"Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma" (Schoenbrun, 2026) - Review (Fantasia International Film Festival)

Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma Reminds Us That Perhaps Becoming Isn't About Changing Who We Are. Sometimes It's Simply About Finding the Person — and the Place — That Finally Lets Us Bloom. 

Written by Mariane Tremblay

I have to admit that I had no idea Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma was happening until one of my friends mentioned it as one of their most anticipated movies of 2026. Blood? Queer? Hannah Einbinder? Gillian Anderson? That sounded very promising to me. But it wasn't until the first teaser trailer was released in February that I started counting down the days until its release — it felt unlike anything I'd seen before: a film set in a sleepaway camp suspended somewhere between reality and fantasy, drenched in pastel colours, painterly landscapes, and enough blood to rival the slashers that inspired it. It looked less like a real place than a dream someone desperately wanted to stay inside — an escape from reality.

Then came the world premiere in Cannes. Hundreds of people were queuing, clamoring for tickets. Suddenly, it was all clear: people were yearning for a queer meta slasher written and directed by Jane Schoenbrun. And so was I. Schoenbrun's deconstruction of the slasher genre earned rave reviews following its premiere and even took home the Queer Palm, only reinforcing the excitement surrounding what quickly became one of my most anticipated films of the year.

A summer tour across the United States and Canada was then announced, including a stop at the iconic Fantasia International Film Festival in Montreal, the place I've called home for almost five years. Screaming. Crying. Ascending. The countdown had officially begun — I would finally get to watch Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma.

And somehow, the film managed to surpass my already-high expectations.

Described as Schoenbrun's most intimate film yet, Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma follows Kris (Einbinder, Hacks), a queer filmmaker determined to revive the once-beloved Camp Miasma franchise after years of uninspired sequels, and its little death. Research leads her to Billy Presley (Anderson, The X-Files), the Norma Desmond-like reclusive star of the original film — the original final girl — whose life has become inseparable from the legend surrounding the franchise. What begins as a work meeting gradually dissolves into something stranger, funnier, bloodier, and far more intimate, as the two women descend into a dream-like world of their own, where horror cinema, fantasy, and desire all blur into one.

"You're right. This isn't a work meeting. That look in your eye, I don't just wanna watch it. I don't just wanna film it and put it in a movie. I wanna experience it, too. Will you show me how?"

Although Schoenbrun recreates the iconography of classic slashers, from the masked killer (and his plastic cover suit à la Laura Palmer) and the impossible amounts of blood to the familiar rhythms of teenagers wandering through the woods (in the film within the film), Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma isn't interested in simply paying homage to the '80s slashers by recreating them. Instead, the film quietly dismantles the genre itself, its relationship with sex and the influence they had on thousands of teenagers — or children who watched them too young. For decades, slashers have exploitatively treated desire as something to punish; here, horror becomes the very language through which desire can finally be understood.

That idea is embodied in the film's use of Little Death — or la petite mort. This French expression, traditionally used to describe the transcendent feeling that accompanies orgasm — that brief, almost momentary loss of consciousness, that overwhelming sensation that seems to push us to the very edge of life — refers to an experience so intense that it can feel like a small, beautiful, fleeting version of death itself. In a way, every orgasm becomes a tiny death and rebirth: you surrender completely, lose yourself for a moment, and emerge on the other side. The expression then becomes both literal and symbolic here. Little Death (Jack Haven, I Saw the TV Glow) is the Camp Miasma franchise's killer, but also something far more elusive: a symbol of release, of letting go of the endless noise in our heads and finally allowing ourselves to be fully present in our bodies, and to simply feel rather than think. Schoenbrun reframes the slasher's obsession with sex and death into an exploration of what it means to let go of that constant overthinking, analysing, and performing, and instead simply inhabit our own body and experience the moment. In Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma, death isn't the end. It's release. A new beginning.

That idea becomes particularly clear during one of the film's most quietly devastating scenes, an intimate conversation between Billy and Kris, as Kris confesses that sex has always required her to dissociate, retreating into the world of Camp Miasma — or any other slashers — because inhabiting her own body feels impossible.

"Sex seems to be natural and easy for so many people, but for me I've just — I've never been able to get there with someone else, unless I'm very far away in my head, just fully someplace else."

"Where? You don't have to tell me. But I promise I won't judge you."

"Camp Miasma. Or any old film like that. I imagine myself becoming a character in a slasher film."

To me, this scene is one of the most beautiful and heartfelt moments because it not only refuses to treat fantasy as something shameful, it also puts into words a feeling so many people carry but rarely know how to articulate. Instead of judging Kris, Billy gently encourages her to talk about those fantasies without judgement. "If you wanna become that with me you can, ‘cause it’s all just play," she says, one of the film's simplest yet most compassionate lines. And perhaps that's what Kris has been missing all along: permission to stop thinking about desire and simply experience it.

That film ended up resonating with me more deeply than I expected. But I should've known. Films about sexual awakening often [only] focus on shame, repression, or the fear of desire itself. But Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma is interested in something far more difficult to articulate: what it means to finally feel present inside your own body. To be comfortable in your body and to stop being stuck in your head, and simply exist. While the film speaks from an unmistakably queer perspective, its emotional core extends far beyond any single identity. 

