Liberation in anxiety: ‘Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma’

Graphic by Bei Jia Viggiano ’28 via Canva

By JJ Guo ’29 

Staff Writer

The tightness in my chest didn’t leave, though it was long after I stepped out of the movie theater. That familiar feeling of anxiety has been crawling behind me ever since I saw "Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma." 

Written and directed by Jane Schoenbrun, "Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma" follows Kris — played by Hannah Einbinder —  a young, queer filmmaker hired to reboot “Camp Miasma,” a fictional slasher franchise from the 1980s. Her research eventually leads her to Billy, who is portrayed by Gillian Anderson,  the original film’s final girl, who is living in the abandoned campsite where the film was shot. "Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma" has been described as “a 2026 American satirical surrealist psychological romantic slasher film.” According to those elaborate labels, I should laugh, or scream. While I experienced both of those things, why was it that anxiety lingered the longest?  

Part of it is the style choice. The retro, low-grain look and exaggerated gore pays tribute to 80s slasher films; the soundtrack follows suit. Kris’s work and life mirrors the present, while the dreamy, surrealist landscape paints an ideal future. This amalgamation of past, present and future constructs a strange disorientation for the film’s audience. 

Scattered through the strangeness are the breadcrumbs we recognize, the unspeakable discomfort of sex, an infuriating Zoom meeting where no one can hear one another and a mindless snack shopping spree at a gas station. These ordinary details of modern life draw us so close that we cannot help but resonate.

This film presented the gap between the amalgamated zone and my own reality. This gap is eternally to be determined, beyond control and without categorization. Struggling to experience sexual pleasure without mentally placing herself inside the fictional world of Camp Miasma, Kris too flounders in this space of in-betweenness.  

The anxiety is given a figure and a name in this film: Little Death. Wearing a geometric metal helmet resembling an air vent and a raincoat, Little Death is the slasher who haunts the campsite. Their killing spree is the showpiece of the film, gleefully gory and set — unexpectedly — to the song “A Long December” by Counting Crows. Shifting between the perspective of Little Death, Kris and Billy, the nerve-wracking scene culminates with Little Death piercing the pair during intimacy with a spear. Then, the theater fell silent as my body buzzed with the aftermath of intense anxiety. 

At this moment, I remembered what Billy said to Kris. “If it gets too real, you can always turn it off.” 

In a Letterboxd interview, Schoenbrun explained this line to be about “exploring things that you know are going to be scary and tender; that you don’t have to be focused on the fact that you have a way to turn it off, but knowing that exists is the only way you’re going to be able to actually be present.” Chased by the slasher of anxiety, I had been holding my breath all my life. When chest tightness became habitual, the choice to exit was faded and forgotten. Yet watching Kris lying in the room, scared and safe all at once, I felt what it might be like to exhale into my own sexuality.  

The film keeps rolling. A moment later, Kris and Billy wake. Bathed in blood and tenderness, they go on a snack shopping-spree at the gas station.

Jillian Stammely ’28 contributed fact-checking.

Olivia Wilde’s ‘The Invite’ asks where relationships begin and end

Photo courtesy of alleksana via Pexels

“The Invite” is a new film, starring Olivia Wilde, Seth Rogen, Penelope Cruz, and many others.

Staff Writer

Kannille Washington ’28

In the summer of 2026, Olivia Wilde’s "The Invite" hit screens. Starring Olivia Wilde, Seth Rogen, Penelope Cruz and Edward Norton, the screenplay was  written by duo Will McCormack and Rashida Jones. Directed by Olivia Wilde, the story is based on the play and eventual Spanish film “Sentimental, both written by Cesc Gay.” Wilde’s film centers on a dinner party between two couples and follows their interactions throughout the night. While one couple, Joe and Angela — Rogen and Wilde —  struggle to keep their relationship afloat, their neighbors, Pina and Hawk — Cruz and Norton —  seem to be the complete opposite. 

The film begins with Joe and Angela as they laugh over a piano, and fades into a singular and solemn shot of Joe dissociating during his students' music practice. He lumbers out of the auditorium and as he begins to bike up the San Francisco roads, “I’m Confessin’” by Fabienne DelSol plays. At the apartment, we see the first interaction between Joe and Angela as they fly through arguments and the camera jumps around the intimate corners of their home, following their every move. Despite Angela asking “Can we please do a reset?”, their conversation quickly shifts back into an argument. The tension is cut, only momentarily, by the arrival of their upstairs neighbors, Pina and Hawk. Angela swears she and Joe discussed inviting the couple over, despite his insistence not to have them in their home. As the night goes on, the distinct differences between the two couples only escalates  the conflict between Joe and Angela and forces them to question what a relationship should look like. 

