All 5 Zach Cregger Movies Ranked, Including Resident Evil

Over the past decade, horror has welcomed an unexpected wave of filmmakers with roots in comedy. The connection makes sense: comedians understand timing, escalation, and the power of a perfectly placed punchline. Directors such as Curry Barker, Josh Ruben, and Jordan Peele have all transformed that instinct into memorable genre storytelling. Zach Cregger belongs firmly in that group, having emerged as one of the most talked-about horror filmmakers of the 2020s through a run of ambitious, critically praised projects.

Cregger began building his career in the mid-2000s after meeting comedian Trevor Moore. The pair joined forces with Sam Brown, Timmy Williams, and Darren Trumeter to create the sketch troupe The Whitest Kids U’Know, better known as WKUK. Their provocative five-season series eventually earned a reputation as one of television’s standout sketch comedies. Cregger and Moore also carried their partnership into feature filmmaking, making their directorial debuts together with 2009’s Miss March before later co-writing, co-directing, and starring in The Civil War on Drugs.

After Moore’s death and the arrival of the 2020s, Cregger moved more decisively toward genre filmmaking with titles including Barbarian, Weapons, and Resident Evil. Even at their darkest, his films retain the comic sensibility that shaped his early career. Taken together, the five movies in his filmography reveal a filmmaker increasingly confident in blending horror, absurdity, and sharp social observation. Here is how they rank based on the clearest display of Cregger’s creative strengths.

It is hardly surprising to find Miss March at the bottom of the list, given the critical backlash that greeted the film in 2009. The raunchy sex comedy has even been labeled one of the worst comedies ever made, while The Guardian‘s Peter Bradshaw memorably described it as giving off the scent of “pure evil.” A full reassessment may be too generous, but the movie is not quite as toxic as its reputation suggests. That said, it remains far from a successful comedy.

Eugene Ball (Zach Cregger) and Cindi Whitehall (Raquel Alessi) spend their high school years speaking publicly about abstinence, until Cindi decides she is ready to sleep with Eugene. Nervous before the big moment, Eugene drinks at a post-prom party, tumbles down a basement staircase, and falls into a coma. Four years later, his friend Tucker Cleigh (Trevor Moore) wakes him by striking him in the face with a baseball bat. Eugene then discovers that Cindi has become a Playboy centerfold. The pair hit the road in an attempt to reunite, while dealing with Tucker’s furious girlfriend Candace (Molly Stanton) and a bizarre group of axe-wielding firefighters.

The opening stretch of Miss March hints at a movie that might resemble Freddy Got Fingered—a deliberately unhinged joke being financed by the studio itself. A handful of gags land, but Cregger and Moore never take the absurdity far enough to overwhelm the familiar formulas of the 2000s sex comedy. The result is a film caught between anarchic sketch humor and conventional raunchy-comedy plotting.

Although several moments in Miss March resemble WKUK material, the movie was not officially connected to the troupe or its television series. The group produced only one feature under the WKUK name—and, technically, it was not originally a traditional movie. The Civil War on Drugs began as a collection of sketches broadcast during the show’s fifth and final season. Years later, those pieces were uploaded to YouTube individually, and during the pandemic, Cregger and Moore assembled them into a 79-minute feature. For the purposes of this ranking, it counts.

Sam Brown and Trevor Moore play two friends who abandon alcohol after discovering marijuana. Soon, conflict erupts between the Northern and Southern states, but the perpetually high pair mistakenly conclude that the American Civil War is actually being fought over cannabis. Hoping to legalize it, Sam and Trevor travel through—and repeatedly disrupt—major moments in U.S. history. Their intoxication leaves them completely unaware of the real cause of the war, even as they stumble into becoming part of its mythology.

The central weakness of The Civil War on Drugs is its unmistakable sketch-comedy structure. The film often feels like individual bits have been loosely joined together, and viewers unfamiliar with WKUK may struggle to stay engaged. Some jokes collapse entirely. Still, the movie remains surprisingly watchable because its running gag—Sam and Trevor condemning America’s injustices while misunderstanding why they exist—keeps resurfacing with enough energy to carry the longer format.

