Probably because I was one myself once, I have little tolerance for movies that center on chest-thumping, self-pitying suburban teen boys. Meanwhile, I outright despise the glut of ’80s nostalgia that’s pervaded cinema and television for what seems like the last 20 years. It was therefore with heavy trepidation that I approached Summer of ’84. Still, I’m a sucker for Hitchcockian thrillers, so the film’s central hook — a suburban teen foursome suspect their mild-manner cop neighbor (Rich Sommer) is a serial killer — was enough to entice me. Though the approximation of realistic teenage dialog (no less annoying for its accuracy) and references to pop culture could grate at times, the film was, for the most part, a solid, enticing little thriller. Then come the last 15 minutes, which veer off into surprisingly existential territory, much darker — and much bleaker — than I was expecting. This film might well have been titled No Country for Teen Boys, and while the ephemera of its place and time will likely fade from my memory, the specter of its deeper implications will linger on.