Friday the 13th has no point, no purpose, no urge to undermine or reinvent the slasher genre, and no moral convictions, other than presenting minor transgressions as preludes to slaughter. But give it credit for one thing: It doesn’t skimp on the boobs. Too many modern horror films shy away from gratuitous sex and nudity, knowing the ratings board will tolerate all manner of Inquisitionesque torture, but that they’re queasy about gratuitous pelvic thrusting. Indeed, Friday the 13th seems blissfully unconcerned with anything besides relieving big-breasted, fornicating, pot-smoking youths of their clothes, then having hockey-masked murderer Jason Voorhees relieve them of their heads, appendages and innards. It’s strangely refreshing—not good, but refreshing.