Peak dollhouse horror. Build the sets, pick the Barbies and Kens, and unleash the puppeteer. It’s still one of the finest contemporary American examples of a keen pop sensibility (Williamson) infused with a mean-spirited genre know-how (Craven). It’s also so well cast that it seems borderline miraculous, especially at a time when similar faces populating soapy “teen” dramas were often forgettable. Its superficiality quickly turns into a virtue, as Craven is freed up to play with mediation, spacing, and time, which he presses hard without becoming remotely academic. 25 years later, it’s still razor sharp.