
1996 · Wes Craven
A year after the murder of her mother, a teenage girl is terrorized by a masked killer who targets her and her friends by using scary movies as part of a deadly game.
dir. Wes Craven · 1996
By 1996 the slasher film was a corpse, and Wes Craven — who had helped invent it with A Nightmare on Elm Street — performed the autopsy and the resurrection in one gesture. Kevin Williamson's script gave us teenagers who had seen every horror movie their killer had, who recite the genre's rules even as those rules close around them. The trick could have curdled into smugness; Craven's decades of craft keep it lethal. The opening sequence alone — a house, a phone, a movie-star cameo weaponized against audience expectation — is a master class in sustained dread, and it announced that self-awareness would sharpen fear rather than defuse it. Ghostface, with his Munch-derived mask and his fallibility (he trips, he gets hit, he bleeds), became the last great slasher icon. The film single-handedly revived teen horror, spawned a wave of imitators it had already pre-emptively mocked, and made meta-commentary a permanent register of the genre. Craven, the former humanities professor, had spent his career interrogating why we watch; here he built the question into the murder weapon.
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