Okay, here's the deal. Back in the 80's, horror movies were at the center of the filmmaking universe. Whenever you rolled into the local cineplex, you could be sure to see the words MURDER, BLOOD or NIGHTMARE hanging from the marquee. (If your cineplex was like mine, it was probably more like MUDURE, BLUD, or NITEMAIR...) But, gradually, the slasher pic started drifting out of the mainstream, as horror writers consumed all the good ideas and Stephen King moved to TV. Once all the major teen events (mall, camp, prom) had been done, and once all the major holidays had been done (Christmas, Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day) we were left to chomp our Twizzlers to an endless parade of sequels. And when the sequels started edging into double digits, the genre slowed to a disappointing crawl, and for us slasher fans, the Golden Age was over. We were left to veg out in our living rooms, wearing drop-outs in our videos of Halloween, Friday the 13th, and Evil Dead. Our four-head VCR's worked overtime, freeze-framing the Savini stab effects, and slow-mo'ing the cheesy nude scenes.

And as time passed, our subscriptions to Fangoria lapsed. Our Donald Pleasance autographs dropped in value. Our Freddy Kruger gloves fell behind the dresser to gather rust and collect dust. And just when things looked dark and hopeless, and we thought we'd have to learn to love art films, a master slasher director comes along and slaps us sober. "Hi, my name is Wes Craven. And this is the back of my hand." SMACK!

For the uninformed, Wes Craven is like a touchstone for the modern horror fan. With Last House on the Left, The Hills Have Eyes, and Nightmare on Elm Street, he set a new standard for slash. His trademarks were wild gore, inventive editing, and wry dialogue, and with the possible exception of George Romero, no single filmmaker has influenced this genre more than Wes Craven.

Alas, his recent efforts weren't quite as sharp. The Serpent and the Rainbow was his attempt to go Hollywood, and it showed. Shocker had its moments, but lacked the scattershot energy we'd grown to expect. And, finally, he hit an all-time low with the miserable Eddie Murphy vehicle, Vampire in Brooklyn. We started sharpening our pencils to write off ol' Wes, and then he delivers Scream, his best film yet, a Christmas gift wrapped in red.

I know I'm gushing here, but Craven and screenwriter Kevin Williamson have found a way to reinvent the genre. The film digs deep into our collective experience, and gathers up every horror movie cliche in the book -- some of which the director helped invent -- and pours 'em all out onto the table like a jigsaw puzzle. Then, slowly and deliberately, Craven puts the puzzle back together in new and bone-tinglin' ways. He holds up the cliche to the light for us to mock, and just as we're starting to get all smug and cocky, he turns it around and scares the crap out of us.

At first look, the plot seems typical enough. The locals are getting murdered in bloody fashion by a serial killer, and the protagonist Sidney Prescott, played by the ever-so-appealing Neve Campbell, is next on the list. The twist is in the serial killer's methodology: he's using his Ebert-esque knowledge of slasher trivia to guide his efforts. And our main job as filmgoers is to figure out his hidden identity. Usually, yours truly is two steps ahead of the projector, figuring out every plot point before it unrolls, but I have to admit, with Scream, I was scratching my head from the get-go. About five times I just knew I had figured it out. And then, wham, I'm proved flat-wrong, in a less-than-civil display of carnage.

Scream is way boffo. For slasher fans, it's like a happy return to summer camp (pardon the reference). School's out, you're out in the sun, all your friends are there, you've got a two-week hiatus from the folks, you're wearing those shorts that make you look quite virile, you just know this will be the year you'll get to third base with Wendy Nicholas down by the canoe ramp. I'm sorry, I'm getting carried away.

Everything about this movie is bullseye. I could start right now and name a dozen wonderful things about it. 1) The memorable opening scene starring Drew Barrymore and a flaming pan of Jiffy-Pop, 2) An outlandish casting coup featuring Henry "The Fonz" Winkler as a wormy principal, 3) Some of the insidest of inside jokes about the horror genre, 4) A frightfully funny, cheap-ass howling ghost costume sported by the antagonist, 5) Courtney Cox, and 6) did I mention Neve Campbell? Mark my words, Neve Campbell is on her way to big things. She's smart. She's beautiful. She's gutsy. And you can't take your eyes off her. 7) Skeet Ulrich and David Arquette are pretty dynamic in their own ways, bad hair aside. I'm gonna halt at seven 'cause I know you've got chores to do, but, to sum up, this movie really made an impression on me.

Alright. I'll admit, the Golden Age of Slasher Films is over. Never again will we get to see the first Chainsaw Massacre, or wear the first Jason mask, or hear the first monotonous John Carpenter score. But, maybe, Scream is marking the start of a new age. An age where slasher films scare you, gross you out, and make your brain work for a while. Get those VCR's cleaned up. I think we've got us...the Craven Age.