New York State Movie Theaters Can Now Sell Beer and Wine

]

It’s a big day for movie theaters in New York State. When you go to a movie theater, it’s the same old stuff every time, right?

We’re talking popcorn, candy, nachos, and pop (or soda, as non-Buffalo residents call it perhaps). But this week, a decision many were waiting for came true for New York State movie theaters.

WKBW broke the news that the New York State Liquor Authority unanimously approved the sale of wine and beer in New York State movie theaters.

Get our free mobile app

This means that people will now be able to purchase beer or wine at the concession stands and bring them into the auditorium, although any theater who is looking to sell wine or beer, must apply for a liquor license with the New York State Liquor Authority.

The only theaters before this, who were allowed to sell alcohol, were establishments who were deemed “restaurants” and sold wine or beer at a bar before going into the theater.

I visit movie theaters often, and this will be a welcomed change, especially for those who have been wanting this to happen for some time.

If you’re wondering, this goes into effect immediately, although again, a theater needs to be approved for a liquor license by the NYS Liquor Authority.

LOOK: The most famous actress born the same year as you Many of the actresses in this story not only made a name for themselves through their collection of iconic performances, but also through the selfless, philanthropic nature with which many of them approached their stardom. In an age of flipping the script on societal norms, many of these actresses are using their voices and platforms to be advocates for those who are otherwise unheard.

LOOK: The Most Famous Actor Born Every Year

Shattered movie review & film summary (2022)

]

But there’s no getting around the fact that several of the lead performances are stiff to the point of amateurishness (at least until the plot gets cooking about halfway through, and everyone gets to suffer, sweat, bleed and scream). And the script manages to be too much and not enough, gesturing clumsily in the direction of what the critic Anne Billson calls the Preposterous Thriller, while at the same time shoehorning in bits of social critique about the haves and have-nots that make “Shattered” come off as the movie “Parasite” could have been, were it possible to repeatedly drop a film on its head.

“Shattered” is a twist-driven film. But the twists don’t follow real-world logic. Nor do they embrace the dream-world anti-logic of great psychosexual thrillers like “Fatal Attraction,” “Body Double,” “Basic Instinct” or the late-in-the-game classic “Gone Girl,” the kinds of pictures where absurdities and outrages pile up to the point where the audience starts giggling with unhinged delight. Suffice to say if you’re still interested in seeing ”Shattered,” you should check out of this review now.

The man, Chris Decker (Cameron Monaghan of the American “Shameless”) is a tech entrepreneur who recently sold his company for millions. He has a wife (Sasha Luss) and daughter (Ridley Bateman) from whom he’s about to be separated by divorce. He lives in the aforementioned dream house, which looks down on the plebes in town like the home of the tycoon in Akira Kurosawa’s far more politically cogent “High and Low.” The young woman, who calls her herself Sky (Lilly Krug), lives in a residential motel run by an affable dirtbag named Ronald (John Malkovich, who gives one of the film’s only two memorable performances) and has a self-destructive roommate (Ash Santos’ Lisa) whom she supposedly goes home with Chris to escape.

David Thomson · Peachy: LA Rhapsody · LRB 27 January 2022

]

This​ is a fabulous book, beautiful, generous, sombre and wise, a wistful romance about a man writing a book like Always Crashing in the Same Car. Don’t fall for that subtitle – a mere concession to academic access and what used to be called the zeitgeist. As if a book as good as this can really be expected to flourish. As if, even in LA, there is a crowd waiting for a meditation on Tuesday Weld, let alone Eleanor Perry, Carole Eastman, Warren Zevon or Renata Adler. These are figures from our cultural past, but they are also characters, bystanders, torn posters looking down on Matthew Specktor’s family circle. His book is in some ways a work of critical commentary, as mind-expanding as a perfect peach (eat it now – by tomorrow it may be going off). But it is also a novel posing as a memoir, with scenes so gentle that the foreboding takes a second or so to creep in: ‘Autumn in Los Angeles is a kind of shrivelling, a contraction not just of time, the daylight hours, but of possibility. Everything grows more chromatic: the late sunshine, the shop windows, the cars. And then evening arrives like an orange rolling off a table.’ Or this. Someone who may or may not be Specktor is on a date with Q, a television writer:

We sat for three and a half hours, after which I kissed her on the street as she leaned against a streetlamp.

