Written by: Brent R. Oliver
Scream Queens is a lame duck. It’s only trick is humongous, fat-guy-in-the-pool belly flops. If it had any subtlety, any tension, anything at all besides overt, cock-flavored humor, it might stand a chance.
And that chance is Chad Radwell (Glen Powell). This series has only one dimension, and that dimension is a sad, sorry, apeshit thing. If not for that, it could possibly rise above genre exploitation and be a real show, with real wooden boners, just like Pinocchio. The Chad Radwell character would be the burning bright rays of comedy that shone like a hopeful beacon across the foggy seas of loss and frivolity.
Instead, he’s crammed in with a bunch of mentally-handicapped fucks who are pretending to have a show.
Chad Radwell is goddamn hilarious. His jokes are so sublime that, even to recount them here would be blasphemy. He’s the pure white cotton of jockey shorts surrounding the wretched brown turd stripe that defiles the whole thing. Chad would be the perfect storm of hilarity if his humor could be made to stand out against anything. But, no. Instead, it’s sucked into the howling, subsonic shitstorm that is Scream Queens and it vanishes. Lost with but a whisper.
This episode has everything the horror fan would normally like: a slumber party; a panty raid; a game of Truth or Dare. What, you ask, could go wrong with this formula? Show us some tits, show us some nerds, show us some gruesome death scenes, right?
Nope. Fuck you. Lesbian in a bathtub. That’s what you get. And even though the bathtub lesbian demands to see the Red Devil’s face before she dies, it means nothing to me. He does indeed take off his mask and reveal his identity to her, but I honestly can’t imagine caring less about something. Not that we see his face when he flashes his true visage at her, in keeping with the paltry level of suspense Scream Queens tries to impart. The bathtub lesbian gasps out “I knew it was you.” I don’t care. I. Don’t. Care.
Seriously. If the killer turns out to be Clive Barker with cocaine caked around his nose and the stink of a twelve-year-old boy’s anus on his fingers, I don’t care. If it turns out to be the final chapter in The Dark Tower and I just wasn’t smart enough to get it, I don’t care. If the revelation somehow clears up the stupid-ass ending to The Sopranos, I for real could not bring myself to give a weasel shit one way or the other.
If the ending of this season of Scream Queens brings about world peace, then fuck world peace in its peace hole. I’d rather have war.