"It's a very inclusive film; by being so self-assured of what it is and what its identity is, it doesn't tell anyone that this movie's not for them. It’s quite a magic trick: in being so personal, so specific, and so much about very specific experiences, that there is a universality that it also achieves." — Jeremy Kleiner, producer

Anyone who's ever struggled to feel at home in themselves — to quiet their inner critic, to stop overthinking every gesture, every touch, every version of themselves they imagine others see — may recognize something in Kris. I know I do. Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma made me feel seen in a way I never really had before. And I think that's what makes the film's climax so good. Kris has spent so much of her life retreating into her head, turning desire into something she needs to intellectualize rather than something she can simply feel. Even her fantasies of being in a slasher movie — running from the killer, becoming a character, tits bouncing as she runs for her life, her nipples poking through her skimpy clothes — have always existed safely inside her imagination. But when she's with Billy, someone she actually trusts and feels comfortable with, she finally gets to live those fantasies rather than hide inside them. She doesn't have to dissociate from herself anymore; she can actually be there. 

Spoiler alert!

So when she finally gets to live her fantasy towards the end, and, on her way to Billy, sees her partner Mari (Jasmin Savoy Brown, Scream), Thor (Aren Buchholz, Summer of 84), and the other people in her life being "killed," I couldn't help but read it as Kris finally killing off everything that has kept her from being present. The overthinking. The self-consciousness. The constant need to retreat into her head and intellectualize what she's feeling instead of simply allowing herself to experience it. All those voices that have made it so difficult for her to just enjoy the flesh, the fluids, the desire, the whole messy thing. 

And then, when she finally gets there with Billy, Little Death comes for them. Which, of course, brings us right back to la petite mort — when Little Death kills Kris and Billy, only for them to wake up the next morning alive, it feels like the most literal expression of the film's central idea. They have surrendered completely, died to the versions of themselves they had been performing, and come back changed. Not because they've become someone else, but because they've finally allowed themselves to be fully present. To fully be themselves. 

But despite grappling with all of those [more emotional] ideas, Schoenbrun never forgets to make the film outrageously entertaining. The comedic timing is impeccable, from delightfully absurd industry satire aimed at executives chasing the next "elevated" — read "woke" — horror trend to one of the funniest Zoom meetings I've ever seen on screen. The script constantly shifts between laugh-out-loud comedy, genuine tenderness, and bursts of violence, maintaining a remarkable emotional balance throughout. 

The performances are just as remarkable. Hannah Einbinder brings Kris an infectious earnestness that gradually gives way to profound vulnerability, proving just how much range she has after five seasons of Hacks. Kris feels worlds away from the character we've watched her play for years. And Gillian Anderson delivers, in such a magnetic and theatrical way, what may genuinely be my favourite performance of her career — and the best lines of the film — capturing the heartbreak of someone shaped by sexual trauma and years of being objectified, discarded by an industry that once defined her, and slowly retreating into a world of her own.

And then there's the artistry, which honestly deserves its own conversation because Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma is genuinely one of the most beautiful films I've ever seen. Production Designers Matt Hyland and Brandon Tonner-Connolly, alongside Art Director Courtney Stockstad, bring this dreamlike world to life in such a beautiful and impressive way. And knowing what they pulled off, and how they pulled it off in such a short amount of time and on a shoestring budget, makes the work even more impressive — from the matte painting (also called glass painting) to the design of the sleepaway camp and the Flesh Palace. There is so much to look at that I could probably watch this movie five more times and still notice something I missed. And the same goes for Eric K. Yue's cinematography. He doesn't just make the film look gorgeous; he also beautifully shoots the film within the film, allowing the two visual worlds to bleed into one another while still feeling distinct. 

The film ends up having such a dreamlike quality to it, as though Kris and Billy have somehow stepped straight into one of Billy's paintings and found themselves in a world entirely of their own. Everything feels slightly removed from reality, from the pastel colours and painterly landscapes to the artificial-looking lake and artwork scattered throughout the camp. It all feels a little surreal, a little too beautiful to be real, and yet somehow completely cohesive within the world Schoenbrun has created. For Kris and Billy, it becomes their own little fantasy, a place where the boundaries between the film, Billy's paintings, and their own reality seem to blur.

If there's one image I keep returning to, it's not the blood or Little Death killing campers backed by Counting Crows' A Long December — although, I do think a lot about it. It's the changing seasons. The film begins in winter and quietly blooms into spring, echoing Schoenbrun's own observation that weather was always a state of mind. Billy and Kris aren't becoming different people by the end. They simply allow themselves to bloom. Like nature does when winter fades away. They finally found someone who matches their freak, someone with whom they can explore the parts of themselves they spent so much time hiding, and suddenly the world around them begins to melt. To soften. It's not about becoming someone new. It's about finally having the freedom, trust, and space to become the version of yourself that was always there.

Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma ended up being such a beautiful and cathartic experience, both for the character and for the viewers — me first. I've been thinking about it almost constantly since I first saw it at Fantasia, and I do believe I will for a long time. Beneath its gloriously campy slasher exterior lies one of the most compassionate films I've seen about identity, intimacy, and the often messy process of learning to inhabit yourself. It's funny, romantic, bloody, wildly imaginative, visually stunning, and unexpectedly moving all at once. More than anything, it reminded me that perhaps becoming isn't about changing who you are. Sometimes it's simply about finding the person — and the place — that finally lets you bloom. 

Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma had its Canadian Premiere at the Fantasia International Film Festival on July 17, and is now playing in theatres in New York and Los Angeles. The film is set to be released in Canadian theatres on August 14, before expanding wide on August 21. 

Thank you, Jane Schoenbrun. 

Photo: MUBI