‘I’m seeing someone else,’ she said. The air around us was halogen-rich, glowing. She leaned forward to kiss me again. ‘I don’t think I like him very much.’

Do you see how perilously an author can find himself in a scene with Tuesday Weld?

Let’s try to be cool and explanatory. Specktor was born in 1966, a year before Bonnie and Clyde; he will have been eight when Chinatown appeared, and ten or so when David Bowie recorded the song that gives this book its title. Specktor’s mother was a screenwriter whose career was short-lived; later she was a drinker who snarled at her son for asking her to stop. By then she was divorced from his father, who was a leading talent agent at CAA. Despite this disconcerting inheritance, Specktor himself did some work in the narrative industry, though he was more beguiled by what he thought of as ‘writing’ – the misbegotten impulse that has made this book so enticing. It was inevitable, given his background, that he would be drawn to Scott Fitzgerald, the novelist for whom Hollywood was the nemesis he needed. You understand that, no matter the phantom of success and splendour that Fitzgerald endured, his destiny was the swimming pool that awaits Gatsby, or the vanishing of Dick Diver at the close of Tender Is the Night.

Specktor starts his book with a comic-scary photomat picture of Fitzgerald spooking the camera, staring into his abyss. In the introduction, we get the outline of Specktor’s own broken life, with a wife, N, lost to another man, R; his mother a cancer case; his father armoured in success. All this is folded into a fond autopsy of Fitzgerald, and a first, melancholic LA rhapsody. ‘What do you do, Dad?’ his three-year-old daughter asks him on one of her sleepovers. ‘I make things up,’ he decides. The moment trembles on the edge of cute, but it works in the drifty reach of Specktor’s introduction, as he roams LA seeking the locations of Fitzgerald’s sad time there.

Would it have consoled him to know, after these years of obscurity – like the booksellers he visited, even the studio heads who hired him sometimes needed to be reminded, first, he was still alive – that his work would outlive him? Probably not. What is the point of being loved in absentia? And what is the point of loving someone else who is missing? What is the point of loving the air?

There’s the clue, the hushed warning that literary posterity cannot save a culture or guard a great writer against Dorothy Parker’s insight, looking into Fitzgerald’s casket in 1940: ‘Poor son of a bitch.’

In the rest of this book, this elegy to failure, Specktor will deliver essays on some of the lives and losses he has been captivated by, held under the sway of people who were never exactly there. There’s a moment’s misgiving as we wonder if this is a set-up for pure puffery. Don’t fret: the peaches are all from the same tree, with secrets about creative careers piercing the reverie of what it has been to be Matthew Specktor, ever yearning and searching for ‘success’, knowing all the while that the swimming pool was waiting. The book is not reliable as biography, but the lives discussed did not organise themselves around facts, or any thought that these people knew what was happening to them. We know the scenario is evolving out of reach. We make stuff up.

Eleanor Rosenfeld was an older woman. She had a husband and a partnership in writing plays. Then, in her early forties, she determined to break free, so she hooked up with a guy sixteen years her junior, Frank Perry, who wanted to be a film director. They had a few years of activity together in the 1960s. She wrote and he directed: David and Lisa, The Swimmer and Diary of a Mad Housewife. They were in the money and the awards, and they were married. Joan Didion’s novel Play It as It Lays (1970) came into view as a project. Rosenfeld didn’t much like the book or its numb heroine, Maria Wyeth, but she realised in any case that she was being dropped – Perry had another beloved in view. Didion and her husband ended up writing the script instead. Despite the casting of Tuesday Weld as Maria, the picture didn’t work – Rosenfeld’s instinct had been right. She wrote a novel about what had happened, Blue Pages (1979), the best thing she ever did. Have you heard of it? I know, you can’t eat every peach.

Specktor appreciates Rosenfeld – he sees how well she did with the far-fetched parable of John Cheever’s short story ‘The Swimmer’, with Burt Lancaster as a burned-out Wasp crawling his way across the backyard swimming pools of rural Connecticut (the athletic Burt could not swim) – but he is entranced by the elusive Carole Eastman, who is still a legend among eighty-year-old screenwriters, even if Five Easy Pieces (1970), that rueful study of male despair, is her only complete work. Eastman had been an actress at first, and you feel throughout Specktor’s book the pressure on so many of these bystanders to act out, to play themselves, so that they can hope to correct their bad takes more easily.

