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.

Over roughly the past decade, a notable number of horror’s most exciting new filmmakers have emerged from comedy. That trend makes sense: comedians understand timing, misdirection, and the power of a perfectly placed punchline. Filmmakers such as Curry Barker, Josh Ruben, and Jordan Peele have successfully carried those instincts into horror. Still, the group would be incomplete without Zach Cregger, whose run of acclaimed genre movies has established him as one of the most talked-about horror directors of the 2020s.

Cregger’s career began gathering momentum in the mid-2000s, when he met comedian Trevor Moore and helped create the sketch troupe The Whitest Kids U’Know, or WKUK, alongside Sam Brown, Timmy Williams, and Darren Trumeter. Their boundary-pushing television series lasted five seasons and is now widely regarded as one of the finest sketch comedy shows ever made. Cregger and Moore were especially close collaborators, even making their feature directorial debuts together with 2009’s “Miss March.” They later reunited as co-directors, writers, and stars of the WKUK sketch film “The Civil War on Drugs.”

After the 2020s began—and following Moore’s death—Cregger increasingly turned toward genre filmmaking with projects including “Barbarian,” “Weapons,” and “Resident Evil.” Although his movies are filled with disturbing images and deeply unsettling characters, comedy remains an important part of his creative voice. With that in mind, here is a ranking of all five films in Zach Cregger’s filmography, based on how effectively each one showcases his abilities as a filmmaker.

“Miss March” occupying the bottom spot will hardly surprise anyone familiar with the critical backlash it faced on release. The 2009 raunchy sex comedy has even been labeled one of the worst films of its kind, while The Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw memorably suggested that it gave off “pure evil” vibes. The movie probably does not deserve a full critical rehabilitation, but it is not quite as toxic as its reputation suggests. That said, it is still far from a good film.

Cindi Whitehall (Raquel Alessi) and Eugene Ball (Zach Cregger) publicly promote abstinence, but Cindi eventually decides that she is ready to have sex with her high school boyfriend. Eugene, however, drinks several shots at a post-prom party to steady his nerves, then falls down a basement staircase and slips 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 soon discovers that Cindi has become a Playboy centerfold. The pair hit the road in an attempt to reunite the former couple, all while trying to avoid Tucker’s understandably furious girlfriend, Candace (Molly Stanton), and her gang of axe-wielding firefighters.

The opening stretch of “Miss March” suggests it might become something in the spirit of “Freddy Got Fingered,” a movie that seems to turn its own studio-funded production into the joke. A handful of gags genuinely land, but Cregger and Moore never take the premise far enough into absurdity to overcome the familiar formulas of a 2000s sex comedy.

Some sequences in “Miss March” resemble the humor Cregger and Moore developed on WKUK, but the movie was not officially connected to the television series or the troupe. WKUK has produced only one feature-length project, and even calling it a conventional movie requires some qualification. “The Civil War on Drugs” began as a collection of sketches broadcast during the show’s fifth and final season. Those segments were later uploaded individually to YouTube before Cregger and Moore assembled them into a 79-minute film during the global pandemic. For the purposes of this ranking, it still counts as a movie.

Sam Brown and Trevor Moore play two friends who give up drinking after discovering the supposed advantages of marijuana. Soon afterward, war breaks out between the Northern and Southern factions of the United States. Permanently stoned, the pair assumes the Civil War is actually being fought over weed. Hoping to legalize it, Sam and Trevor travel through—and occasionally become part of—major events in American history, remaining oblivious to the conflict’s real cause.

The main weakness of “The Civil War on Drugs” is that it feels exactly like what it is: a series of sketches connected into a feature-length movie. Viewers unfamiliar with WKUK’s style may find it especially difficult to sit through, and several jokes fall flat. Even so, the film stays entertaining because its central gag repeatedly returns to Sam and Trevor condemning the country’s unjust systems, despite completely misunderstanding what they are fighting against.

