Broadcast on Halloween night 1992 in the UK, Ghostwatch may be the greatest prank in TV history, not to mention a seminal moment in small-screen horror, a britches-wetting touchstone for a generation. Three decades later, it’s well-regarded and influential, having left footprints on arguably every inch of “found footage.” (Plus, WNUF Halloween Special would not exist without it.)

Presented as a “live” BBC special, but scripted in actuality by horror scribe Stephen Volk (2011’s The Awakening), Ghostwatch purports to investigate — and possibly even exorcise — supernatural forces at the home of the Early family. As single mum Pamela (Brid Brennan, Excalibur) tells on-site presenter Sarah Greene — and, by extension, in-studio host Michael Parkinson — the poltergeist has terrorized her and her two young daughters with bumps in the night, broken dishes, stained clothing and, ewww, a smelly tap. Pam’s girls chalk it up to Pipes, an entity so-named for its pipe-banging propensity.

Suffice to say, before the 90-minute time slot is up, Pipes shows it’s no slouch. Its “appearances” are why Ghostwatch is held in high regard. Having BBC TV personalities appear as themselves helped get it there, selling the illusion of reality. Because viewers were so bought-in to the premise, there’s no denying Ghostwatch‘s conclusion isn’t brilliant. (It may be more brilliant than you might realize; using the pause and frame-advance functions of a remote shows the extent of the subliminal working toward the greater gasps.)

All that said, the space between the frights can feel like stretches, which they are. Off and on, it’s something of a tough sit. That’s a reasonable expectation while waiting for paranormal acts that original viewers weren’t certain would occur within the allotted airtime. Knowing beforehand that they do — and that they’re ultimately quite a doozy — dilutes the program’s power. Watched today from that perspective, Ghostwatch is easier to admire than submit to.

I guess you had to be there? How I wish I were. —Rod Lott

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In his lifetime, Robin Hardy directed a genuine cult classic in 1973’s The Wicker Man. Unfortunately, he made only two other films. Worse, the last of them was The Wicker Tree.

While the quasi-sequel is based on Hardy’s 2006 novel, Cowboys for Christ, who’s he kidding? If you’ve seen the original Wicker or its bug-nuts Nicolas Cage remake, you know exactly where this new one leads, even without the benefit of Edward Woodward as your guide.

In The Wicker Tree, that role falls to young Christian country starlet Beth Boothby (Brittania Nicol, apparently a for-the-better one-and-doner). With her purity-ring cowboy fiancé (Henry Garrett, Red Tails), Beth accepts a two-year missionary position in Scotland. She’s even tailored her message to her audience: “Jeezus was braver ’n Rob Roy!”

Not everyone in the pagan village is happy to host the Americans, but town employer/nuclear magnate Sir Lachlan Morrison (Graham McTavish, Aquaman) and his wife (Jacqueline Leonard) put on game faces and trade insults behind her back: “I bet she smells like a dairy.”

If only there were … oh, some kind of, I dunno … “May Day festival” planned for which they could trick the hicks into, um, “participating.”

Hopes that Hardy may approach the material with a wicked sense of humor rise early with a glimpse of Beth’s Britney Spears-esque pop-tart past (via a video for “Trailer Trash Love”), but when you later see well-to-do Scots line-dancing at a posh party, those hopes have long been torpedoed. So go any chances of the filmmaker beating the odds by capturing lightning in a bottle twice. While technically competent, the movie doesn’t go anywhere approaching the unexpected; this Tree takes root, but never sprouts.

Hardy’s on the record for calling his final film “very horrifying.” That’s very generous … and perhaps very delusional. The Wicker Tree offers some gorgeous scenery, a super-brief Christopher Lee cameo, a sex scene with a toy horse’s head and nothing else of note. Folk horror is rarely so wearisome. —Rod Lott

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Like the small towns that dot the lonely roads here in Oklahoma, Nebraska is not far off from us. Dusty and decrepit, all the towns really need are many stalks of wilted corn (or wheat) and spiritually inbred children.

Very loosely based on the tight short story by Stephen King, Children of the Corn was made into a movie by now-Oklahoma-based director Fritz Kiersch (interviewed in Flick Attack Movie Arsenal: Book One) in 1984, with many critics then (and today) calling it one the worst King adaptations of all-time.

But I consider Kiersch’s bastardized adaptation to be King’s best movie for the horror screen.

A long time ago, in the rural town of Gatlin, Nebraska, the entire kid community massacred all the adults under the leadership of the diminutive messiah Isaac (John Franklin). Now, a few years later, a young couple — Burt (Peter Horton) and Vicky (Linda Hamilton) – run over a child on the lonely road, with foreboding cornstalks on both sides.

As Burt and Vicky go to town to find answers, they find the children are part of a corn-worshipping blood cult that pays homage to “He Who Walks Behind the Rows,” a demonic force that turns innocent children into bloodthirsty anti-saviors of mankind. As Burt looks for a way out, Vicky is eventually strung on a cornstalk cross at the esoteric deity comes for her. With the children running from the ’84 special effects, the demonically possessed man-child Isaac gives a final stand!

While the personas of Burt and Vicky are fine in their cardboard stock-characters, the teen followers of this dirty deity are simply frightening, especially the ginger-haired fireplug Malachai (Courtney Gains) and, worse, the infernal hayseed Isaac.