When Specktor looked through Eastman’s papers he discovered a stranger writer than he had imagined: moody, wordy, full of self-doubt, so involved with Jeanne Moreau that you wonder what happened between them. She had one other big credit, The Fortune (1975), which has passed into history as a failure, buried beneath the weight of Mike Nichols, Jack Nicholson and Warren Beatty, such pals that no one trusted anyone. Specktor admits that he is ‘unabashedly in love’ with Eastman (as if ‘unabashedly’ was a decent trope of sincerity), and I think that’s because in life and in Hollywood, possibility is the most touching thing – and the thing that can have you waiting by the phone for months. Specktor doesn’t mention it, but Eastman also wrote the dialogue for Model Shop (1969), the Jacques Demy film in which Anouk Aimée’s disenchanted Lola, the title character in Demy’s movie of eight years earlier, comes to LA. It’s not a good movie; perhaps Eastman was aspiring to French attitudes, or shrugs. Specktor does mention that, later on, Eastman went seventeen years between credits, the pause during which her legend bloomed.

It’s part of Specktor’s generosity to rescue those who are being forgotten. Not that I can believe he would write about anyone he didn’t love, probably without knowing them, just having them perpetually on the screen. He starts off on Thomas McGuane – ‘I wanted so badly to be like him’ – with a photograph of the handsome sportsman author. It was that image that got him, before he read Panama and Ninety-Two in the Shade. McGuane isn’t natural casting as a failure. He is a classic writer, in the old Esquire tradition, a lesser James Salter, and a dedicated ladies’ man. Specktor’s chapter on him turns into a synopsis for a screwball movie with its account of the filming of what became 92 in the Shade (1975).

McGuane and his first wife, Becky, lived in glamorously wild places – Montana and the Florida Keys – but as he started to film 92 in the Shade he was into a freefall passion with the actress Elizabeth Ashley. As if a space had become free, one of the film’s stars, Warren Oates, had a fling with Becky, though she ended up marrying its other star, Peter Fonda. And then McGuane saw Margot Kidder. It’s like a libertarian Bonnie and Clyde – ‘we rob banks,’ without quite needing the money – and the mood is vital to the 1970s: the people to love faithfully are those you never quite have.

Cue Tuesday Weld. Specktor quotes someone saying that if she had settled for being ‘Susan’ Weld (her given name), she might have been seen as a great actress. But if that’s so, then how did anyone as smart as she is not go back to that respectable name? Maybe she preferred to be a cult instead of becoming Meryl Streep or whoever. Dumped on by her mother (that was her story), Weld was so precocious it was alarming. ‘I didn’t have to play Lolita; I was Lolita,’ she said – and she had been up for that part, examined by Stanley Kubrick and Vladimir Nabokov, who seemed to guess she was dangerous.

You can decide that Weld never made a flawless film, or one that honours her attention, though Lord Love a Duck, Pretty Poison and Thief are in the running. She became a Circe sought out by every conscientious Odysseus, married famous men (Dudley Moore and the violinist Pinchas Zukerman), and at this point has been retired somewhere for nearly twenty years. But she is a phenomenon when it suits her and I’m sorry Specktor doesn’t mention her turn as Zelda in a TV movie, Scott Fitzgerald in Hollywood (1975). It has heartbreaking moments, not just in themselves but for the regret we are left with about what else Weld might have done.

I’d guess she is nicely discontented. Specktor picks up on a moment from the Dick Cavett Show where she argues with Milton Berle, an ancient comic. They’re talking about Orson Welles, with whom Weld had just worked – A Safe Place (1971), one of her duds. In his inflatable way, Berle says that surely Welles must love acting. But Weld won’t have it: ‘I think he doesn’t even like himself for liking to act. I’ve never met an actor – an older actor – who was happy with himself, and his life.’ I told you she was smart.

You​ mustn’t conclude from my tabling of the contents that this book is all Vanity Fair. In retracing these failed famous careers, Specktor lets drop anecdotes from his own circle. The Weld rapture begins with a friend, D, calling him on the phone: ‘Have you seen her, Freak? … I mean have you seen her?’ And then D ends up dead, falling off a building. Just imagine what the film of Play It As It Lays might have been if for three minutes Weld had ignored the script and the subdued looming of Mother Didion, and just been funnier and smarter than Milton Berle. Never happened, but keep it in mind.

