Scream (1996) is directed by Wes Craven and written by Kevin Williamson. It stars Neve Campbell, Courteney Cox, Skeet Ulrich, David Arquette, Jamie Kennedy, Rose McGowan, Matthew Lillard, Drew Barrymore, W. Earl Brown, Henry Winkler, Lawrence Hecht, Joseph Whipp, C.W. Morgan, Frances Lee McCain, and Liev Schreiber. The film follows Sidney Prescott (Campbell), a teenager who finds herself targeted by a masked killer one year after her mother’s death. As Sidney’s classmates are picked off one by one, she soon begins to suspect that the killer is a part of her close circle of friends. When her boyfriend, Billy (Ulrich), begins acting like a total creep, she finds herself torn between logic and love. Can she catch the killer before it’s too late, or will she and her friends fall victim to a classic game of slice & dice?

Although it has a few imperfections, Scream is easily one of my favorite films of all time. It has a big heart amidst all the bloody stabbings and such, which is one of the many reasons I love it as much as I do. This sense of lively, loving fun starts, first and foremost, with the legendary cast of characters brought to life by a who’s who lineup of up-and-coming young 90s stars. The Scream franchise distinguishes itself from most slasher franchises in the sense that its non-killer characters–typically expendable cannon fodder in the genre–are treated as complex, interesting individuals we’re meant to care about, all while maintaining their status as possible suspects. Tension only works if we care about the outcome, so it honestly baffles me that it took until 1996 to get a cast of characters we want to see survive. 

Despite the fact that I’m completely fed up with the current trend of exploring a horror protagonist’s past trauma, Scream is one of the trope’s earliest and best examples. A majority of films that implement this trope often make it their main character’s sole defining trait, but writer Kevin Williamson realizes that, just like the viewer, Sidney doesn’t want to be defined by her trauma. Yes, she’s eventually forced to confront this trauma due to the violent nature of the scenario, but she never wallows in it—an important distinction. Trauma typically isn’t something people willfully subject themselves to; It’s something they can’t escape, no matter how hard they try. Instead of just using this as a reason to sow distrust between Sidney and her friends, it also establishes her as someone who isn’t afraid to fight back. It’s tragic that she’s forced to experience this kind of violence a second time, but it also provides her with a primal motivation to prevent it from happening again. Because of this, we’re never forced to question her sudden ability to kick some ass when she eventually gets the upper hand on the killer(s). Despite her ugly past rearing its head, she’s prepared this time around. Sidney is the perfect mix of vulnerable and capable, easily earning (in my humble opinion) her title as the best ‘final girl’ in slasher movie history. 

Along with featuring the best protagonist/final girl, the film also has one of the genre’s most memorable supporting casts. Courteney Cox as tabloid journalist Gale Weathers and David Arquette as dorky police deputy Dewey Riley bring effortless chemistry to the characters’ on-screen romance. This is no surprise, considering the two actors would eventually marry after meeting on set, but the efficiency with which the script builds Dewey and Gale’s romance is only more impressive with each rewatch. Although these two would become staples of the franchise, this first film is unburdened by the curse that would befall future installments. These characters will eventually develop some annoying franchise plot armour; no one here feels off-limits as a potential victim. Even Jaimie Kennedy’s beloved film geek, Randy Meeks, feels like a strong suspect. His deep, almost obsessive knowledge of slasher cinema is as endearing as it is suspicious.  

Jaimie Kennedy’s Randy Meeks is a fan favorite character, but holds a particularly special place in the hearts of film buffs like me. His love of movies is his defining trait. It’s a bit basic, but something a film nerd like me can get on board with. He provides most of the script’s more straightforward meta ideas, including his iconic speech on the three rules of surviving a slasher film. With the advent of affordable, widely accessible home video in the mid 80s, a new kind of youth movie culture would emerge. Young cinema buffs like Randy would become commonplace, but casual moviegoers would also become far more knowledgeable. With audiences more aware of the genre’s tropes than ever before, it would begin to lose its appeal. Craven uses this as a challenge to either subvert the tropes or prove why they’re so timelessly effective. 