I believe this movie is all about Kiersch’s willingness to showcase most of the sacrilegious slaughter on the big screen, even if most of the gore scenes are grossly implied; still, the idea of a community of murderous children will always keep me awake, haunting my dreams since my small-town VHS rental. From a native Texas filmmaker (with, I’m guessing, an Oklahoma background), it seems what rural Oklahoma is actually like: endless miles of ghostly towns with one or two people outside a filling station on a sweaty afternoon, a cult of devil-worshippers behind every curtain.

From the troubled-teen drama Tuff Turf (with James Spader) to the sadomasochist fantasy Gor (with Jack Palance), Kiersch’s low-budget films have been given the Oklahoma Outlander Seal of Approval from the psychotronic fan in all of us, even if we don’t want them. I don’t blame you. —Louis Fowler

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M3GAN is a bit of sugar, spice and stab you twice. Housebound director Gerard Johnstone is no stranger to melding horror with humor despite his sparse filmography. And it’s not like the rogue AI is anything new, either. Between HAL 9000, Agent Smith or (my personal favorite) AM, it’s hard for a hostile ghost in the machine to get a circuit in edgewise. M3GAN doesn’t try to break new ground as much as it flosses all over it.

Violet McGraw (The Haunting of Hill House) plays Cady, a tween whose parents die in a tragic snowplow accident. She’s placed with her aunt, Gemma, played by Allison Williams (Get Out). Gemma’s career is built on AI, robotics and toys that can shit themselves. Unfortunately, the well begins to run dry as her CEO fears their company’s competitors — who announce a cheap knockoff with a reactive LED butt — will overtake the Tamagotchi-Furby monster market.

Her grieving niece and an unrealistic deadline pushes Gemma to complete M3GAN, an almost-lifelike doll portrayed in body by Amie Donald and voiced by Jenna Davis. M3GAN’s prime directive becomes protecting Cady’s physical and emotional well-being. The toy takes a few liberties — and heads — to ensure her purpose.

M3GAN is everything Lars Klevberg’s abysmal Child’s Play remake tried to be. It asks us to consider how we exploit grief and enable tech dependency without a heavy-handed, dogmatic message. Tech is comfort, and the film slices through how emotionally vulnerable it can make us with a sentiment akin to Spike Jonze’s Her. Granted, it’s not nearly as good as Her, but it ditches alarmist copouts to deliver something simple and telling.

This is also not much of a horror film. While you’ll see clear opportunities for M3GAN to be more unnerving and terrifying, the restraint is honestly appreciated. (After all, M3GAN’s eyes are unsettling enough; is there really a need to pile onto that?) Instead, it opens the door for humor. And it takes advantage of this with a surprising amount of tact.

M3GAN has a near-perfect balance of dark revelations and clever comedy. The story would fit snuggly within Black Mirror’s first and second season — you know, when the series was still pretty good. That’s not to say every joke lands, but it’s very hard to deny its wit by the time M3GAN converts Sia’s “Titanium” into a lullaby.

Unfortunately, M3GAN hits so many things right, its few weaknesses are as jarring as a Tickle Me Elmo with dying batteries. For one, in the era of Siri and Alexa, it feels outdated to lean on cheap tricks like overt voice digitization to remind us something is artificial. It wasn’t needed in Ex Machina, and it’s definitely not needed to sell M3GAN’s malice.

Second, she’s already menacing, and the implication she can cease control of electronics and infiltrate vast defense networks makes her more so. It’s just hard not to yearn for a little bit more storytelling to that end. It’s a stretch to suspect the full extent of her Wi-Fi enabled powers will probably be saved for a sequel. But that’s the double-edged sword of an emerging horror villain: You want so much of them before they’re spoiled by a half-baked franchise.

Ultimately, there’s no guarantee M3GAN will get a sequel at all. The character definitely deserves it, but if this is truly all the time we get with her, we’d be wise to cherish it. M3GAN isn’t the brand-new caboose to an ever-growing hype train. This diamond-studded droid does, in fact, slay. —Daniel Bokemper

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Prolific production company Mahal Empire gets Lost when an airliner bound for Puerto Rico is struck by lightning and goes down down down, in Bermuda Island. Washed up on the shore of what looks like paradise, the survivors face no food, no potable water, no aloe vera, no Wi-Fi and a band of green-hued, limb-ripping creatures on the loose and out for blood.

Looking not unlike homemade Predator costumes, these beasts treat the survivors’ tummies like your grandma does dirt when it’s time to plant petunias. Meanwhile, in hopes of saving alive, the humans split into two factions. One is led by a regular Robinson Crusoe (a fully OTT John Wells, The Penny Dreadful Picture Show) who claims to have been trapped in the Triangle for 100 years. The other, fronted by a surly ’n’ burly FBI agent (Wesley Cannon, who also produced) who just copies the other guy. And Mahal Empire regular Sarah French (Death Count) finds a reason to disrobe.

Although Bermuda Island is goofily constructed and unleashed on the cheap, first-feature director Adam Werth makes the trip a hoot. He even comes close to earning that proverbial extra half by not pretending the movie is anything other than a brainless B-level outing. With no shortage of goop and a squishy soundtrack to boot, it strongly resembles a modern-day addition to Hemisphere Pictures’ beloved Blood Island trilogy. Whether in daylight or the dead of night, scenes always offer clear views of carnage.

While not every actor is as comfortable on camera as French, Wells or the cameoing Tom Sizemore, who perishes before the plane crashes, several Mahal Empire players are legitimately funny in their roles. Sheri Davis makes for a commendable ever-complaining Karen type; Greg Tally is a near-riot as a pretentious Goth named Midnight; and then there’s Alexander Hauck, somehow able to tell a monster that just ripped his heart out, “I hope you get food poisoning.” —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.