Next up is the musician and songwriter Warren Zevon, hands down the nastiest guy in the book, so antisocial he was often called violent, especially towards women. McGuane once said of him that he was ‘a kind of lost child. But because he’s such a prickly complicated person, he’s not the kind of lost child you give a hug.’ Fair enough, Specktor says: ‘I won’t hug his corpse either.’ But he is smitten with the rackety self-destruction of Zevon’s life (terrified of doctors, dying all too young), and cherishes the howling poetry of his lyrics. The Q whom Specktor kissed had once been involved with Zevon, and Specktor asked her: ‘Did you ever forgive him?’ She looks at him and ponders, like a Tuesday Weld close-up: ‘I never thought of it that way.’

Specktor had enough time with Q to dream about her being with Zevon. That unmade movie. He and his acquaintances are always on the couch, in the analysis that is script development. ‘The person you are,’ he writes, ‘and the person you wish to be … There is a gap between these things, just as there is between the person you love and the one you merely hope to. In a strange way, the latter can, sometimes, be harder even to lose.’

The book falters in what comes next, the chapter shared by two directors, Hal Ashby and Michael Cimino. (I think Specktor realises that directors have lost their juice now.) Ashby is someone whose work you know better than you can place him – Harold and Maude, Shampoo, Being There. Cimino is an exemplary disaster: after the abrupt coup of The Deer Hunter, he was allowed to make Heaven’s Gate and thus dragged down United Artists with him. Having two targets distracts Specktor and I regretted that he had too little space for Cimino, who went on to publish novels in France which have never been translated into English. One of them, Big Jane, is ‘the story of a six-and-a-half feet tall female motorcycle enthusiast who escapes the dullness of 1950s Long Island to fight in the Korean War’. Tell us more. Cimino had deep strains of the fake in him: he lied a lot, but in LA, lies are allowed, or just forgiven and reappraised as word of mouth.

Another problem with this chapter is that it muffles the cut straight from the appalling if endearing Zevon to Renata Adler, who might have been written by Elaine May. Adler was briefly a film critic long ago; she is the author of two icily poised but arresting novels, Speedboat and Pitch Dark. She was never an LA person. She sort of closed down her own career when in 1980, in the New York Review of Books, she published an 8000-word demolition of Pauline Kael, a more important and valuable film critic than anyone else in sight. It isn’t that Kael didn’t deserve some comeuppance, and she had walked off her own plank by going out to LA (she couldn’t drive!) to produce or counsel Warren Beatty and James Toback. Nobody said Kael was smart: brilliant, yes, but out of line silly or desirous. Like anyone patient enough to read 8000 words on Kael’s prose, Adler seemed shocked by the aggression in what she had done. She is alive still somewhere in the East, undiminished. Yet that isn’t quite plausible; you feel she ought to be holed up in a comped suite in Las Vegas, playing three-dimensional solitaire with gangsters and sheikhs. Specktor went to lunch with Adler once and the book has a sublime photo he took of a plastic tabletop in a desolate diner in Connecticut, with a tub of French fries and Adler’s languid and plainly brilliant elbow cocked in the background. We want more of her, just as we deserve a fuller accounting of the narcissistic death trip taken by Michael Cimino.

Something may have urged Specktor to try a little uplift at the end of the book. He comes across as a kind man, to the point of tenderness – the softness that spoiled things for Jake Gittes in Chinatown and made Nicholson an older actor. Specktor’s life has worked out better than Jake’s – he may be shrugging off his spectral glow. His daughter is grown up and he has a second wife. He’s so amiable he could be the one person who buys this happy ending. But when he can’t sleep he goes out for a night drive on the freeway trails pioneered by Maria Wyeth. He may head up to Mulholland Drive and its dirt section before it hits the ocean. From that height he imagines he can see us, sleeping, waiting for his book.

Who is Adrian Lester and is he married?

]

ADRIAN Lester has become a regular face on British TV.

His career is one that spans over 30 years but not exclusively to the small screen.

1 Adrian Lester has been on our screens for many years Credit: Getty

Who is Adrian Lester?

Adrian Lester was born August 14, 1968 in Birmingham, UK, to Monica and Reginald, who are of Jamaican descent.

