Guest Post: Scream 7 (2026)

Seventh Time, NOT the Charm

By Jonas Schwartz-Owen

Like many Scream diehards, I rewatched all six previous films with a group of friends before heading to the theater today. With the entire franchise freshly loaded into my brain, it didn’t take long to realize that Scream 7 simply isn’t much fun. Despite bringing back legacy stars and the series’ original writer, the film feels less like a thrilling new chapter and more like a contractual obligation—for both writer-director Kevin Williamson and the audience. The first six outings varied in quality, sure, but they were always a blast. This one isn’t.

Thirty years after the original Woodsboro killings, Ghostface has returned and is as bloodthirsty as ever. Back at the scene of the crime, this “new” Ghostface wastes no time zeroing in on Scream’s eternal final girl, Sydney (Neve Campbell). Now a fiercely protective mother to her teenage daughter, Tatum (Isabel May), and supported by her husband, police chief Mark (Joel McHale), Sydney finds herself dragged into the nightmare once more. But is this Ghostface someone from her past—someone she thought she’d ended decades ago?

Williamson loads his 30th-anniversary installment with callbacks to the original: Sydney now bears the same last name as Jada Pinkett Smith’s character in Scream 2—something that feels far too specific to be accidental, especially given the shared name with Sydney’s murdered mother. And it’s hardly a spoiler, or even a secret, that Stu Macher, Billy Loomis’ original co-killer, factors into the plot, which naturally begs the question: did that TV to the head really finish him off in 1996? As a meta gimmick, it’s clever enough, but Scream 7collapses under the weight of its paper-thin characters. Williamson has always excelled at crafting memorable victims and villains, but here, Tatum’s friends—the designated prey pool—have all the dimensionality of cardboard shooting-range targets. With nothing to play, the actors can only flail. The script, co-written by Williamson and Guy Busick, isn’t much sturdier: red herrings vanish almost as soon as they appear, as if the performers had only half a day on set, and the finale manages to be both baffling and strangely hollow.

The kills are more elaborate than ever, but many feel like visual-effects showboating better suited to a Tom Savini demo reel. A few shots stand out—particularly a haunting wide of a swinging corpse under a spotlight—but for the most part, the camerawork and editing are so pedestrian they barely register, much less build tension.

So, what does make Scream 7 watchable despite all of this? Neve Campbell and Courteney Cox. Both deliver grounded, lived‑in performances that cut through the noise. Campbell remains the soul of the franchise, and the film gets good mileage poking fun at her absence from the New York sequel. Watching her interact with McHale and May, and rekindling her chemistry with Cox, is almost worth the frustration. McHale, often cast as brash and cocky, dials things down to play a surprisingly stabilizing presence. And Williamson’s strongest writing is reserved for the strained, trauma-bound mother-daughter dynamic.

Anyone with an internet connection knows the rocky road that led Scream 7 from conception to release—missing franchise stars, revolving-door directors, and studio uncertainty. All of that may help explain why this entry feels so adrift. But excuses aside, there’s no escaping the truth: this is the weakest film in the series.