Sleepaway Camp begins with two moppets (a boy and a girl, both with similar dos—for a reason, of course, though you're not meant to know that quite yet) and their unusually hot dad swimming in a lake. Offshore, a second inexplicably hot man yells to the group to get out of the water before a trio of crazy teens runs over the dad and one of the moppets with their runaway speedboat. Eight years later, Desiree Gould's preposterous Aunt Martha ushers her son Ricky (Jonathan Tiersten) and her niece Angela (Felissa Rose) away to camp, where someone starts killing campers and counselors alike, all of whom seem to have it "out" (tee hee!) for the inexplicably silent Angela, presumably the moppet that survived the opening set piece and who has yet to get over the shock. From Rose's literally wide-eyed interpretation of her character's constant state of petrification (try and count how many times she blinks during any given shot) to Gould's narcissistic solo act, which envisions what it might have been like had Andrea Feldman's character from Paul Morrissey's Heat done Shakespeare, one of Sleepaway Camp's pleasures is its consistently high-pitched performances. Just as bizarre is the story's psychosexual mean streak: From the girls Angela shares a cabin with to the boys who throw water balloons at her (notice where the water balloon game takes place and how close in proximity the participants are to each other), Sleepaway Camp evokes a period in time before Ritalin and common sense. Seriously, watching Angela (and to a lesser extent Ricky) being targeted throughout the film is like watching a group of shrill brats shooting rocks at a baby bird—if it wasn't so obvious that everyone's non-stop cruelty was in service of some big-reveal, or if the performances weren't so damn preening, the film would be completely intolerable.   Ed Gonzalez