He first started acting when he was 14 when he joined the Birmingham Youth Theatre.

After attending Joseph Chamberlain Sixth Form College, he trained at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art for three years.

Is he married and does he have children?

Adrian and his wife, actress and writer Lolita Chakrabarti, first met when they attended the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art together.

The couple got married in 1997 and have been together ever since.

They live in south east London with their two daughters, Lila and Jasmine.

Lolita was no stranger to our TV screens in 2021, starring in Showtrial and Vigil.

Adrian was awarded an OBE for services to drama in 2012, which he dedicated to his family.

What TV shows has he been in?

Adrian has starred in a number TV shows, but is probably best known for his role in Hustle as Mickey Stone.

He played Ellis Carter for nine episodes of American sitcom Girlfriends.

The actor appeared in the first season of Sky Atlantic drama series Riviera playing an art dealer called Robert Carver.

Outside of TV, Adrian is also well known for his theatre work in Othello, Henry V, Rosalind and Hamlet.

He won a Laurence Olivier Award for his work in musical comedy Company.

Adrian has also had some roles on the big screen.

He appeared in the 2004 disaster movie The Day After Tomorrow, alongside Dennis Quaid and Jake Gyllenhaal.

Adrian was set to star in Spider-Man 3 but his scenes were cut.

What time is Trigger Point on TV?

Trigger Point will see Adrian team up with Line Of Duty’s Vicki McClure.

The show follows an experienced bomb disposal operative as they deal with a terrorist group that is threatening London.

The first hour-long episode will air on ITV on Sunday, January 23, 2022, at 9pm.

Viewers that miss the first episode can catch up on the ITV Hub after the first episode has aired.

Scream has always been a better satire of American fame than of horror movies

]

In the original Scream, released 25 years before this week’s new sequel, a tabloid reporter is roped in to probe a small-town murder. “I should be in New York covering the Sharon Stone stalker,” says Courteney Cox’s Gale Weathers, a vision of chunky blonde highlights and frosted lipstick. That the same journalist is covering two very different beats should be a plothole, but only if you didn’t know America. There, beautiful celebrities and grisly killings share existential shelf space. As of writing, the US pop-culture institution People Magazine leads on Megan Fox’s engagement as well as the “gruesome murders of two teen hitchhikers”. Through all of its incarnations, the Scream franchise understands that queasy cohabitation, reflecting, anticipating and satirising the absurdities of American fame.

That’s not what the Scream movies are best known for, though. Instead, they’re known as satires of the horror genre, with characters practically winking at the camera while bemoaning film clichés. Scream 4 (2011) haphazardly featured a killer filming his own murders to “remake” the original Scream killings. Apparently a response to Hollywood’s fixation on horror remakes at the time, it was “the natural next step in psycho-slasher innovation”… or something.

The otherwise very fun new Scream targets for mockery the current trend of franchise revivals like Ghostbusters: Afterlife and Halloween – or sequels that serve as fan-friendly quasi-remakes of their first incarnations. Scream dubs them “requels”, a term it’s seemingly invented for itself and we will hopefully never hear again. But while quips are made and there are movie references aplenty, the actual point of it all doesn’t quite stick. As the franchise has gone on – and lost its original creators, screenwriter Kevin Williamson and the late director Wes Craven – it’s become hard to decipher whether these films have much to say about scary movies anymore. By the time characters in the new Scream begin snarkily riffing on “elevated horror” by arthouse auteurs like Ari Aster (Hereditary) and Jennifer Kent (The Babadook), you wish someone had realised earlier on that poking fun at celebrity was the franchise’s true raison d’être.

At their heart, the Scream movies have always been about the American and famous. In the mid-Nineties, when Kevin Williamson first conceived the original film, he had a deranged tabloid climate to pull from. His story was that of a picture-perfect wife and mother raped and murdered in American suburbia, and her fragile daughter Sidney (Neve Campbell) being stalked by a killer and the night-time news one year later. It was practically a documentary, with sensational crime involving beautiful people, a new and alarming part of the US media ecosystem at the time. There was OJ Simpson, of course, but also the Menendez brothers convicted of killing their parents, Lorena Bobbitt slicing off her husband’s penis, and the 17-year-old attempted murderer and so-called “Long Island Lolita” Amy Fisher. Six-year-old beauty queen JonBenét Ramsey was killed less than a week after Scream’s release. They could all be easily editorialised – real people morphing into stock characters like “the wronged wife”, “the teen temptress” or “the handsome psychopath”. If they weren’t famous already, they’d be turned into household names, their faces decorating magazine covers, bad television films dramatising their stories. The message was clear: get stalked or killed in America, and you’ll get a movie made about you.

