I’m always leery of movies that star pro wrestlers, yet I’m not sure why. After all, Kane killed it in See No Evil, John Cena has become a gifted comedian in the likes of Blockers, and Dwayne Johnson is doing just fine, thanks. So let’s blame Hulk Hogan.

Now comes a WWE star I’ve never even heard of, CM Punk (née Phil Brooks), in the indie haunted-house shocker Girl on the Third Floor. He’s pretty good. The film is great.

With his patient wife (Trieste Kelly Dunn of the brilliant Cold Weather) about-to-burst pregnant, Punk/Brooks’ Don is moving his family to a Victorian home in a picturesque suburb. Because the house needs a lot of TLC, he moves in beforehand for a top-to-bottom renovation. After all, marbles drop from the upper stories, one wall sports splotches of mold, and the electrical outlets throughout look vaginal to the point of Giger-ian, complete with oozing fluid not unlike semen. The place even comes with a built-in seductress (sexy Sarah Brooks, 100 Days to Live) who may be a ghost.

Needless to say, Something’s Not Right. And it’s a doozy.

While a seasoned producer of genre movies like Big Ass Spider! and XX, Travis Stevens has never made a feature before. He’s obviously been observing the craft, however, because in his first at-bat, he reveals a keen eye for composition and a mastery of mood. Part of the latter is knowing when to employ the score (composed in part by legendary music producer Steve Albini), which manages to support the story, rather than telegraph it.

He also gets a semisolid performance out of Brooks (also in the Rabid remake), who seems to know his limitations and tries to stay within the lines. Aside from the farm of tattoos, Brooks looks like Jon Hamm after a 30-day juice cleanse. His character makes an unforgivable choice in Act 1 that feels like a misstep at first, until we gradually learn the man is deeply flawed. As the practical effects keep piling on, the viewer wonders if Don might have earned all the hell coming his way, which makes for a more interesting picture. By the end, Girl on the Third Floor is the film that the Stevens-produced We Are Still Here so badly wanted to be. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Wanna see an oddball anthology of holiday horror filled with twists and bursting with creativity? Then you better watch out and queue up A Christmas Horror Story instead, because All the Creatures Were Stirring is frustratingly average. Making that all the more disappointing is how roaringly strong the start is. Set in a dreary-looking office at a depressing-looking office Christmas party, the first story offers a Belko Experiment-esque twist on the dreaded game of Dirty Santa, but with booby-trapped presents that play for keeps. Why haven’t any of the Saw sequels thought of this?

Unfortunately, the fire dies down from there, worsening with each passing, welcome-worn segment, from reindeer death games and demonic recruiting to yet another tired take on Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, this one centered around a character so insufferable (played by Jonathan Kite of TV’s 2 Broke Girls) that the bit is off-putting. The movie goes sci-fi in its conclusion with a UFO encounter notable only for featuring the name value of Hustlers’ Constance Wu. Elsewhere, you’ll find more amiable talents strewn about, including Jocelin Donahue (The House of the Devil), Chase Williamson (John Dies at the End), Brea Grant (Beyond the Gates) and Joe Dante regular Archie Hahn (Amazon Women on the Moon).

All five tales come wrapped in the guise of an experimental theater production on Christmas Eve, as witnessed by two people on a date. There’s a couple behind All the Creatures Were Stirring, too: shorts-helming spouses Rebekah and David Ian McKendry, making their full-length feature as writers and directors. You can’t regift what they got you. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Wisconsin filmmaker Bill Rebane’s movies have dealt with all manner of terrifying creatures, from giant spiders to Tiny Tim. Chronologically between them stands Bigfoot, in The Capture of Bigfoot. In the first line, the local redneck hunter Hank (Rebane regular William Dexter, The Demons of Ludlow) says, “We’ve only got one problem now.” Unfortunately for the viewer, that problem is the film itself, a lumbering snore of cryptozoological claptrap that reeks more foul than any sasquatch chassis.

Thanks to Hank being a dumbass, Bigfoot (Janus Raudkivi) is on the loose and looking for his child (Randolph Rebane). The local sawmill owner (Sixpack Annie’s Richard Kennedy), essentially the Carl Denham of this story, thinks there’s big money to be made in exhibiting Bigfoot to the public. The local game warden (Stafford Morgan, The Witch Who Came from the Sea) thinks Bigfoot should be left alone. The local sheriff (Wally Flaherty, The Devonsville Terror) thinks everyone want to hear his Humphrey Bogart impression.

You’ll think Bigfoot looks more like a yeti (or a grown-up Monchhichi), what with its all-white fur, and sounds like Wolfman Jack impersonating Dracula. The beast sure keeps busy, chucking snowmobiles and tearing apart skiers, but more of the movie is given to townspeople talking about it, arguing over it, looking for it or pointing at prints of it in the snow and shouting, “Them ain’t human!”

At the midpoint, Rebane offers what promises to be his pic’s pièce de résistance: a lengthy disco party suddenly interrupted by Bigfoot, who demolishes every dancer limb by limb. Only Bigfoot never shows up, so we get a lengthy disco party just for the sake of a lengthy disco party, I guess. If you manage to make it that far, marvel at the clothes and wonder where they found such fashions. Then wonder no more as the closing credits inform you: “Wardrobe and outfittings: K-Mart.” —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.