‘Teenage’ Kicks for Everyone but the Audience

What happens when an artist is self-referential about being self-referential? Is the upshot two negatives equalling a positive or does “meta,” as this kind of thing is called, fold in under itself once its incongruities have been squared? Jane Schoenbrun’s new film, “Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma,” is an immaculately contrived cornucopia of wink-winks and nod-nods, a conflagration of insiderisms so intensive that it’s a wonder the picture is being allowed to see the light of day or, rather, the dark of the theater.