Scream Queens Season 2 Episode 4: Halloween Blues Review
Halloween on Season 2 of Scream Queens has the entire hospital shrieking blue murder.
This Scream Queens review contains spoilers.
Scream Queens: Season 2, Episode 4
Everything is coming up corpses on Scream Queens. There are so many ear-shattering screams in this episode that you actually might be advised to invest $1.99 in a pair of foam earplugs. The only one who doesn’t have to worry about getting hacked to pieces in the hallway is Chamberlain, because you can’t kill a zombie.
Chad Radwell is dead. Not that there’s much to mourn about a waste of space whose only real talent was pretending to play gold in too-tight chinos, but he’s dead. Chanel (who blasphemously mourns his death in a Pepto-pink suit that channels Jackie Kennedy) and Denise apparently feel that the best thing to do right after the man they both dated behind each other’s backs just had his throat slashed by a machete is fight over who was better in bed. More important is that poseur Denise is now wearing Chanel’s wedding dress everywhere and insists on breaking out a Ouija board to find out. The fact that someone, or something, that looks like a glowing green Beelzebub is roaming the hospital halls is just a minor detail.
Dean Munsch is just getting creepier and creepier. It could be the way she oh-so-casually brushes off suspected medical malpractice with her pointed heels propped up on her desk, or the sinister smile that creeps across her face when she finds out Chad willed his entire fortune to her and CURE institute hours after the body count threatened to shut the place down. Or the way she coolly disproves the theory that the killer must have been the baby born to the pregnant woman whose husband was unceremoniously dumped in the swamp at that fatal Halloween party in 1986. She must have either been shot with a horse tranquilizer before the wedding or know something potentially damning if she manages to stay so eerily calm.
Intermission from all the murders for a moment. Chanel-o-ween is even more ridiculous this year now that the queen of mean has access to the morgue. In a pseudo-reality show clip that would make even Paris and Nicole cringe, she declares to her internet worshippers that they are shining examples of why euthanasia should be made legal as magical boxes full of biohazard waste land on their doorsteps. Why deliver rubber hands when you can get your claws on real ones? I almost don’t want to know what vile thing she’ll plan if she makes it to Christmas alive.
I’d love to acquit Uncle Jesse, like anyone else who grew up in the 80s and 90s watching him rock leather pants and a mullet, but sorry to say that his record at CURE Institute has been sketchy. We already know where the transplanted hand came from. Does that explain the creepy comment she makes about her being turned on by him intimating he might be the killer? Or why he gave Chanel such a high dose of colloidal silver that she literally woke up blue in the face the next morning? No, really. She’s blue (and for once it isn’t from designer shoe envy). It’s more of a retro powder-blue shade rather than Smurf blue or hypothermia blue, but her skin is definitely blue. Fashionistas, take note.
Even if Dr. Brock really does have an unbreakable alibi, there is nothing that can excuse him from that booty call with Dean Munsch while Chad was being slashed in some undisclosed back alley of the hospital.
Simpering serial killer Hester is back for the Halloween party, even if it is in an ankle bracelet and a Jason costume she later swaps for something a little more…politically incorrect. Which somehow gets Chanel #5 accused of being a jealous murder-prone untouchable for the umpteenth time this season (I stopped counting after I ran out of fingers. And toes). Either Hester is psychic, has some diabolical connection to the swamp thing or is just getting an evil laugh out of leading the investigation on to a machete-wielding psycho whose identity even she doesn’t even know. There is also no sign of Nurse Awful, which just keeps making her more of a suspect. Is she lying in bed at some ritzy hotel with silk pajamas on, popping pills and bonbons while marathoning daytime soap reruns?
We’ll just have to see who’s still not a cadaver by next week.
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Elizabeth Rayne is a she-writer, poet, and aspiring novelist who is owned by a parrot. When not writing, she can most likely be found cosplaying as a…