These movies literally write themselves, and for this one that's a crutch. The story is structured to be constantly catching up to itself, playing its self-awareness as a plot device more than an elevating factor to an otherwise fun movie regardless, and it's massively underwhelming. Has a very revealing commentary on Hollywood and their treatment of women, but it's structurally stale. Craven already perfected this whole thing with New Nightmare and the first Scream, and at this point it feels like he's just parodying himself. It's easy to just write this off as a lame retread and move on, but there's a particularly joyless irony to a film that revived the slasher sub-genre spawning uninspired sequels chasing after that initial success. Still, I had too much fun for the most part to actually hate it.