Without revealing anything, most of the opening hours’ mystery centers on the death of a black man (Tony Todd, perfectly creepy as the specter spotted around camp) in an unspecified year, who may or may not have been involved in the deaths of dozens of people from a nearby town. Intrepid “townie” detective Garrett (Alberto Frezza) is convinced that a string of recent events – beginning with a body discovered during a skinny dip and continuing with a mutilated deer carcass – are somehow connected to those events long ago. The problem with the writing so far is that the mystery isn’t brought to the attention of the show’s lead characters, apart from 2, with your usual “everything will be fine, open the camp, invite the innocent children” logic you’d expect from a show like this.
This could be a meta-commentary on slashers, but it doesn’t much excuse Dead of Summer‘s otherwise lackadaisical opening episodes, none of which cause much in the way of goosebumps. It’s a weird reversal of fortune to prefer the flashbacks in a show, but the main concern in the present of 1989 centers around bet-placing hook-ups, will they or won’t they make-out sessions, and what could barely be considered junior league political moves to get out of working movie night, perpetrated by resident bitchy it girl Jessie (Paulina Singer). The cast is stocked with a rotary of young unknowns, but the writers appear weirdly uncomfortable with visual, on-screen death scenes – the biggest fear-suck of all in Camp Stillwater.
Perennial breath of fresh air Elizabeth Mitchell livens things up, even when she’s given a linen closet full of skeletons, not to mention that corporate-mandated teacher/student affair thing with just-nerdy-enough Joel. He records her undressing from outside her window, but she doesn’t mind because he’s less of a Spielberg fan and more of a Jarmusch guy; the Harold and Maude reference is as inevitable as it is obvious.
Likewise, the younger cast does well enough to begin carving out meaningful characters in Camp Stillwater, and while some chemistry sparks (Lail and Rubinstein), some crumple to the floor (everyone in a love triangle between Lail, Frezza, and Singer). In a gender-swapped role, Williams is odd and captivating as the camp bad boy, but she hasn’t gotten much to do yet besides hide behind her hair and walkman, while navigating an incoming crush from the outspoken Blair.
It’s all claptrap that totally fits in with the genre, but Dead of Summer can’t quite figure out what to do in the interim between the peaceful-yet-ominous opening of a horror movie, and the carnage that follows in the third act. Backstories are teasing the potential for really gutting death scenes later down the line – potentially even more than the faceless teen punch cards from MTV’s first season of Scream – but the lackluster overarching puzzle has given no such indication that we’ll get a decent reason for their imminent deaths. The body count of the main cast stays very low in the first three episodes, but gore isn’t the sole instigator of dread, and Dead of Summer doesn’t know how to introduce grit and a rebellious spirit into its 80’s send-up in a way that effectively could be called “horror.”
Although it doesn’t stop trying: on top of the demonic water apparitions and one Russian kid with a sixth sense, Dead of Summer tosses in a satanic biker gang and blood rituals before everything is said and done. It’s that fuck-it sense of kitchen sink 80’s nostalgia that endears me to Dead of Summer, despite its failings. It’s overkill, but at least it’s trying to be more than the next show down the thriller list on your DVR whose season pass you delete after 2 weeks. It’s the kind of series whose awkward-on-purpose fumblings must be taken in stride (actual dialogue: “Where are you going, newbie?” “To get water” “Well don’t get axe-murdered”), otherwise any potential for charm will be drowned, gutted, and dismembered. If you’re patient in waiting for the same to happen to the counselors at Camp Stillwater, it might finally be time to give a show on Freeform a chance.
