Review: Mr. Buzzkill (2025) – The Spirit of the ’80s Reborn in a Modern Indie Bloodbath

There’s a sweet spot where nostalgia, grit, and gallons of fake blood meet—and Mr. Buzzkill parks right there. Director Rob Collins and horror lifer Shawn Burkett (Don’t F** in the Woods*) resurrect the golden age of slashers with a wink and a wicked edge. If Friday the 13th had been shot on a handheld in the backwoods of Ohio after a few beers, this is what it might look like.

Spoiler-Free Summary

Twenty-five years after the infamous Silver Grove massacre, a new generation of partiers revisits the site for a weekend of booze, stories, and bad decisions. Their campfire talk about the masked killer known as Mr. Buzzkill quickly turns prophetic when the legend re-emerges—armed with a roaring saw and a taste for revenge. Told across three eras, the film traces the myth’s birth, decay, and bloody rebirth.

“A scrappy, blood-splattered throwback that splices Friday the 13th DNA into modern indie horror—Mr. Buzzkill is proof the spirit of the ’80s is still revving, pull-cord and all.”

Review

What makes Mr. Buzzkill such a fun watch is how unapologetically it channels the DNA of ’80s slashers while keeping one foot planted in modern indie sensibility. Like Friday the 13th Part 2 or The Prowler, it thrives on a simple formula: isolation, youthful arrogance, and a masked killer who’s less supernatural monster and more blunt-force inevitability. Collins’s camera favors practical gore over digital polish, and the kills have that tactile crunch that defined VHS-era horror.

There’s an earnest charm to how the film embraces its budget. You can almost smell the gasoline, latex, and late-night pizza. The humor lands just often enough to remind you that everyone involved loves the genre—not mocking it, but celebrating its quirks. Shawn Burkett’s turn as the killer feels like a cross between Jason Voorhees’s physicality and a backwoods mechanic’s bad day: slow, deliberate, and always looming.

One production detail did pull me out of the otherwise convincing illusion—the pull-cord skill saw. It’s a small thing, but every time Burkett yanked that cord to “rev up” the saw, I couldn’t help thinking, Wait… those don’t start like that. It’s the kind of odd prop choice that becomes unintentionally iconic—half goof, half signature. By the third kill, I was weirdly looking forward to the ritual cord-pull.

Pacing-wise, the movie stumbles a bit during its time-jump structure; the flashbacks interrupt rather than deepen the suspense. Yet Collins keeps the energy high with aggressive lighting and an ’80s-video-store color palette—reds and greens bleeding across the frame like neon wounds. The synth-leaning score completes the vibe, sealing the movie firmly in retro territory without feeling like parody.

Ultimately, Mr. Buzzkill succeeds because it feels like it could have sat on a shelf next to Sleepaway Camp, The Burning, or Pieces—only this time, the shelf is digital and the gore’s in 4K. It’s messy, loud, occasionally silly, and absolutely made with love.