Scream 4 (or Scre4m, if you’re going to be technical about it) had a greater level of anticipation than horror devotees would normally afford the fourth sequel of a masked-killer franchise. By combining Kevin Williamson – the chap who penned the first Scream – and original director and horror royalty Wes Craven (think Nightmare on Elm Street, Last House on the Left and the original Hills Have Eyes) fans were right to expect something more.

With it all in place for a fabulous revisit to everything that made Scream so good, the film makes a gallant effort at revitalizing an otherwise well-slaughtered cash cow. Originally written as a self-aware spoof that just happened to also be a bit scary, Scre4m takes this original premise to the next level: more meta, more gore. The deliciously ironic opening sequence is undoubtedly the high point of the film, taking the audience through a number of clone-like opening sequences to the parallel ‘Stab’ movies until finally arriving at an equally indiscernible opening to Scre4m – unashamedly using the opportunity for audience-pleasing cameos from some of American television’s hottest young things, a satisfying amount of blood and a vintage-Scream analysis of the fact that ‘a film in a film in a film’ doesn’t really make any sense. Fantastic.

Sadly, it does not keep up with the high standard it sets for itself at the beginning. It becomes hard to work out if Emma Roberts is deliberately unconvincing as a poke at the bad acting in slasher flicks; sadly, however, I don’t think Emma is that clever. The other fresh additions do a varied job but are similarly stuck between embracing the intentional crapness of the film and trying to do a good job. It has to be conceded that the comic relief is definitely well carried by the hilarious Deputy Judy. With recurring characters having been brutally whittled down to a ‘Key Three’  of Neve Campbell, David Arquette and Courtney Cox, it was still a pleasure to see their characters return for one last time. Again.

The all-American soundtrack is an equally enjoyable recreation of one of the high points of the first film. Williamson’s writing includes many revisits to the original (having the staple film geek character stating that it is a ‘Screamake, not a Shriekuel’) without making the ending predictable and affording the movie at least some entitlements as a film in its own right.

Like its predecessors, Scre4m is a jumpy romp that makes you laugh, makes you scream and makes you crave an American high school red cup party – even if you do get murdered.

Hollywood: the cinematic capital of the world, where billions of dollars are poured into making stories come to life on the big screen! With all the glamour, the money, the razzmatazz, you’d think it’d be pumping out classic after classic, creating finely-crafted masterpieces of cinema every year with only the occasional film which is merely above-average. The problem, of course, is that everybody who isn’t from the 1930s knows that this isn’t exactly what happens.

What we get instead is usually an uninspired remake of a better film, yet another sequel in a franchise whose shambling corpse should’ve been bludgeoned to death aeons ago, or something based on a particularly popular book, TV show, short story, comic book, cartoon, toy, video game or cereal packet. And when we do get something original, it’s usually something like Zach Snyder’s latest turgid offering, Sucker Punch. It’s shit. Consider that the official Cherwell review. He can put it on the poster if he likes.

But all this really makes you wonder – how? How on earth can a film with a bad script get funded for many millions of dollars, and worked on by hundreds and hundreds of people? In March, director Michael Bay admitted that Transformers 2 was ‘crap’, blaming the writing strike. So this was a script that even Michael Bay – Michael Bay, the man behind Pearl Harbor – realised was awful. You’d think he’d send his script-writers back to whatever Neanderthal cave they’d lurched from in the first place and tell them not to return until they’d come up with something a year 11 film studies student wouldn’t be embarrassed to submit as coursework. Instead, he made it into a movie, and it cost $200 million.

It’s oddly perverse, when you think about it, that the best writing these days can usually be found in small-budget indie films. Of course, in an indie flick, the writing is really all there is to hold up the film – it can’t rely on special effects, set-pieces and A-list actors to wow audiences into grovelling submission. But this isn’t an excuse. All that money and star power should be backing something of genuine quality, and if indie films can find good script-writers, mainstream movies have no excuse. Why, then, has Hollywood yet to get to grips with the groundbreaking idea of actively trying not to make movies which are embarrassingly bad?

Part of the reason is to do with the way Hollywood works. Script-writers may write the actual dialogue, but seldom are they behind the essential plot of the film – that’s up to the producers. And producers are also the people in charge of budgeting and finance. Not the creative type, in other words. With the best will in the world, there’s little chance of a script-writer producing a masterpiece when he or she’s handed a plot written by two glorified accountants trying desperately to appeal to their market demographics (‘we need a hot girl and an explosion, but also a bit of lovey-dovey stuff for the ladies’).

That’s a problem, but it’s not the real reason Hollywood keeps pumping out rubbish. The real reason is simple: Transformers 2 was the 23rd-highest-grossing film of all time. Films don’t have to be good to make money, they just have to have vaguely impressive special effects, be part of an established brand, and/or have enough money behind marketing. Writing simply doesn’t factor. Audiences don’t find out if the writing is crap until they actually start watching the film, and by that time, their money is already spent. Never mind that writing makes or breaks the quality of a film – good reviews don’t a fortune make.

