Review: SCREAM 7 is a Poor Excuse for a SCREAM Sequel

Thanks to unexpected cast shakeups, organized boycotts, and lawsuits over mask ownership, the context of any Scream 7 review is crucial.  With blinders on? The seventh entry is a stab-happy yet incompetently underwritten slasher sequel—the worst, in fact. But there's more to Paramount Pictures' hopeful legacy cash cow. It's a cowardly continuation that hides behind cheap nostalgia as a distraction, yet expresses a level of pettiness that's embarrassing to behold. 

There's a difference between cheeky snark and a spiteful airing of dirty laundry that co-writer and director Kevin Williamson does not compute. Scream 7 doesn't hide from Spyglass' reactionary firing of Melissa Barrera after she practiced free speech regarding Gaza in 2023, or from Jenna Ortega's decision to follow Barrera out the door. In fact, Williamson and Guy Busick's script makes a point of not-so-playfully trashing the last two sequels as often as possible—a bullying tactic amid their own sloppy-as-sin storytelling about burning [the franchise] down.

Neve Campbell returns as the beloved Sidney Prescott after declining to appear in Scream VI due to a pay dispute (which the film's dialogue NEVER lets you forget). Over and over, characters exclaim that she skipped out on "New York City" and went straight to becoming a resident of Pine Grove, hopefully free of Woodsboro's murderous history. She's married to the ho-hum town's chief of police, a lifelessly wooden Joel McHale playing the—as written—tall and imposing Mark Evans. Sidney also raises a teenager, Tatum (Isabel May), who desperately asks about her mother's bloody past, yet is granted neither understanding nor guidance. Nevertheless, Ghostface sets the Macher house ablaze and ventures to Pine Grove. It's Sidney's ultimate nightmare, especially because Ghostface eyes Tatum as his prime target, and Sidney's refusal to unload her traumas onto Tatum means her child doesn't fully comprehend what's about to occur.

The overarching theme of Sidney proving she's still a top-tier Final Girl isn't a problem; it's just running out of steam. Scream 7 wants to be the knockout blow that proves Sidney is not defined by her grief, her sadness, or her survivor's guilt. But that's also no longer inventive territory for the franchise, and plays out like a bandage slapped on a rush-job screenplay. Tatum's placement as "Sidney Jr. In Training" should add generational intrigue, but the stubbornness in both characters' inability to connect is uninteresting, serving only to push a half-baked Ghostface plot forward. There should be something ceremonial about passing-of-the-torch dynamics, and yet Scream 7 doesn't have us clamoring to see "The Prescott will return!" in the credits.

Perhaps that's because Scream VI leaves so much untold, and the absence of both Barrera and Ortage is felt tenfold. For a few scenes, as Scream 7 steadies into gear, there's a genuine hope that Williamson has distanced his sequel far enough to operate as a cold-hearted standalone—and then the disrespect starts mounting. Scream 7 isn't above bringing back Jasmin Savoy Brown and Mason Gooding for a fandom-pandering pop, but Williamson's treatment of their meta-heavy banter is noticeably lacking, and then he tosses them out of sight. Not before there's direct shade thrown towards ridiculous narrative choices in the last two movies, including such an embarrassing inclusion like Billy having a surprise daughter—a direct dig at Barrera's Sam Carpenter. Williamson's mission is to roast the entire franchise, but there's far less reverence for Radio Silence's titles, saltier than a deer lick.

Of course, this is a Scream flick, so inside jokes aren't just expected, they're mandatory. The issue is that Williamson’s sharpness and ferocious wit have faded. Potshots at the fandom are taken, especially at the #StuLives contingency, but instead of a wide breadth of zingers, the script reuses the same low-hanging digs. Williamson's too heavy-handed with the Scream-centric mockery, to the point where he destroys the mystery Sidney's currently trying to solve. As is Scream's legacy, there are a handful of laugh-out-loud callbacks that are metatextual bullseyes, but consistency suffers an unfavorable hit-to-miss ratio. Wes Craven and Radio Silence understand the balance of humor, horror, and heart in their films, while Williamson's overbearing cattiness tanks a Scream whodunit that reads as pure disdain for the legacy that he himself helped erect.

Scream 7 is, hands down, the worst investigation of the bunch. Williamson isn't bothered to sustain the suspense of red herrings or develop a cast of 80% new characters. Actors like Mckenna Grace, Sam Rechner, Asa Germann, and Celeste O'Connor are bland suburban caricatures who orbit around Tatum like boulders with no discernible traits. Courteney Cox’s Gale Weathers gets a hilarious introduction, but the same treatment as the Meeks-Martin twins, sidelined for no reason. It's almost like Williamson purposely wants to ragebait the Scream fanbase, down to crafting the lamest cold open (despite Ghostface torching an entire obsessive museum to Scream), as well as the most continuity-defying killer reveal. I had my gripes about Scream VI's finale, but Scream 7 ends with a nonsensical yet stupidly predictable signature unmasking that not only fumbles on the one-yard line, but simultaneously drops a steaming turd.

Of the positives, death sequences are the one thing Scream 7 gets largely right. As Williamson proved with Sick (before ruining everything with that last-minute twist), he knows how to execute a victim. Scream 7 is no different, as Ghostface brutally stabs Pine Grove's locals with not only his trusty hunting knife, but pointy spire-tipped beer draft handles, or as performers dangle from stage-play harnesses while playing Tinkerbell. Scream 7 is a nasty piece of work as Ghostface's silhouette appears and reappears from the shadows, taunting targets while out of sight, so at least that haunting element succeeds. But, reductively, the film also overplays its violence to the point where Scream 7 leans on run-of-the-mill massacre madness.

And, listen. If there's one thing I'll give to Scream 7, it's letting Matthew Lillard play Stu Macher again. Whether he's alive or dead, we all know Matthew Lillard was added to the cast. Same with Laurie Metcalf, Scott Foley, and David Arquette. Let's say deepfakes are an important specter of Scream 7, and that gifts us prime Stu Macher outbursts from Lillard, who savors every appearance. Is it all a diversion, getting us high off the fumes of unbeatable nostalgia nuggets? Of course. Do those tactics succeed now and again? They do, and every movie deserves more Matthew Lillard.

Too bad Scream 7 is a sh#t sandwich stuffed between moldy bread. Everything about the film stinks of "last-minute pivot" and "backed ourselves into a corner." It's the outcome we all feared once Radio Silence, Barrera, and Ortega were all removed from the equation. Williamson's approach comes off as vindictive and egotistical, made tenfold worse by the fact that Scream 7 is a shining example of the messes later-stage sequels can become when focus slacks. There's a line about surviving now to embrace a better future that feels almost like the fourth wall breaks, and we’re given direct advice. “Stomach this phoned-in bomb now, look forward to the rebound that comes with less baggage (if ticket sales soar).” On the contrary, everything here tastes like bad faith, and I'm less jazzed by the hour to see this franchise continue in its current state.

Movie Score: 2/5