Though the actors present dynamic performances in their own right, the score — composed by Devonté Hynes — really solidifies the restriction of singular apartment where the film is set. The music converses with the characters.  As we hear their voices heighten or their words linger in the following silence, the music follows. The apartment itself perfectly encapsulates the uncomfortable dynamic Angela and Joe have been steeping in throughout their relationship; discarded music projects and art pieces created years ago haunt the decaying corpse of the couple's creativity. 

Pina asks the couple in the final act, “Do you even remember a time when you were not miserable?” Simultaneously, the movie asks the audience: when is a relationship finally over?

Since Wilde’s 2022 film, “Don't Worry Darling”started its press tour, there have been a lot of eyes on not only her, but also her public divorce with actor and comedian Jason Sudeikas. “Don’t Worry Darling” did not receive the best of reviews, with many criticising Olivia Wilde’s casting decisions, and her  use of a plot some argue  is reused and tired. 

"The Invite,” in comparison, has received a warmer reaction from audiences. It seems Wilde may have been able to channel a sad reality into a beautiful work of art. Relationships end, but that does not mean we must end with them.

Whitney White ’28 contributed fact-checking.

Cheap ending of "Weapons" becomes its own undoing

Graphic by Betty Smart ’26

Contains spoilers for “Weapons” and “Barbarian.”

By Sarah Berger ‘27

Arts & Entertainment Editor

If you’ve been online in the past several months, chances are you’ve seen a trailer for “Weapons.” The premise of the movie is immediately intriguing. One night, all the children in a classroom at school disappear, arms splayed out as they fal into the void. All of them… except one. “Weapons” centers on the children’s teacher — who is the prime suspect — as well as the father of a missing child, the school principal, a police officer, and a man addicted to drugs. The first hour or so of the movie is incredible. Although your feelings about each of the different characters may vary, the way suspense is built through each of their perspectives is highly effective. The viewer repeatedly sees the same scenes play out, with different details added each time,culminating in a reveal where “Weapons” will either grab you or lose you.

The reason that the children disappeared is a witch. The ultimate success of this reveal depends on both what you were expecting and what you’re willing to tolerate. There are allusions to the supernatural early on in the movie, but most of them turn out to be dreams. About twenty minutes before the big reveal, it may be obvious that something paranormal is at play, but perhaps not, making it an effective surprise, but maybe not a welcome one.

While what the witch represents is truly horrible — lack of agency, loss, forced silence, selfishness — since she is the physical manifestation of these things, it’s important to consider what she looks like. She’s an old woman who wears obscene amounts of makeup, dresses in outdated clothes, and has hair a clownish orange reminiscent of Pennywise the Clown. Horror movies are often reliant on grotesque and cartoonish representations of evil, for better or for worse, but considering director Zach Cregger’s former work, a theme emerges. In 2022’s “Barbarian,” one of the antagonists was an emaciated nude woman known as Mother. Although Mother wasn’t necessarily framed as evil, her presence made up the movie’s primary scares. Mother subjugates the characters of “Barbarian” in order to fulfill her desire to parent. Gladys, the witch in “Weapons,” forces the residents of the town into a catatonic state in order to remain young and/or healthy. It seems as though the worst thing that Cregger can imagine is an unattractive woman with inconvenient desires.

Weapons is not a comedy. It can be heartbreaking and terrifying, with many scenes that are best watched from in between your fingers. It’s a shame that it forgets this in its last ten minutes, in which the missing children are directed by magic to chase Gladys. The ensuing scene, while conceptually cathartic, relies far too heavily on comedy. The children smash through windows. The sound cuts in and out. A neighborhood father complains about the effect that the Witch’s eventual dismemberment has on his lawn. It would better fit a chase scene from Looney Tunes than the conclusion to a horror movie. In the context of the rest of the plot, the scene is silly, undercutting the terror the movie has worked so hard to create.

“Weapons” could have been memorable for its plot and tone, but instead, it is more likely to be remembered for the seemingly unnecessary, over the top grotesquery achieved by countless horror movies before it.

Quill Nishi-Leonard ’27 contributed fact-checking.

‘Skinamarink’ turns childhood fears into analog horror

Graphic by Gabby Ganon ‘24.

Woodlief McCabe ’23

Staff Writer

Horror movie enthusiasts seem to be polarized by Kyle Edward Ball’s new film, “Skinamarink,” released in theaters on Jan. 13, 2023. For some, it’s the most afraid they have been in a theater since “Poltergeist” in 1982. For others, it’s laughable to even be scared. With curiosity, I visited Amherst Cinema for a nighttime showing. 