This is why films like last year’s Inception are important. Inception showed Holywood that big blockbuster films, filled with special effects and action sequences, don’t have to be aggressively stupid. Films which require an ounce of thought on the audience’s part can still be fun and can still make money. Hopefully, now that good special effects are so commonplace that audiences are growing increasingly blasé about them, Hollywood will stop trying to push that boundary and pay attention to writing instead.

Of course, first that’d require it to stop trying to turn 3D into a cash cow. But that’s a rant for another day.

There was a moment when I thought Spurious was Waiting for Godot. Then I realised that it’s really Lucky Jim, without the women. It’s a philosophical novel about thought, but really it’s an academic novel about failing to think, about all the things we do instead of thinking, and about – well, you know, what is thinking anyway?

Sure it’s definitely Beckettian. The action is two anonymous guys talking to each other and about each other, lamenting, pitying, vacillating. ‘When did you know you weren’t going to amount to anything?’ Lars’s problem, or his great good-fortune, W. says, is that he doesn’t know. Maybe he still thinks he’ll amount to something, that he’s not as stupid as W. insists he is.
‘Of course we’re never really depressed, W. says. What can we, who are incapable of thought, understand of what the inability to think means for a thinker?’ At other times, they say they are ‘essentially joyful.’

Lars has a grotty flat in Newcastle. It is deeply, inexorably damp. Soon, the damp will be everywhere: ‘Yes, it will be everywhere. The flat will be made of damp, and spores will fill every part of the air. And I will breathe the spores and mould will flower inside me. And I’ll live half in water, like a frog.’

There is nothing to be done about the flat. It doesn’t really matter. Here is why this is more of an academic novel than an existential novel: the lives of both Lars and W. are the vessels for careers. It is career that drives them and drives their depression. However, the meaninglessness of that drive is, of course, the existential point.

The academic is always Max Brol, the fat executor of Kafka’s literary estate (‘Kafka was always our model, we agree… At the same time, we have Kafka to blame for everything’), the friend whose only meaning was to proclaim his friend’s genius.

‘He can picture me, W. says, working at my desk, or attempting to work… surrounded by books by Schelling and Rosenzweig and Cohen, and books that explain Schelling and Rosenzweig and Cohen, and then by still other books with titles like The Idiot’s Guide to Jewish Messianism and Rosenzweig in Sixty Minutes.’

This is the sum of academic thought. It is not real thought. It’s not real. ‘It’s all shit, it’s all going to shit. It will always have already been shit,’ W. says.’ No, this is not a hopeful novel, it’s not that kind of messianism. But it’s funny. That’s all we have, isn’t it? Redemption through laugh-out-louds.

 The book is also (of course) about writing, trying to write. W. and Lars are writers. It is mysterious, like thought, like greatness… like damp. ‘His book is better than him, W. and I agree. It’s greater. What’s it about?, I ask him of a particularly difficult section. He’s got no idea, he says.’

Stepping into the first of three rooms of this exhibition, the King’s Room, the visitor encounters an intimate and understated space, designed in deliberate contrast to the exhibition’s archaeological importance. With a focus upon Philip II and his famous son Alexander the Great, on display are hundreds of objects from the Temenid dynasty of Macedon, which ruled from the 7th to the 4th century BC. 

Near the entrance of the King’s Room stands a small statue of Heracles, from whom these kings claimed descent – hence the exhibition’s ambitious-sounding name – and images of the legendary hero crop up on various other objects, symbolising strength and power.

For those such as myself with limited knowledge of the classical world, it is easy to walk through archaeological exhibitions seeing no further than the aesthetic beauty of the artefacts. However, on the day of my visit I am lucky to hear Professor Robin Lane Fox and Dr Angeliki Kottaridi introduce the exhibition and speak of its huge significance. Their excitement is palpable as they enthuse about the only first-hand image we have of Alexander the Great, found on an innocuous looking hunting frieze in one corner of the room, and fragments of a palace from Philip II’s time, the building’s importance comparable to that of the Parthenon.

Beauty in itself is not forgotten; Lane Fox does not try to contain his emotion when relating the discovery of an impossibly intricate gold wreath of myrtle leaves, thought to have belonged to one wife of Philip II, the Thracian princess Meda. Such craftsmanship is found throughout this exhibition, on objects ranging from tableware to shield decorations, and rewards close scrutiny.

The Queen’s Room, the largest of the three in the exhibition, holds a particular highlight – the Lady of Aegae. Gold funeral jewellery dating from around 500 BC has been arranged in the shape of the woman it once adorned; placed at the end of the room to face the approaching visitor, she stands just as her living counterpart would once have done. The effect is impressive, and in a way touching. It is possible that this was the mother of Alexander I, but for many her identity will be of less concern than her value as an embodiment of the elevated position of Macedonian women, who were spiritual symbols as well as respected mothers.

From such lavish jewellery to a scattering of broken pottery and bent nails found in funeral pyres, ‘Heracles to Alexander the Great’ brings many aspects of this distant past to life. It is the product of decades of excavations from Aegae, and many of these objects will not yet have been seen anywhere else in the world. It is certainly not to be missed.