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)

**UPDATE: Here it is, as promised. My tweeted verse of the day for April 6, 2011 on NPR.

It amazed him — he had never been in such a beautiful house before. but what gave it an air of breathless intensity, was that Daisy lived there — it was as casual a thing to her as his tent out at camp was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it, a hint of bedrooms up-stairs more beautiful and cool than other bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its corridors, and of romances that were not musty and laid away already in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year’s shining motor-cars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely withered. It excited him, too, that many men had already loved Daisy — it increased her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all about the house, pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still vibrant emotions…

Her porch was bright with the bought luxury of star-shine; the wicker of the settee squeaked fashionably as she turned toward him and he kissed her curious and lovely mouth. She had caught a cold, and it made her voice huskier and more charming than ever, and Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware of the youth and mystery that wealth imprisons and preserves, of the freshness of many clothes, and of Daisy, gleaming like silver, safe and proud above the hot struggles of the poor.

Fitzgerald writes like a romantic, his scenes pulsating with mystery, nostalgia, and heart. I suppose I’ve been fascinated with the romance of wealth/capitalism lately. I’ll say more about it later, but Gatsby & Daisy are a good segue to be sure.

PopMatters interviews famous film score composer Ennio Morricone.

Leave it to the Japanese to put LEDs on something like this.

The Hold Steady front man Craig Finn is set to direct the film version of Chuck Klosterman’s Fargo Rock City.

Michael Cera is 12. Swear to god.

I’m certainly not interviewing for Oxbridge, but what a great list of books.

I just laughed so hard that I died. Yeah.

Candy Sushi!

This particular recipe involves fruit roll-ups, which function the way the seaweed does in traditional sushi, and rice krispy treats, which function as the sticky “rice” component. A number of other candy treats go inside and on top of the roll. There are tons of other recipes out there, too. Some of them look so realistic!

What do you think?

NIN’s “Pretty Hate Machine” turned 20 years old. I’m not even going to pretend like I wasn’t three when it came out. I didn’t catch on until later.

A revolting collection of vampire-themed merchandise that shouldn’t exist.

R. Crumb retells the story of Genesis in a graphic novel format.

Speaking of, seems like everyone is interested in the Bible as text these days: Check out the tracklist and stream the songs here. Great album.

Depression has its evolutionary perks, particularly if you’re a writer. But we’ve always known that.

More than you ever wanted to know about the Smurfs, who made their debut 51 years ago this week.

I mean the True Blood opening sequence won an Emmy for god’s sakes. And it’s just SO evocative of a particular place and cultural milieu, the cut scenes of religious imagery with nudity and dancing and blood and rotting animals… it’s pitch perfect. They couldn’t have picked a better song to go with, either.

And the Mad Men sequence is just sexy. I just learned that the opening song is an RJD2 song: “A Beautiful Mine.” Something new every day.

It is necessary to work, if not from inclination, at least from despair.

-BAUDELAIRE