A ★★★★★ review of Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma

One of my professors back in film school had this grotty turn of phrase—"the deflowering of the gaze,"[1] by which he meant to describe the feeling of how, once you learned to analyze movie (or even worse, to make them) you never really could watch a movie the same way again. If you're someone who likes to watch violent or transgressive or libidinal movies (and in my experience that's most people who think too much about movies) the experience can be a bit like being, simultaneously, both the guy in the dungeon getting whipped and the goateed psychoanalyst standing in the corner of the dungeon going "Mm-hmm; and how did that make you feel?" Camp Miasma is almost constructed as an explicit antidote to that. There's a temptation to say something along the lines of "Finally: a movie for, by, and about movie perverts." Which would be a droll joke about how so many movies are by, for, and about movie perverts. But there's really more going on here than just that. This isn't a case of a…