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One of Barbarian‘s defining ideas is that people can hide unimaginable horrors behind ordinary doors. In Weapons, writer-director Zach Cregger expands that concern into a larger story about fear spreading through an entire Pennsylvania community. In the town of Maybrook, every child in Ms. Justine Gandy’s (Julia Garner) third-grade class vanishes from home on the same night, with the sole exception of Alex (Cary Christopher).

Suspicion initially falls on Justine, but the lives of the people around her reveal a community full of buried pain and instability. Grieving father Archer (Josh Brolin), volatile police officer Paul (Alden Ehrenreich), struggling burnout James (Austin Abrams), and overwhelmed principal Marcus (Benedict Wong) each expose another layer of Maybrook’s apparent respectability. Beneath the town’s polished surface is a network of secrets, resentment, and desperation.

The anticipation surrounding Weapons made its eventual form all the more impressive: a horror fairy tale with echoes of Magnolia, combining child abuse, paranoia, mob behavior, and an unexpectedly strong comic streak. The film occasionally loses momentum when it changes viewpoints, but the strange central puzzle becomes increasingly rewarding as its pieces fall into place. Cregger’s scares are effective without overwhelming the humor, and many of them continue to haunt long after the scene ends. Amy Madigan is particularly unforgettable as Aunt Gladys, a sinister manipulator who delights in controlling everyone around her. Her performance makes Gladys one of the era’s most striking horror villains.

Like Jordan Peele’s Get Out, Barbarian inspired a widespread “where did this come from?” reaction when Zach Cregger’s debut horror film arrived. The setup is immediately unsettling: Tess (Georgina Campbell) reaches her Airbnb on a stormy night and discovers that Keith (Bill Skarsgård) has already booked the property. With few alternatives, the two strangers agree to share the house despite a collection of obvious warning signs. The next morning, Tess becomes trapped in the basement, where a hidden door leads into a maze that feels like a descent into hell.

Cregger spends so much time establishing Tess and Keith’s story that Justin Long’s entrance as a disgraced actor facing sexual assault allegations initially feels like a disruptive detour. Yet the film gradually reveals a different, quieter form of pathetic evil and rebuilds its momentum. Barbarian operates like a Russian nesting doll of corruption, constantly exposing another layer of cruelty and keeping viewers uncertain about when the apparent safety beneath them will collapse.

What makes the film’s twists especially effective is that they remain meaningful after the mystery is explained. At its core, Barbarian examines how refusing to accept responsibility for harm allows abuse to continue until the cycle reaches a breaking point. Weapons may be the more controlled film, but Barbarian possesses a particularly nasty edge that intensifies its most frightening sequences. Its basement remains one of the most deeply cursed locations in modern horror.

For a filmmaker celebrated for original concepts, moving into an established franchise can seem limiting. Existing intellectual property often brings expectations that restrict a director’s freedom. Zach Cregger’s Resident Evil, however, stands out as an unusual example of a franchise film driven by a clear personal vision. Rather than functioning primarily as a setup for sequels, it focuses on delivering one concentrated story shaped by Cregger’s instincts.

The third theatrical reboot of Resident Evil works as a kind of spiritual translation of Capcom’s games, capturing the pressure and momentum of playing them. Bryan (Austin Abrams), a medical courier, must deliver a crucial package to a hospital in Raccoon City. His route becomes a relentless gauntlet of violence, mutations, and resource management, with every bullet carrying enormous importance. Cregger’s fast-moving approach places survival above everything else, forcing Bryan to keep moving because stopping is not an option. The result is an exhilarating ride through the worst night of his life.

Because Resident Evil features a relatively small cast, much of the movie depends on Austin Abrams, and he rises to the challenge. Bryan becomes a modern-day Bruce Campbell type: resourceful enough to survive, but impulsive enough to repeatedly make terrible decisions. Watching him fall into the same traps again and again becomes part of the film’s grimly funny appeal. Cregger and co-writer Shay Hatten pack the brisk 95-minute action-horror film with gore, inventive monsters, and well-timed jokes. For now, Resident Evil stands as Zach Cregger’s strongest feature.