In life, we all have rites of passage that mold, shape, and in many ways, transform the world and perspective we once knew. From birth (if we aren’t sacrificed for a demonic ritual), to puberty (if we aren’t drenched in pig’s blood at senior prom), to marriage (if we’re not a masked murderer or psychopath), these experiences have defined us and made us grow into the imperfect, semi-functional, and WOKE millennial adults that we are today. However, there is another rite of passage that is equally influential: Our first horror film experience. For some, their firsts were films like The Exorcist (1973) or Jaws (1975), but for a shameless byproduct of the 90s (like myself), it was modern classics like Wes Craven’s Scream (1996-2011) saga that inspired my first nightmares and soiled Spider-Man print underwear. However, Scream wasn’t merely a bloody brilliant horror satire that cleverly and insightfully deconstructed the popular genre, it also marked a definitive shift (thematically and aesthetically) in the direction and focus of the genre while simultaneously paying homage to the classics that inspired it.
I’ll never forget where I was, or more importantly, how I felt the first time I watched Craven’s 1996 masterpiece. I was 7 years old. Blockbuster Video (now an urban legend) was still a holy temple that housed the most precious of Earth’s commodities: VHS movies. My older, hipper teenage relatives were raving about it. I begged them to rewatch it with me to no avail. I had convinced myself that I was brave enough to do so on my own, in my grandma’s basement, with all the lights off. I had made a grave mistake. For the next 111 mins, I was paralyzed in the furthest corner of the room contemplating my poor life choices. However, what I failed to realize was that while I was sufficiently disturbed, I was also addicted to the rush of adrenaline and exhilaration the experience created. How could something that inspired so many sleepless nights be this viscerally exciting? The answer is catharsis. Audiences have always been drawn to horror films because they provide an essential release from the trauma and repressed emotions that plague our subconscious. Like the unfortunate teenage victims in Scream, I was experiencing their fears vicariously (moment-to-moment) without suffering any of their fatal consequences.
In many ways Scream comments on the evolution of the slasher film that’s genesis can trace back to the 60s with Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho. Postmodern horror had slowly disassociated itself from 19th century Gothic. We had gone from the more subtle, cerebral, and supernatural elements that featured ghosts, vampires, and mythical monsters to the more grounded, nihilistic threats like masked murderers. Psycho’s iconic “shower scene,” for example, was one of the first times audiences witnessed physical violence in graphic, explicit detail as it was formerly required to be done off-screen in accordance with Hollywood’s production code (which would later become our rating system).
With the sudden introduction to violence also came a notable social commentary on said violence. Quite pervasively in slasher films, the characters murdered are affluent, attractive, simplistic, one-dimensional figures who are condemned for their “immoral” behavior that does not conform to traditional societal values. These films made implicit, but firm critiques of vanity, materialism, premarital sex, and religious impurity. Psycho’s Marion Crane, for example, suffers an unfortunate fate for her prolonged engagement in adultery. The countless teens in 70s and 80s slasher flicks such as Halloween (1978) and Friday the 13th (1980) didn’t have a fighting chance at survival due to their promiscuity and recreational drug use. American Hollywood cinema had found the perfect medium to socialize, moralize, and patronize youth culture under the guise of entertainment. Many of the characters featured during this era were merely catalysts for industry speechifying and protecting traditional family values. In essence, they were stripped of their autonomy and given a code of ethics to adhere to.
It is for all of these reasons that Scream was a visceral, game-changing celebration of non-conformity. The characters it presented were intelligent, self-aware, imperfect (yet strong), and three-dimensional. They had been “schooled” on the conventions of the genre and how they functioned in the plot and, therefore, not enslaved by an omniscient narrator gleefully cheering on their demise. Instead from of their fates being sealed by their impure actions they were dictated by their intellect and knowledge of popular culture (which, in retrospect, feels like a precursor to today’s tech-savvy, meta, self-referential, meme-obsessed millennial culture). Those privy to the references have become part of the in-crowd (the youth). Those unfamiliar with them dissolve into obscurity (the older generation).
This was certainly the case for Casey Becker (Drew Barrymore) in the brilliant opening sequence. After incorrectly answering her ghost-faced stalker’s trivia question, she is butchered and left to hang in the wind like the last remnants of an aged genre fighting for its final showdown. Becker, who at once appeared to be the title character, is quickly hacked off in a very Marion Crane-Psycho fashion which would become the series definitive mantra: Expect the unexpected. Still, the most dynamic manifestation of the changing tides is illustrated through the (actual) title character Sidney Prescott (Neve Campbell).
Prescott mostly keeps to herself, isn’t interested in partying, and is focused on her education. She’s intelligent, resourceful, resilient, and more than a little dismissive of her boyfriend Billy Loomis’ (Skeet Ulrich) desire to take her virginity. It’s not that she’s disinterested, but rather it’s not at the top of her priorities. There’s a fascinating tension around Sidney’s unwillingness to engage in sexual activity. The longer she resists, the more intensified the temptation and threat of death becomes around her. However, like the female heroine Laurie Strode (Halloween), Sidney is the “final girl” whose survival is hinged on her ability to resist her carnal impulses (or so we thought). The film subverts this familiar trope following Sidney’s loss of innocence. Rather than being punished for her conscious decision to have sex, she’s empowered by it. She’s finally able to face (and vanquish) the monsters that slaughtered her friends while in full command of her sexuality.
The film was also a reflection of the state of on-screen violence. The characters are maimed, impaled, and stabbed in near-cartoonish fashion. The sheer excess of it almost diffuses the audience’s uneasiness to it, providing more laughs than squirms. However, this method felt deliberate. Craven and his screenwriter Kevin Williamson were also interested in critiquing our culture’s desensitization to violence and the thin line between generating suspense and dread and glorification and sensationalism. The 70s and 80s were merely gateways to the 90s new way of viewing violence and its role in commenting on human nature. Of course, this evolution wouldn’t stop with Scream. It was only a matter of time before the genre would start to shred its skin, most evidently displayed with the “torture porn” horror sub-genre (Saw (2004), Hostel (2005), The Human Centipede (2009), etc.) which would focus less on human insight and more on the theatricality of human suffering and cruelty. In many ways, Scream (and other films of its ilk) gave audiences the mental training we needed to process the changes to come.
This is what gives Scream its stealthy power and marked a progressive shift in the discourse surrounding the horror genre. It’s a film that respects its characters, and more importantly, it’s audience. Sure, we still get the ditzy characters investigating strange noises, killers who appear to be superhuman, and teens who seem to be oblivious to the notion that a knife-toting murderer is on the loose. Only this time, the director doesn’t insult our intelligence and frustrate us with these conventions, but rather asks us to use our knowledge of these conventions and become active participants in the game he’s constructed. There is just something more playful and exciting about this method that ultimately ushered in a new wave of horror cinema. It is a practice that would permeate the DNA of slasher films to follow. Films that like a splash of social commentary in their bloody cocktail.
