that the boundaries are blurring, and the lake-dwelling villain, Little Death, is closing in on her too…

If you were captivated by I Saw the TV Glow (2024) and know the lore of Scream and Scary Movie and other goosebump-inducing film franchises inside out, Schoenbrun’s odyssey of references, nonsense, and teen sexuality will be right up your street. The opener of Cannes' Un Certain Regard section is a delicate metaparody of goopy horror cinema, sex and pop culture and, as Anderson’s diva Billy spells it out, flesh and fluids. Schoenbrun also engages in self-reference, drawing astute parallels with the filmmaker played by Hannah Einbinder (best known for the comedy-drama series Hacks): How to satisfy the suits’ appetite for strong box-office returns when even the most primitive 'cinematic devices' concern the philosophy of the body? Perhaps a liberating fantasy is real—real in a way that boring reality is not?