Finn Wolfhard and Billy Bryk, the young guns behind Hell of a Summer, aren’t your average first-time directors. Wolfhard, barely out of his teens when he co-wrote and co-directed this, is the Stranger Things kid who’s been dodging Demogorgons since he was in braces. Bryk, a lesser-known Canadian with a knack for quirky side roles, met Wolfhard on the set of Ghostbusters: Afterlife and apparently decided, “Hey, let’s make a slasher flick!” Their combined age during production was roughly that of a single jaded film critic, yet they’ve got the audacity to tackle a genre that’s been hacked to death and back since Friday the 13th first spilled blood in 1980. Wolfhard’s horror cred is legit—It and Stranger Things gave him a front-row seat to scares—but directing is a different beast. Bryk, meanwhile, brings a comedic edge from roles in Wynonna Earp, though his resume’s thinner than a camp counselor’s patience. Together, they’re a duo with big dreams and bigger chutzpah, but does their debut slice deep or just nick the surface?

Hell of a Summer drops us at Camp Pineway, where 24-year-old Jason Hochberg (Fred Hechinger) clings to his counselor gig like a kid refusing to outgrow his favorite Pokémon cards. The camp’s owners, John and Kathy, get brutally offed by a devil-masked killer in the opening scene—guitar to the mouth, knife to the skull, you know the drill. Enter a gaggle of counselors, including Jason’s crush Claire (Abby Quinn), snarky Chris (Wolfhard), and a slew of Gen Z stereotypes: the influencer, the goth, the wannabe screenwriter. As the body count rises, Jason scrambles to keep everyone alive. It’s a whodunit with a side of coming-of-age, wrapped in a bloody sleeping bag of 80s nostalgia.

The film’s central theme is the messy transition to adulthood, with Jason as the poster boy for arrested development. He’s 24, still chasing campfires while his mom begs him to take a law internship. But the symbolism feels half-baked, like a campfire marshmallow that’s charred outside and raw inside. A Ouija board scene hints at supernatural dread but goes nowhere, a missed chance to layer the psychological horror? The film also pokes at Gen Z culture with social media obsession and performative activism, but it’s more smirk than satire. A feminist convo about oral sex lands like a punch, sharp and surprising, but it’s a lone spark in a script that rarely ignites.

The messaging leans into “you can’t outrun your past,” but it’s muddled by a reveal that’s less Scream-level clever and more “huh, okay, I guess.” The killers’ motives could’ve skewered influencer culture but instead feel tacked-on, like a last-minute script rewrite. There’s a whiff of meta-horror potential, especially with a character forcing his screenplay on others (a nod to the directors’ own hustle?), but it’s not pushed far enough to rival Cabin in the Woods. The film wants to be a love letter to slashers while commenting on youth, but it’s too busy juggling tropes to say anything profound.

Wolfhard and Bryk’s script is a 70-page sprint, lean and mean, inspired by Shaun of the Dead and teen comedies like American Pie. The dialogue crackles with Gen Z snark. Lines like “Plastics! That’s the real killer!” (delivered by Wolfhard’s Chris) are quotable gems, but the humor often leans juvenile, mistaking crude for clever. The pacing sags in the first half, spending too much time on character quirks before the slashing starts. When the kills do come, they’re mostly offscreen, a baffling choice for an R-rated slasher. The script’s self-awareness is its strength, winking at genre clichés without breaking the fourth wall, but it lacks the ruthless edge of true horror-comedy greats. It’s like a stand-up comic who’s funny but forgets the punchline.

The reveal of the killers feels entirely unearned, with motives that don’t justify the carnage. The script’s biggest sin is its failure to flesh out the ensemble. Characters like Noelle (the goth) and Ari (the screenwriter) are caricatures, not people, making their deaths more shrug than shock. For a film about connection, it’s oddly disconnected from its own heart.

Still, the cast is the film’s lifeblood. Fred Hechinger’s Jason is a revelation, all earnest sincerity and awkward charm, like a golden retriever in a horror flick. His chemistry with Abby Quinn’s Claire is the emotional anchor, making their scenes the film’s most watchable. Wolfhard and Bryk are solid as Chris and Bobby, their real-life friendship bleeding into their banter. The ensemble, diverse and game, elevates the thin script, with D’Pharaoh Woon-A-Tai’s Ezra stealing scenes as a dramatic diva.

The direction shows flashes of brilliance. Wolfhard and Bryk nail the summer camp aesthetic with creaky cabins and flickering campfires with a vibrant daytime palette that shifts to shadowy dread at night. A POV shot from the killer’s perspective screams Friday the 13th homage, and the editors keep transitions snappy, masking the low budget. The electronic score is a John Carpenter nod, catchy enough to hum on the drive home.

Here’s where I get mean. Hell of a Summer is a slasher that’s scared of its own shadow. The offscreen kills are a cardinal sin. Why tease gore in a genre built on it? The horror lacks tension; jump scares are telegraphed, and the devil-masked killer is about as iconic as a clearance-rack Halloween costume. The cinematography, while competent, feels restrictive, with dim nighttime scenes that obscure the action. The camp itself is underused, with too few shots of its eerie potential.

Originality is the film’s Achilles’ heel. It’s derivative to a fault, recycling Friday the 13th and Scream without adding much new. The thematic ambition feels like a first draft, never digging deep enough to unsettle. The acting and direction keep it afloat, but the script’s lack of depth and the horror’s tame execution drag it down. It’s not a bad movie, but it’s a frustrating one, like a campfire story that trails off before the big scare.

TL;DR: Hell of a Summer is a scrappy slasher-comedy with a killer cast and nostalgic vibes, but its tame horror and shallow script keep it from greatness. Wolfhard and Bryk have the chops for better, but this debut feels like a warm-up act.

Recommended for: Teens who think Scream is ancient history and want a light slasher to giggle through at a sleepover.
Not recommended for: Horror purists who’d rather wrestle a bear than watch a slasher hide its kills like a shy kid at a dance.