The assumption that there’s something inherently clever about a slasher movie making reference to both its genre and the filmmaking process is a fundamental flaw of this tiresome, blood-filled comedy (1996). Slasher has always been defined by reflexivity—as soon as there were serious body-count movies there were tail-eating parodies. Kevin Williamson’s pseudointellectual script and Wes Craven’s direction do manage to coalesce in a scene where all the movie’s references and self-references finally serve some dramatic purpose. But only Skeet Ulrich, playing a lovesick teenager, layers his performance enough to make plausible the notion that his character knows he’s a character in a movie—which he announces to the audience over and over again. Other actors aren’t as adept at straddling the line between characterization and self-parody, but Neve Campbell and Courteney Cox may be hindered by the fact that their roles are contrived to be politically correct.