I saw Scream 4 last night. And even though I generally despise sequels without exception, in between the corn-syrup splatter and ham-fisted one-liners, Kevin Williamson (writer of Scream, Scream 2, and the newest installment. Oh Scream 3, thou shalt live in infamy!) surprised me. But it wasn’t the characters, or plot, or scare factor of the movie that caught my attention.
It was 90 seconds of pseudo-philosophical hand-wringing about the next generation that he put in the mouth of the movie’s killer.
As much as I’d like to see this post run down the page in all its full glory, the rest of the post is after the jump. Don’t click if you don’t want to read any SPOILERS.
The film’s killer turns out to be Jill Roberts (played by Emma Roberts), the cousin of the Sidney Prescott (Neve Campbell). In the you-think-this-is-the-climax-but-it-isn’t scene, Jill holds a knife to Sidney’s stomach and makes clear her sick plan to “become” Sidney by orchestrating all the murders, blaming them on tertiary characters, and emerging as the sole survivor of a mass murder, just like her older cousin. “But where is the motive, the blessed motive?” you ask. Sniff. It was really hard for Jill to grow up in the shadow of the celebrated Sidney, survivor extraordinaire. Sniffle sniffle. Boo hoo, says this observer, but where her cliched motive fails, her additional explanation wins spectacularly.
In escalating tones of adrenaline and chagrin, Jill explains to Sidney that a life as a famous person is the only life she can have. At this point, she says something like, “What, am I supposed to just go to college, go to grad school, get a job?!” YEAH JILL. YOU’RE RIGHT. FUCK THAT SHIT. IT’S FOR SQUARES. No no no, Jill will not degrade herself with higher education and gainful employment. NAY. She has to become famous. “And everybody knows that you only get famous for having fucked-up shit happen to you.” Indeed! This all gets a bit heavy-handed in the scene, but I must say it piqued my interest. Here is 20 year-old Emma Roberts exterminating the old guard, in the form of 37-year old Neve Campbell. And I really mean exterminating: Jill speaks to Sidney in the ecstatic hush of a psychotic, inches from her face, mentioning that even the death of Jill’s mother was no great loss (!) in the grand scheme of her life.
This taps into the subconscious fear the presiding generation has of the generation that is nipping at its proverbial heels, destroying what they are and what they have made of the world. Wes Craven and Kevin Williamson must share at least a shred of mistrust and fear of the YouTube generation, of fameballs, flame wars, and books written by Jersey Shore cast members. Rebecca Black must look like all four horses of the Apocalypse trotting together as one foaming beast. I’m 25 and I already have to agree with Williamson (46) and Craven (71). Or maybe they’re making fun of this discussion. I can’t speak for them, but speaking for myself alone, the prospect of Justin Bieber and his ilk holding a butcher knife to my throat is probably the scariest thing I can of. (Bloodied) hands down.
(Image Copyright Dimension Films)
