In 1984, at the beginning of a period in which your films shifted from the realism of Last House on the Left and The Hills Have Eyes to the more supernatural tone of Nightmare on Elm Street and The Serpent and the Rainbow, you were quoted as saying: “The films I’m doing now may be within the genre of horror; but they are not about people with knives coming after each other. In the long haul, this will be the last of that sort of movie I do.” What made you want to direct Scream, which falls more into the slasher subgenre? 

I guess it was the factor of realizing that this script was not just that. That although on the surface it was that kind of film, it was also a very interesting thriller—a whodunit—as well as a kind of a deconstruction of a genre, looking at various levels of reality at the same time, which was very interesting to me. 

And something you yourself had already dealt with in Wes Craven’s New Nightmare. Can you compare the two? 

Well, New Nightmare was set within the real world of Heather Langenkamp, the actual actress from the first Nightmare, but it didn’t reference any films other than those in the Nightmare an Elm Street series. Scream was couched much more in the real world of the whole genre, so there are specific mentions of a wide spectrum of films, actors and actresses that were part of that world. It was much bolder, and more comprehensive, declaring that it was a movie looking at movies, and yet, at the same time, it’s not: you know, one character says, “But this isn’t a movie; it’s real life.” And then another one says, “No, no, it’s all one big movie,” and he’s speaking not only about Scream but about real life: it had very interesting philosophical permu­tations that New Nightmare didn’t have. 

There are unusually few changes from Kevin’s spec script to the final shooting script published here. Did you feel pretty strongly about the script as it was when you first read it? 

Oh, yeah, very much so. There was very little that needed to be changed. I mean, there were some geographical things that were altered, owing to the contingencies of the locations we found—the specifics of chases, that kind of thing. And the ending was altered slightly. I remember the last line of Sidney’s to Billy: “Your dick is small”—[Laughs.]

Kevin talks about that in his interview. We also discussed what I thought was an interesting similarity between the opening scene in Scream and a portion of your first film, Last House on the Left, involving children in jeopardy being in painfully close proximity to their parents, who are unaware of their plight. Did that parallel ever occur to you when you first read the script? 

No, it didn’t, but that kind of nearness—being within inches of help, but unable to get it—is very strong. 

Particularly when you’re dealing with it in the context of family, which I know you find very important to your work. You were quoted several years ago as saying, “The family is the best microcosm to work with. If you go much beyond that you’re gelling away from a lot of the roots of our own primeval feelings.”

Yeah, because at the end of that scene in Scream, she’s reduced to a childlike state; she sees her parents coming, and they repre­sent the last possible out for her. And it seems, several times, they’re going to get there in time. 

I asked Kevin why he felt horror films held such an appeal for certain audiences, particularly teenagers, and he chalked it up to the way they explore a kind of primal fear. Do you agree?

Horror films are very primal plays on simple moral and physical issues, and are very reflective of early childhood situations and fears: fear of abandonment, fear of your parents either not having your best interests at heart, or being incompetent, or not being quite there for you at that moment you really need them. It goes back to childhood, but also haunts us through our adult lives. The torture is trying to figure out who you can trust and who you can’t; who your allegiances should be with as far as friends and lovers are concerned. These films also deal with another kind of fear: fear of the dark, or fear of who’s behind the mask—the paranoia of trying to deal with who is behind the masks of all the faces around us. Horror films just pare down a lot of very powerful human emotions to their essential elements. When you do that, you’re usually hitting things that are very close to ancient childhood fears, and perhaps in an even deeper way, going back to the childhood of humanity itself. 

What appeal does the horror genre hold for you, personally? You’ve said previously that making the kind of films you make helps you come to terms with the often chaotic violence that seems to underly contemporary existence.

I suspect it’s always been this way. I can’t think of a period in human history where these kinds of stakes weren’t at play. I mean, ancient civilizations were always building huge forts and walls to protect themselves from other populations of maniacal people who wanted to sweep down and wipe them out to the last goat or sheep. This kind of thing has been going on for a long time, but we don’t like to talk about it. If we do, we talk about it in generalities: the Battle of Gettysburg, or something like that. But I’m fascinated by the specifics of the battle that’s going on all the time.
   The other thing about it is, this subject matter is just so unpleasant—“the horror, the horror”—that quite often it’s just not treated, certainly not much in the general popular fare—the Disneyesque, family-values entertainment we see so much of. Which would be wonderful if that were the engine driving the world, but it’s not. So rather than living in a state of denial, I prefer to delve into these things, even though they’re upsetting and difficult. I think that’s why young people, who tend to be a little more exploratory and experimental and rebellious, are still more willing to expose themselves to this kind of environment in art than most adults, who’ve made a lot of compromises—accepted their denial, in a way.

Along those lines, you once remarked that most horror filmmakers are probably a little more relaxed about the dark underpinnings of life because they’re willing to confront and manipulate them—in your words, “call them their own for a minute”—which is similar to the experiences of the kids, particularly, who enjoy watching these films, who also come to terms with the horror of the actions they’re being subjected to by identifying with the surviving character.

The character in these films with whom the audience most identifies almost always survives, and in some way, triumphs after having gone through a baptism of fire—he or she is changed in a way that is unpredictable and kind of astonishing to see at the end, but still, you feel it’s closer to actual reality than the original naive fool on his or her journey. That kind of thing is some­thing kids are really aware of; they live in a much more primi­tive world. You know, they’re coming out of that period in child­hood where you’re playing with yourself and eating worms [Laughs.] and trying to peek through your parents’ door at night, into the beginnings of adulthood, where people are blowing themselves up for causes that are difficult to explain at best. 

Your films are all known for their rather uncompromising portrayals of extreme violence, yet I read a comment of yours recently in which you took Tarantino to task for the torture scene in Reservoir Dogs. Could you talk about that? 

That scene was where I said, “Enough; I’m out of here.” I just lost my respect for the filmmaker at that point because it felt like he was the torturer, in a way. It seemed he was enjoying it, say­ing, “This is a kind of cool, and the music goes well with it,” rather than saying, “This is a despicable act, cowardly and hor­rible.” It wasn’t that I was so horrified by what was being depicted, it was that I was horrified by the person who had done the depicting. But on the other hand, I’ve often said that one of the things you have to do to an audience is really scare them, horrify them. So maybe he succeeded. 

Is that a difficult line—balancing between dramatic necessity and exploitation—to maintain in your own films? 

Well, there are two things operating there. First, you try to keep the line of not lying about the essence of the matter, and not worrying about whether you might offend people, or be “impo­lite.” Ultimately, you’re trying to show something as it really is. But on the other hand, you don’t want to indulge it to the point where either you or the audience starts to get off on it. A third factor—which is very real now—is if it will get past the censors. 

You had eight rounds with the rating board for Scream, didn’t you, to get the “R” rating? 

Yeah. The scene in which Casey’s boyfriend is disemboweled had to be cut: the movement of the viscera was something they for­bade. They got us on every place where there was actual blood—you know, throat-cutting, Drew hanging in the tree, and so forth—but they were also very concerned with the intensity of several scenes. You know, when the censors are saying to you, “Don’t be so intense, that’s harmful.” I don’’t happen to think intensity is harmful, but when you’re dealing with this kind of reaction, you find yourself on day one of production—on page one when you’re writing the script—thinking, “Well, is this going to be offensive to the censors?” We’re all being forced to drive at 55 miles an hour, you know? There are no more race­tracks. I think that’s a very dangerous trend. 

(The interview with Wes Craven was conducted by Tod Lippy.)