Sidney jokes about the inevitability of such a thing happening to her midway through Scream. By Scream 2, she wasn’t laughing anymore. As if losing most of her friends and family in a bloodbath wasn’t enough, Sidney spends her college years harassed by reporters and preyed upon by copycat killers. Defenceless moviegoers weren’t safe from her fame, either, with the killer first striking during a preview screening of Stab, the tacky horror movie based on her life. One of Scream 2’s killers even aspired to get caught, convinced that conservative Christian groups would fund his legal fees once he blamed cinema violence for driving him insane. “That’s where the real fun is,” he claims, “because these days it’s all about the trial.” It would be funny if it weren’t so believable.

Between Scream 3 – which explored the darker, Harvey Weinstein-esque underbelly of Hollywood celebrity – and Scream 4, Sidney finally accepted her own tabloid infamy and wrestled for control of it. She threatened to sue the makers of Stab if they didn’t stop dramatising her life, and became an agony aunt for the young and traumatised. A self-help book called Out of Darkness followed. But the primary killer of the 2011 sequel – Sidney’s cousin Jill (a brilliantly mean Emma Roberts) – saw Sidney not as a survivor and inspiration, but someone who had squandered an opportunity. Raised on Paris Hilton, MTV’s The Hills and the famous-for-being-famous, Jill wanted Sidney’s level of attention no matter the cause. “I don’t need friends, I need fans!” she cries at one point, her knife still bloody from all her BFFs she’d killed. “What am I supposed to do? Go to college, grad school, work? How do you think people become famous anymore? You don’t have to achieve anything – you just gotta have fed up s happen to you.”

Jill’s motive is Scream 4’s truest understanding of the franchise itself. It makes sense – it’s one of the few elements of the film carried over from Williamson’s original script, which was hacked to pieces mid-production by other writers. In the hands of people who aren’t Williamson, these movies have a tendency to eat themselves, bogging themselves down in dialogue about their own mythology. Or anticipating their own criticism by having characters debate the cultural irrelevance of cough the Stab films. But Scream isn’t Scream because of its slasher movie in-jokes, or at least isn’t as effective a franchise because of it. Instead, it’s so good because it understands the US’s media industrial complex, and the round-the-clock absurdity of trying to navigate it. Characters are driven mad by it, others flourish and prevail, many lose their lives. Ghostface isn’t the scariest obstacle these characters need to overcome. It’s America.

Neve Campbell’s Sidney is surrounded by reporters in ‘Scream 2’ (Moviestore/Shutterstock)

The new sequel, meanwhile, is at its most interesting when referencing stardom in 2022. Early on, the one-time media icon Gale Weathers is witheringly dismissed as “the chick on TV”. Sidney Prescott is so famous and spooky – her arrival always coinciding with horrid death – that barely anyone mentions her by name, instead gesturing to her obvious notoriety as if she’s Lord Voldemort. And two nerds with a clickbaiting YouTube channel are held up as paragons of relevance, digital fame and cultural commentary. The world has changed.

If the new Scream doesn’t go all in with a dissection of celebrity in the modern era, it’s probably because it’s become too farcical to truly satirise. Exactly a year before Scream hit cinemas, the American version of the Masked Singer spin-off The Masked Dancer revealed that the woman hidden inside an enormous moth costume was Elizabeth Smart, a household name in the US for being kidnapped and held captive at the age of 14. In the decade after her rescue, she’d spoken to Oprah, released self-help books, had her story turned into a TV movie – starring, of all people, Scream star Skeet Ulrich as her abductor – and become an advocate for sexual assault survivors. Dressed in a sparkly gown with fairy wings, Smart spoke about her desire to have fun on national television while also raising awareness. It was touching but surreal – the inevitable climax to a culture that positions pop culture entertainment and unimaginable horror as bedfellows. You have to pity a franchise like Scream as a result. After something like that happens, what else is there to say?

‘Scream’ is in cinemas now