No hole-to-hole stitching required in the human centipede story Creepy Crawly. Known in its home country of Thailand as The One Hundred (as in legs, duh), the film lets not only many centipedes run loose, but also a rather large one that gains size as it inhabits — then discards — a string of human hosts.

Co-directed and co-written by Chalit Krileadmongkon (The Beast Below) and Pakphum Wongjinda (2015’s The Mirror), it all goes down in a hotel during the COVID-19 outbreak, so guests are under a strict, 14-day quarantine. Every guest ignores the rules when the ’pedes impede.

That includes our nominal leads, prawn-allergic pretty boy Leo (Mike Angelo of Renny Harlin’s The Misfits) and blood-disordered pretty girl Tevika (Chanya McClory, Sang Krasue 2); however, all the characters are minimally drawn. Around the time Leo and Tevika get heroic, the tongue-in-cheek creature feature in an enclosed setting becomes reminiscent of Stephen Sommers’ Deep Rising.

The idea of an insect possessing people is unique, as far as I recall. As the big bug instantly bewitches people, the risus sardonicus evil washing over their face looks inspired by Asian horror manga — the good kind, from masters like Junji Ito, Kazuo Umezu and Hideshi Hino. We also have tentacles, or something like it, purely for impalement purposes. Passable overall, how well Creepy Crawly works scene to scene tends to run in inverse proportion to usage of rush-rendered CGI. —Rod Lott

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Halloween’s indie anthology franchise returns with another bag of treats in 10/31 Part III. To continue that analogy, I liken its quartet of stories to chocolate coins: Yeah, technically, they’re chocolate, but they’re no Peanut M&M’s.

As with the 2017 original (which I disliked) and Part II (which I skipped), this third trip ’round the block is hosted by Elvira substitute Malvolia (Jennifer Nangle, Amityville Karen), if less than 90 seconds’ screen time counts. I don’t believe it does.

On deck between her pair of fleeting appearances are tales of a divorcée acquiring a thrift-store mummy for his homemade haunted house, a serial killer not for nothing known as The Locksmith, youngsters terrorizing a mean old teacher, and a menacing toy called Hack-in-the-Box. (That last one must have Charles Band kicking himself for not thinking of it first.) All four contain a great idea, especially The Locksmith, but none merits as meaty of time allotted. Each runs out of gas roughly halfway in, despite general competence behind the camera and in the effects. Writing and acting are another matter.

Best about 10/31 Part III are the five fake trailers. These precede the proper omnibus instead of scattered throughout like crispy leaves on a driveway, which would work better. From slasher homage Candy Killer to unfunny juvey comedy Night of the Halloweenies, they owe a larger debt to Stephen Romano’s Shock Festival than Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez’s Grindhouse. —Rod Lott

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From Belgium, Karim Ouelhaj’s Megalomaniac finds inspiration in the Butcher of Mons — a real-life, never-found serial killer of five women in the mid-1990s — then toys with it fictionally. The film asks, if the Butcher had kids back then, what would his now-adult children be up to? Results are, duh, disturbing — and equally well-acted.

With their evil father deceased, siblings Martha (Eline Schumacher, Krump) and Félix (Benjamin Ramon, Yummy) live in a dingy mansion as grim as the film it calls home; the abode looks like prison of sorts from the inside. While the manipulative Felix has picked up Dad’s felonious hobby, the emotionally damaged Martha toils as a factory janitor. And we do mean toils, as she’s repeatedly bullied and raped by co-workers.

Perhaps due to its less lenient European origins, Megalomaniac is uncompromising. At first, Ouelhaj (Parabola) makes us pity Martha. Then, step by step, as he slowly reveals how horrible a monster she actually is, we realize he’s slyly manipulating us into wanting to see her exact the most gruesome revenge on her attackers. And we do. Even that doesn’t quite go as planned, unless your definition of “planned” begins and ends with “blood-drenched.”

Although vile and violent, Megalomaniac holds another aspect arguably more of an obstacle to mainstream audiences: the occasional, unexplained touch of the surreal, à la David Lynch. Don’t let Ouelhaj’s arthouse inclinations scare you from this desolate study of what passes for family these days, even if he wields his film’s allegories with the weight of sledgehammer. —Rod Lott

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In a village in the mountains of Slovakia, superstition long resides. It seems to live everywhere. This, Šarlota knows, having been on the receiving end for much of her life. The scorn started when, as a child, Šarlota accidentally knocked her little sister off a cliff and, ashamed, fled for the city.

Two decades later, called to accept an inheritance from her mother, Šarlota (Natalia Germani, The Devil Conspiracy) returns, only to find everyone in town thinks she’s a witch. (Even if they didn’t, odds are she’d be persecuted anyway, just for her gender.)

Are they superstitious because they fear “the other”? Nightsiren seems to suggest as much. Then it goes one better by pointing back at the accusers, suggesting these monsters we live with are more worthy of blame. Šarlota and Mira (newcomer Eva Mores), the young woman who befriends her, learn this lesson over and over again. Both actresses, it’s worth nothing, inhabit their parts really well.

From Filthy filmmaker Tereza Nvotová, Nightsiren has a lot on its mind, little of which it keeps to itself, even if could loosen its grip on subtlety. Although its feminist themes might scare some potential viewers off, that’s their loss; this is folk horror through and through, what with such elements as scythes, snakes, goats and rituals involving flames.

Like all good folktales, it’s presented in chapters. The literary touch of Nvotová and co-writer Barbora Namerova is palpable, but that hardly means visuals go ignored. On the contrary, Nightsiren pulls off some stunners, most notably as Šarlota experiences a DayGlo-painted nightmare of a forest orgy. —Rod Lott

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Don’t knock Don’t Look Away for using what amounts to a life-size Ken doll — naked, but sans genitalia — as its lead bugaboo. Praise it for making that smart economical choice. Not only is a stationary villain cost-efficient, but incredibly effective. Scaring while not moving worked for that celebrated 2007 “Blink” episode of Doctor Who, and it continues to work for Annabelle, several sequels later.

Also, it’s the only horror movie I know of to rely on a Roomba to deliver a jump scare.

New Jersey law student Frankie (first-timer Kelly Bastard) and half a dozen of her closest friends are stalked and menaced — and some killed — by the eerie, nonverbal mannequin with a permagrin. “Like a Bloomingdale’s mannequin?” asks a cop. Or, as suggested by her platonic pal (Okja’s Michael Mitton), “one of those Reddit creepypasta things, like Slender Man.”

Yes and yes. All Frankie knows is that once you avert your gaze, the doll will kill you. (Hence the title.)

Its blind owner, who has peppermint gumballs for eyes, shows up to fill in the runaway mannequin’s backstory. As played by director Michael Bafaro (5G: The Reckoning), he explains between sips of joe, “I was having it shipped to my estate where I could bury it forever. Spare others from suffering the same tragic demise as my loved ones. I swore on their graves I would put an end to this. And by God, I will. Good coffee.”

Moving swiftly, unlike its evil automaton, this 110% oddball pic is great fun, reminiscent of bananas mid-’90s cable fare like Kevin S. Tenney’s Pinocchio’s Revenge, but with total paralysis. With Mitton as his co-scribe, Bafaro leans hard into their concept’s built-in absurdity. They’re no dummies; they knows their movie is going to elicit chuckles, but they’re also confident it will elicit the creeps, too. The acting lands as Don’t Look Away’s weakest link, as news of friends’ deaths are brushed away like laundry lint.

Naturally, the end hints at further slaughter ahead for the pantsless model. Barbie may have no current box-office equal, but this living doll poses a threat in body count. —Rod Lott

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