When I was 13 years old, I watched Faces of Death. I was at sleepaway camp, and one night, someone’s older cousin showed up for a planned “special activity.” That activity involved separating the boys and girls of my age group and then showing the boys scenes from this 1978 faux found-footage cult classic. With several dozen of us crammed into a small room watching the action on an old TV hooked up to a VCR, I couldn’t really make out most of what I was watching, but I knew it was something off-limits.