As the two characters are eventually revealed to be Ghostface, Skeet Ulrich and Matthew Lillard are simultaneously terrifying and hilarious. It’s said that while writing the film, Kevin Williamson couldn’t decide whether it would be scarier for the killer to have, or completely lack, a clear motivation. Realizing that each approach holds a distinct appeal, he decided to implement both. Ulrich/Billy receives the motivation, which ultimately provides the unmasking with a sense of purpose and dramatic weight. On the other hand, Stew/Lillard is just an unhinged murderer who killed because “It was fun!” In terms of possible motivations, this really is the best of both worlds, but it is unfortunately a detail most audiences take for granted/fail to appreciate, or even be aware of. What’s also cool is that they each represent one of the film’s two impressively balanced tones. Billy is calm, quiet, and ultimately easy to predict as the killer (by design), while Stew is hyper, loud, and, on first viewing, far too silly to seriously suspect as the killer. Stew remains silly even after he’s revealed, but Billy easily handles the more serious story beats, so it never feels like his humor handcuffs the bloody, life-or-death stakes. Williamson’s script and Craven’s command of tone make Stew a memorable slasher villain, but Lillard’s unhinged performance takes the character to another level. Although his material in the climax is mostly comedic, there’s something subtly terrifying about a character so wildly unpredictable and insane. Skeet Ulrich is great here as well, but Lillard steals the show—an opinion shared by the majority of Scream fans.  

The script has failsafes to catch you by surprise. If one twist fails, it will most likely distract you and stop you from seeing the next one. If Billy’s reveal isn’t already so obvious that you trick yourself into being certain that he must be a red herring, you probably don’t expect Stew to be his accomplice. The two-killer reveal was ingenious at the time, especially considering how Craven subtly manipulates the viewer into thinking there’s only one, despite what are, in hindsight, obvious clues that point to multiple people working together. He does this by presenting the clues as supernatural behavior when, in reality, it’s just manipulative editing. Craven weaponizes our assumptions about immortal, supernatural slasher killers like Jason and Freddy to pull the rug out from under us, all while waving the answers in front of us the entire time. 

Although the film subverts and even skewers a satisfying number of the slasher genre’s frustrating cliches, there’s an equal number of commonly criticized tropes it chooses to defend/validate. For example, Sidney makes fun of slasher movies, saying, “They’re all the same. Some stupid killer stalking some big-breasted girl who can’t act, who’s always running up the stairs when she should be going out the front door.” However, when she’s attacked only moments later, she’s quickly forced to run up the stairs when the front door’s security chain gives Ghostface just enough time to thwart her escape. It’s a fun tip of the hat to the countless ‘why didn’t X character do A, B, or C?’ moments that often fuel the genre, but it also reminds viewers that it’s easy to play backseat final girl from the safety of their couch.

 At the time of Scream’s release in 1996, slasher franchises like Halloween and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre were churning out some of their worst installments, but the subgenre had already been going downhill for over a decade. Already known for a handful of iconic, boundary-pushing horror classics released throughout the 70s & 80s, Craven would eventually explore aspects of meta storytelling with his long-awaited return to the Elm Street franchise: New Nightmare (1994). Although highly underappreciated because its meta commentary was way ahead of its time, it’s a unique take on the franchise, focusing on Freddy Krueger as he finds a way to enter the real world so he can victimize the cast & crew of the original Nightmare film. It’s a great film, but it often feels far too caught up in the novelty of its meta commentary. It sometimes forgets the basic principles of horror entertainment, almost as if it’s too smart for the genre’s tradition of exploiting its audience’s macabre fascination with blood, sex, and gore. Thankfully, Craven wouldn’t make this mistake twice.

Overall, Scream is undoubtedly a slasher classic and, for my money, easily Wes Craven’s best film. It masterfully balances meta comedy, horror, and meta commentary, while also featuring one of the genre’s best casts of characters. Not a single scene is wasted, with even the cinematography catching one’s eye. Camera angles are constantly skewed in a way that emulates the swift cut of Ghostface’s blade. For me, it’s a film that works on nearly every level, with even some of the 90s teen dialogue feeling like an authentic, fun time capsule rather than straight-up cringeworthy. I’ve loved this movie on my first watch and my 100th. It’s not quite perfect, but I don’t want to love something that’s perfect; I’m sure as hell not. Did I mention it has the best cold opening in horror cinema? There’s so much to love, I almost forgot to mention it. That should say quite a bit. A-