There is this private campground in Plymouth, Massachusetts, that's been around since 1959. My grandparents were among its founders, my parents had a site starting in 1965, and my two brothers have sites there now.

(This doesn't have anything directly to do with the movie; bear with me.)

I spent summers at Blueberry Hill from when I was five years old to when I was eighteen, and it is to people like me to whom this film speaks: the ones for whom a group camp in the woods was, as my fiancee tells of me, "the good and happy place." If you've never experienced the lifestyle, Indian Summer will probably be lost on you; don't bother. It's not quick-paced, it doesn't have rapid cuts, the plots aren't in the least bit convoluted, it has no explosions, such dramatic tension as exists is mild, there aren't any A-list actors, there are no rapid-fire quips just to show off how clever the scriptwriters are (other than, perhaps, Kimberley Williams' killer line about how her fiance shouldn't "overwind his toys." That is not the least degree what this movie is about, any more than The Godfather is a slasher flick just because it has a lot of on screen gore.

But Indian Summer is Godfather's polar opposite. If you have experienced the lifestyle, see this movie. Don't read any more, just do it.

For me, this is a 9/10 film.

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