As his great aunt’s sole living heir, Tony (Roberto Guinar) inherits her Mexican mansion — lush landscape, spacious back patio and creepy clown doll included. 

The doll, named Payasito (“Little Clown”), is played alternately by a limp bag of rags and dwarf Margarito Esparza Nevares, whose white-greasepaint face suggests the unholy union of Bob Hope and Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus performer Michu. Because it can, Payasito frightens Tony’s pregnant wife down a short flight of stairs to her death, but the baby is saved. 

Years later, that lucky embryo swells into Tony’s tot son, Roy (Alan Fernando), whose attachment to the doll rivals Velcro, glue traps and static cling. This skeeves out Tony’s new trophy wife, Doris (Mexico Playboy model Lorena Herrera). Every time she and her hoochie-mama pants try to hide and/or ditch Payasito, the damn thing escapes and/or returns and kills somebody. Repeat until you hit the bare minimum for feature-length qualification, which you can do if you direct the dwarf to move … verrrrry … slowwwwwly. 

Also known by its English title of Diabolical Inheritance, Herencia Diabólica is referenced in shorthand as “the Mexican Chucky.” Not to desiccate the corpse of director Alfredo Salazar, but he wishes this thing were mas like Child’s Play. In a still photograph, Payasito may strike you as creepy, but in motion, he inspires laughter; with Chucky, the opposite is true.

Salazar clearly exhibited better luck at the typewriter, where his formidable résumé includes screenplays for such Mexploitation mainstays as The Batwoman, the Wrestling Women, the Aztec Mummy and many a Santo adventure — yep, even the one with big-breasted vampire ladies.  —Rod Lott

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Late Night with the Devil tells the story of an American cultural institution — the post-prime-time talk show — turned into a circus of satanic trickery by a malevolent force. Other than Jimmy Fallon, that is.

The movie is cleverly presented as a long-suppressed live episode of the syndicated, ratings-starved Night Owls from Halloween night 1977.  Although still smarting from the death of his beloved wife (Georgina Haig, TV’s Snowpiercer), host Jack Delroy (David Dastmalchian, The Last Voyage of the Demeter) has lined up a really big show in hopes of staving off cancellation.  

The lineup includes a medium (Fayssal Bazzi, We’re Not Here to Fuck Spiders) and, for built-in friction, paranormal investigator/skeptic á la James Randi (Ian Bliss, Man-Thing). Last but the furthest from least, a parapsychologist (Laura Gordon, Saw V) brings a young patient (feature-debuting Ingrid Torelli) rescued from a fringe church rumored to sacrifice children. The girl also claims to be possessed by a demonic entity she calls — and this isn’t eerie at all — “Mr. Wriggles.” 

With millions of eyeballs watching, what better time to attempt to draw this Mr. Wriggles out, right? 

From the monologue to each guest segment — with black-and-white backstage footage during commercial breaks — Late Night with the Devil admirably replicates the ’70s-era vibe of the chat format, particularly for those who grew up ending each weekday evening with Johnny Carson. All the details are here: the corny jokes, silly skits, forced patter with the bumbling sidekick (first-timer Rhys Auteri), cheesy title cards, smoking guests — plus subliminal images, gushing fluids, fateful on-air “demo” and so on. It’s nearly as faithful to its ruse as the infamous Ghostwatch, but with its time-capsule approach, likely owes more debt to WNUF Halloween Special.

A never-better Dastmalchian, who also produced, anchors the Australian pic with a committed performance that skillfully takes his character from empathetic to pathetic at a moment’s notice. If only he were able to convince sibling directors Colin and Cameron Cairnes (100 Bloody Acres) to end their script 10 minutes earlier, the movie would resonate with the intended staying power. After the prologue, it never needed to leave the studio. But do tune in, ladies and gentleman, and don’t touch that dial. —Rod Lott

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As my youngest child explained to me years ago, “creepypasta” is more or less the internet’s version of ghost stories and urban legends. (Think Slender Man.) Because they’re shared online instead at campfires or sleepovers, they spread worldwide in a near-instant. The name itself is partly a portmanteau of “copy/paste.” 

Now, explaining Creepypasta, the horror anthology corralling work from eight directors, is scads easier: It stinks. 