“Skinamarink” starts extremely slowly. A long portion is spent on completely nondescript angles of a home, especially the edges and corners of walls and furniture. It appears familiar — it could be anyone’s house, even yours — and yet it’s completely disconnected from how we navigate our living spaces. Through the perspective of the two young children in the home, Kevin and Kaylee, the doors, windows and toilet go missing, one after another, trapping the family. 

For a while, this is the extent of the “horror.” It is simply unsettling, as we wait to know more, powerless to reach out and pan the camera just a few feet. The film dwells in this space of discomfort and anticipation. I was beginning to think that I would be one of those unaffected viewers, that I had conditioned myself too well against the tricks of the genre. Sure, chairs on the ceiling and dolls stuck to the walls are spooky, but no sweat. I was proud of myself, but a little disappointed. 

And then something switched. The suspense reaches greater intensity, and the slowness starts to pay off. This moment for me came during an eerie scene about forty minutes into the film, when Kaylee goes to her parents’ bedroom and finds them sitting on opposite sides of the bed, facing away from her. This is the most interaction we have with the parents. Kaylee hears a voice speaking to her from the darkness and soon, Kevin finds himself completely alone. There is something tangible to be afraid of now. Though it barely speaks, the entity’s power is palpable. Once it appears, the film’s tone is much more sinister.

“Skinamarink” is an analog horror. Borrowing from the “found footage” style of horror popularized by “The Blair Witch Project”, analog is an experimental genre. Its themes and motives are cryptic and unsettling, and it opts for low-quality images and sound. In “Skinamarink,” childhood nostalgia, especially of the ‘90s and early ‘00s, is contorted into potential conduits for torment. 

The camera returns to shots of the television playing 1930s cartoons, playing scenes with eerie similarities to the children’s predicament. The entity that is controlling the home manipulates these images too. A disappearing rabbit plays on a loop over and over again. The repeated image and its corresponding music become overwhelming, almost nauseating. The symbolism can be fairly heavy-handed at times, which is perhaps why the television is a site for conveying information rather than fear. It is a reminder that there is something or someone else in control. The looping television screen is just one way that the film manipulates time. We realize that the children have been trapped in the home for weeks, even months. The horror in the helplessness builds up the anxiety, even when things on screen are tame out of context. 

Though the dialogue is sparse, we hear a mix of eerie unidentifiable noises, sounds of crying and objects breaking in another room. Much like the visual elements that exist just offscreen, the sound is begging its viewers to strain our ears so it can give us another atonal shriek, hum or cut to total silence. 

“Skinamarink” constructs horror from what is not seen. It terrifies by hinting at the unknown rather than explicitly showing, like household items in the corner of the screen, and faces turned away from the camera. That being said, it takes a long time to pay off. Suspenseful as it is, “Skinamarink” is a test of patience. I could not fault a viewer for frustration, annoyance and even boredom, at least for the first half hour. 

If you are hoping for a monster movie or a killer lurking in the shadows, this isn’t that. It is not full of jumpscares or extensive gore, though, for those who might be sensitive to those things, there is implied violence and scenes containing blood splattering. “Skinamarink” plays on the primal fears and anxieties of childhood, especially of the dark and being left alone. The dim light and grainy quality of the image play tricks on us, akin to how when we were children, the shadows of chairs and coats in our dark bedrooms stretched to appear like human figures. 

The film withholds information. The camera avoids the action, keeping it out of frame. It limits dialogue and chooses not to explain anything. It feels like being a child and knowing something is wrong, but as much as you ask, the adults in your life just won’t tell you. Or worse, they ignore the question. Kevin asks, “where did it go?” about the doors. He never gets an answer. 

There are only one or two genuine jumpscares, and I think that’s to the film’s benefit. It requires us to constantly think of what might happen. With an antagonist with no defined physical form and potentially limitless abilities, there is no formula to the fear. I expect that detractors heard it was scary and expected wall-to-wall violence and grotesquery. Niche sub-genre films often experience greater scrutiny, and “Skinamarink” is no exception. 

This film proves that fear can be brought about by tapping into the simplest elements of emotion. We develop a sense of fear in childhood to keep ourselves safe, but what about when we are afraid of something we cannot even name? 

I don’t think making every second of the film nail-bitingly terrifying is necessary. Otherwise, we become desensitized, requiring outlandish methods to elicit a reaction. When “Skinamarink”lets us pause, or even expect nothing to happen, the filmmakers have the upper hand.