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“Barbarian” is built around the unsettling idea that we can never truly know what horrors other people conceal, particularly behind closed doors. Writer-director Zach Cregger expands that concern in “Weapons,” a horror film about the fear spreading through a Pennsylvania community. On one seemingly ordinary night, every student in third-grade teacher Justine Gandy’s (Julia Garner) class—except for Alex (Cary Christopher)—gets out of bed, leaves home, and vanishes without explanation.

Suspicion initially falls on Justine, but the damaged lives of grieving father Archer (Josh Brolin), volatile police officer Paul (Alden Ehrenreich), burned-out James (Austin Abrams), and weary principal Marcus (Benedict Wong) suggest that Maybrook is hiding far more than anyone wants to admit.

“Weapons” benefited from the mystery surrounding what kind of film it would become. The answer—a “Magnolia”-influenced horror fairy tale about child abuse, paranoia, and mob mentality that is also consistently funny—is an impressive achievement. The movie occasionally loses momentum whenever it changes perspective, but the payoff makes the unusual structure worthwhile. Its humor rarely diminishes the impact of Cregger’s scares, many of which linger long after the immediate shock has passed. Amy Madigan also delivers her well-deserved Oscar-winning performance as Aunt Gladys, a sinister manipulator who delights in controlling people until she gets what she wants. She is easily one of the most memorable horror villains of the 2020s.

Much like audiences reacted to Jordan Peele’s “Get Out,” many viewers had a collective “Where did this come from?” response when Zach Cregger released “Barbarian.” The film begins with an immediately compelling setup: Tess (Georgina Campbell) arrives at an Airbnb during a dark, stormy night, only to find that a man named Keith (Bill Skarsgård) has already booked the property. With few alternatives, the strangers set aside their suspicions and agree to share the house. The following day, Tess becomes trapped in the basement, where she discovers a hidden door leading into a labyrinth that seems to descend straight into hell.

Cregger spends considerable time establishing one story before abruptly introducing Justin Long as a sleazy actor attempting to navigate sexual assault allegations. The shift is jarring, but the arrival of a quieter, more pathetic form of evil eventually restores the film’s momentum. “Barbarian” unfolds like a Russian nesting doll of corruption, revealing one layer of malevolence after another and continually making the audience question whether the floor beneath them is about to collapse.

Fortunately, the film’s surprises remain effective even after the larger picture comes into focus. Its central theme—the refusal to accept responsibility for causing harm—drives a cycle that eventually reaches an unavoidable breaking point. “Weapons” may be the more streamlined movie, but “Barbarian” has a vicious streak that makes its most frightening scenes even more potent. It also features one of the most cursed basements in horror history.

It can be disappointing when a filmmaker celebrated for original ideas moves into an established franchise, since the demands of brand recognition can limit creative freedom. Zach Cregger’s “Resident Evil,” however, is a rare example of an IP-driven project with a clear, focused identity. Rather than simply setting up future sequels, the film prioritizes telling one complete story shaped by the director’s own sensibilities.

The third theatrical “Resident Evil” reboot functions as a spiritual adaptation of Capcom’s video game series by recreating the feeling of playing one. Bryan (Austin Abrams) is a medical courier delivering a vital package to a hospital in Raccoon City, but the assignment quickly becomes a violent gauntlet filled with obstacles, mutations, and the constant pressure of limited ammunition. Cregger embraces an “all gas, no brakes” approach, placing viewers in a world where survival takes priority over everything else. The only path forward is to keep moving, making it thrilling to experience the worst night of Bryan’s life alongside him.

With a relatively small cast of characters, “Resident Evil” depends heavily on Abrams, and he handles the responsibility with confidence. Bryan becomes a new-generation Bruce Campbell, constantly torn between heroic instincts and an uncanny ability to make spectacularly bad decisions. Watching him repeat those mistakes is part of the film’s dark pleasure. Cregger and co-writer Shay Hatten pack the brisk 95-minute thriller with gore, imaginative monsters, and well-timed humor. “Resident Evil” is, to date, Zach Cregger’s strongest film.