In the unimaginative wraparound story, we watch a guy stumble through a mysterious house, where he’s introduced to 10 stories written by a creepypasta author gone missing. Of the 10, a mere three at least held my attention — a ratio so poor, it deserves a bell ringer standing outside Walmart around the holidays. 

Were I feeling generous, I’d up that to four in 10, just for the shadow people story’s oddball scenario of ladies noshing over a charcuterie board as they swap Jerry Maguire-style science facts, like “Your rectum can stretch up to 9 inches in diameter.” I’ll take their word for it. 

The best bits feature a rulebreaker who gets Hellraiser-hooked for watching a forbidden broadcast on TV, a boy’s nocturnal encounter with a tooth fairy, and a child’s “imaginary” friend named Jumby. None breaks new ground, but each achieves effectiveness simply by setting up only what’s required. 

Whether about mirror people, cults, closet monsters or the Grey Man, other segments get bogged down in being too vague or trying to do too much. Both approaches go against the idea of being so sharable. —Rod Lott

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Last week — at least in my neck of the woods — a massive cellular phone outage with AT&T made things go reasonably kaput coast to coast. Although my phone was on vibrate while I was quietly working, it apparently rocked the entire country, leaving those in the digital age in the Stone Age for around 12 hours.

However, AT&T gave rebates and other tokens of gratitude for their error, so I thank you.

But what was really weird was I had just watched the low-key Stephen King adaption of Cell, about a cellular signal that turns people into mindless zombies. And that’s without the family and friends plan.

In the somewhat-busy Boston airport terminal, an outbreak occurs, sending people with cellphones on a murderous rampage. Graphic novel artist Clay (a sleepy John Cusack) and train conductor Tom (a sleepy Samuel L. Jackson) find their world turning into post-apocalyptic shit in the aftermath.

As Clay and Tom come upon survivors and fight the undead hordes, they surmise that a “hive mind” is getting them to congregate, kind of like a buzzing signal reminiscent of the 2000s internet. Even worse, in that very Stephen King way, a dream demon from Clay’s sketches tries to get them to a diabolical cell tower.

Of course they are.

While I truly liked the violent airport beginning, the movie proceeds to do nothing with the promise of the premise, devolving into a bunch of badly drawn stereotypes with no way to rationally end … except for the walking zombies, demonic possession and, I guess, bad service coverage. 

With very nominal director Tod Williams (Paranormal Activity 2) at the supposed helm, both Cusack and Jackson sleepwalk though most of their passive screen time. To be fair, they are the better parts of this movie, as everyone is pretty terrible.

In the end, Cell is the forgettable adaptation of a dropped call, with none of the wasted intrigue. Hang up! —Louis Fowler

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Beware, lady nurses in the Valley who happen to stand around 5’3″: A serial killer is targeting you. Be on the lookout for a guy who looks like Jim Henson after a visit to Sunglass Hut. 

Nurse Carrie Lonegan (Janus Blythe, Tobe Hooper’s Eaten Alive) sure is. Her co-workers at the hospital — really just an office park with an overly fern-laden reception room — keep getting killed by the guy. He’s looking for a “Linda,” but slays regardless of actual name. Worse, Carrie’s new, naive roommate (Lise Romanoff), fresh to El Lay from Kansas City, gets hired there. Will the investigating cop be able to find the culprit before the roomies fall victim, too?

No one tell Carrie, but said crack police detective (co-director/co-writer John Howard) tries to solve the case by punching the following five terms into a TRS-80 database:

• LINDA
• NURSE
• STRANGLE
• BACKBONE
• KNIFE

And holy shit, it works!

As the killer, R. Eric Huxley and his pink shirt exude skeeze. If his extended, methodical torture of his tied-up prey in the third act feels a little, well, fetishy, that’s not accidental. Howard infuses the incidentally amusing Spine with the deliberate kink of his pornographic past: bondage videos with titles like Rope Burn.

For the record, Howard’s creative partner, Justin Simmonds, has no such wank-minded credits, much less any other credits. That’s de rigueur for these shot-on-video affairs. As is the great deal of ice cream truck tunes. —Rod Lott

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