Little Evil

There is a specific, cold dread that comes with realizing you’ve entered a relationship where the "package deal" includes a child who looks like they’re planning your demise. I’m not talking about regular toddler tantrums or a teenager’s silent treatment; I’m talking about a six-year-old who stands in the middle of a cornfield wearing a three-piece suit while the sky turns the color of a fresh bruise.

I first sat down with Little Evil on a Tuesday evening while trying to fold a fitted sheet—a task that, much like parenting the Antichrist, is a futile exercise in managing chaos. By the time Adam Scott’s Gary was staring down his new stepson, Lucas (Owen Atlas), I had given up on the sheet and committed fully to the couch. Released in 2017, this was during that peak "Netflix Original" experimental phase when the platform was throwing money at mid-budget genre hybrids that traditional studios had stopped making. It’s a comedy that treats demonic possession with the same weary, bureaucratic exhaustion most people reserve for a trip to the DMV.

The Omen of Domesticity

The premise is a direct, loving wink at The Omen (1976), but filtered through the lens of a modern blended family. Gary has just married Samantha (Evangeline Lilly, fresh off her Ant-Man duties), who is so blinded by motherly love that she treats her son’s ability to summon lightning as a "creative phase." Adam Scott is the perfect avatar for the audience here. He carries that same high-strung, "I’m trying to be a good guy but I’m losing my mind" energy he perfected in Parks and Recreation. Watching him try to bond with a kid who speaks in a deep, guttural Latin rasp is genuinely funny because Gary is so desperate for Samantha’s approval that he’s willing to overlook the literal portal to Hell opening in the backyard.

What makes this work in a contemporary context is how it engages with the "Stepdad Struggle." In an era where family structures are increasingly non-traditional, the film uses horror tropes to exaggerate the feeling of being an outsider in your own home. Gary isn’t just fighting a demon; he’s fighting the "you’re not my real dad" trope, only the stakes involve a goat-headed puppet and the end of days. The film treats child possession with the same casual annoyance most people reserve for a leaky faucet, and that’s where the best laughs live.

Support Groups and Goat Puppets

The secret weapon of Little Evil isn't actually the kid; it’s the supporting cast. Gary’s group of stepdad friends—a support group that meets in a fluorescent-lit basement—is a comedy goldmine. Bridget Everett steals every single frame she’s in as Al, a butch, unapologetic force of nature who treats Gary’s supernatural problems with blue-collar pragmatism. Along with Donald Faison (who will always be Turk from Scrubs to me) and Chris D'Elia, they provide a hilarious counterpoint to the occult happenings.

There’s a scene involving a backyard birthday party that feels like a classic Spielberg set-piece gone horribly wrong. Director Eli Craig, who previously gave us the fantastic Tucker & Dale vs. Evil, knows how to play with horror geography. He uses wide shots to emphasize Gary’s isolation and tight, claustrophobic close-ups when the "evil" starts to manifest. It’s not "elevated horror"—a term I’ve grown to loathe in recent years—but it is smart horror. It understands that Evangeline Lilly’s character is so aggressively oblivious she’s practically a structural hazard, and it leans into the absurdity of her maternal denial.

A Streaming Era Relic

Watching this now, it feels like a postcard from a specific moment in the streaming wars. In 2017, Netflix was the "Wild West" where a director like Eli Craig could get a decent budget for a niche horror-comedy that wasn't tied to a massive franchise. It doesn't have the "Theatrical or Bust" pressure of a big studio release, which allows it to be weirder and less polished. The score by Marco Beltrami—a guy who usually does serious, bone-chilling work like A Quiet Place or Scream—adds a layer of legitimacy that the movie constantly undercuts with jokes about Career Day.

The CGI is... well, it's 2017 streaming CGI. It’s functional but occasionally looks like it was rendered on a laptop during a lunch break. However, the practical effects, particularly a certain goat-headed entity, have a tactile, B-movie charm that keeps the film grounded. The goat-puppet climax is exactly the level of stupid I need on a Tuesday night, reminding me that movies don't always need to be "important" to be effective.

Little Evil doesn't quite reach the heights of Tucker & Dale vs. Evil, mostly because the emotional pivot toward the end feels a bit more "Hallmark" than "Horror." It trades some of its sharpest satirical teeth for a warm fuzzy feeling about fatherhood that doesn't entirely mesh with the previous 70 minutes of demonic threats. That said, as a breezy 94-minute distraction that manages to spoof Poltergeist and The Shining while making you feel for a guy who just wants to go to a water park without causing the apocalypse, it’s a winner. It’s a solid "hidden gem" for anyone who finds the horror of parenting to be a little too real.