The Midnight Horror: 'Bride of Scarecrow' (2019)

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I'm utterly at a loss for words—or perhaps it's just that I’ve been rendered speechless by an absolute abomination. For countless minutes, I've been fixated on the glowing abyss of my laptop screen, mulling over how in the name of all that is cinematic I should kick off tonight's review of Bride of Scarecrow, a 2019 film that I would tentatively label as the worst film in history. Yet, to be truly fair, it shares this dubious honor with two other laughable Scarecrow installments that I have no intention of ever torturing myself with. My purchase—a staggering $1 from Dollar Tree—has officially earned its place as a dollar squandered on nonsensical drivel. And that’s me being as generous as possible toward the filmmakers, who, bless their souls, expended time, effort, and resources on creating what can only be described as abysmal.

As for the plot? Well, let's take a quick stroll through this cursed cornfield. A down-and-out radio host, drowning in mediocrity and bad airtime, suddenly discovers she's inherited a farmhouse from a family she barely knew existed. In what seems like a scene straight out of a bad Rural Horror Starter Pack, she packs her bags and heads to the idyllic countryside. But instead of fresh air and picturesque landscapes, she finds herself immersed in a web of dark secrets, where folks have a peculiar talent for disappearing without a trace. It seems this farm is not merely a structure of bricks and mortar; it's a twisted incubator for something sinister, and that something happens to be the malevolent spirit of a man unjustly transformed into a scarecrow. Every year, for an agonizing stretch of 48 or 72 hours—time is a fuzzy concept when dealing with the malevolent—we're left wondering why this cursed soul is on the prowl for a bride. I can't help but speculate that the script's creator, Shannon Holiday, never got around to addressing such pesky details.

I rather despised every agonizing second of Bride of Scarecrow. The writing is akin to a poorly crafted scarecrow: all straw and no substance. The direction feels as though it was executed with blindfolded flair—imagine a drunken director shouting commands on set. And the cast? A cacophony of unknowns who might want to reconsider their career choices because, quite frankly, acting is clearly not their forte. When the highlight of a film is a cameo by Shawn C. Phillips, you know you’re peering into the gaping maw of mediocrity.

Watching this film felt like being trapped in a bad '90s made-for-TV horror flick, with a script so shoddy it could have been scrawled on the back of a Taco Bell napkin during a particularly uninspired run. I held out some faint hope for decent kills, perhaps a sprinkle of unnecessary nudity, or even meaningless sex scenes to salvage a shred of entertainment value—but to my utter disappointment, none of that materialized. What remains is an offering fit only for late-night cable trash, the kind of cinematic refuse that even a starving raccoon would likely sniff at, wrinkle its nose, and scurry away from.

So, my dear readers, steer clear of Bride of Scarecrow. It’s a blight on the genre, a horror show for all the wrong reasons, tempting the viewer with the whisper of dread, only to deliver a flat, disappointing thud. ╌✰✰✰✰✰

〜B.J. Burgess