The Babysitter Franchise Ranked: Horror Comedy Films Explained

In the shadowy realm of horror comedies, few franchises capture the gleeful mayhem of adolescence clashing with the supernatural quite like The Babysitter series. Directed by the ever-energetic McG, these Netflix originals transform the age-old babysitter trope—once a vessel for suburban dread in films like When a Stranger Calls—into a riotous bloodbath of satanic cults, over-the-top kills, and pitch-perfect one-liners. What elevates this duology above the splatter pack is its unapologetic embrace of excess: think Evil Dead meets Superbad, with a glossy sheen that masks razor-sharp satire on high school hierarchies and parental neglect.

Ranking the Babysitter films demands a criteria blend tailored to their hybrid DNA. We prioritise the alchemy of scares and laughs—does the horror land with visceral impact, or fizzle into farce? Rewatchability factors heavily, as these are comfort-food gore fests designed for late-night binges. Cultural resonance and cult staying power come next, gauging how they’ve influenced the post-Scream wave of self-aware slashers. Innovation in kills and character arcs seals the deal, rewarding fresh spins on familiar tropes. With just two entries to date, the hierarchy crystallises quickly, but each film’s depths reveal why McG’s vision deserves expansion.

From Judah Lewis’s wide-eyed everyman Cole to Samara Weaving’s magnetic Bee, the franchise boasts a cast that sells the absurdity without winking too hard. Production values punch above their streaming budget, courtesy of McG’s music video roots—quick cuts, neon palettes, and a killer soundtrack amplify the chaos. Yet beneath the geysers of blood lies commentary on growing pains: puberty as apocalypse, friendship as cult loyalty. Let’s dive into the rankings, dissecting why one reigns supreme while the other, though fun, plays second fiddle.

  1. The Babysitter (2017)

    The crown jewel of the franchise, McG’s 2017 debut explodes onto screens with the force of a virgin sacrifice gone gloriously wrong. Centring on 12-year-old Cole (Judah Lewis), a bullied misfit whose seemingly perfect babysitter Bee (Samara Weaving) unveils her demonic allegiance during a midnight ritual, the film masterfully juggles innocence and ultraviolence. From the opening credits’ playful nod to 80s slashers to the finale’s symphony of severed limbs, it establishes the series’ blueprint: horror as hyperkinetic playground.

    What sets this entry apart is its impeccable pacing and tonal tightrope. The first act builds genuine unease—Cole’s isolation mirrors classic coming-of-age tales like Stand by Me, but laced with foreboding. Then, the pivot to comedy-horror is seamless; Bee’s cult cohorts, including Robbie Amell’s himbo jock and Hana Mae Lee’s mute assassin, embody exaggerated archetypes ripe for ridicule. Weaving’s Bee is a revelation: blonde bombshell with a switchblade smile, channeling Margot Robbie’s Harley Quinn energy years before Birds of Prey. Her charisma anchors the film’s wild swings, making us root for the killers even as pint after pint of fake blood drenches the frame.[1]

    McG’s direction shines in the practical effects and choreography. Kills innovate within genre confines—the blender massacre and Phoebe’s gravity-defying demise stand as anthology-worthy set pieces. Sound design amplifies the glee: crunches, splats, and a pulsing rock score (courtesy of tracks like “Devil” by Shinedown) turn gore into ballet. Critically, it landed an 81% on Rotten Tomatoes, praised for revitalising the babysitter subgenre amid a sea of reboots.[2] Compared to peers like Happy Death Day, it trades loop cleverness for raw spectacle, influencing Netflix’s gore-com pipeline from Fear Street onward.

    Legacy-wise, The Babysitter birthed memes (Bee’s “Satan makes the best pancakes!”) and fan campaigns for sequels, cementing its top spot. Its cultural bite—satirising purity culture via blood oaths—adds layers absent in pure popcorn flicks. At 85 minutes, it’s a flawless sugar rush, demanding replays to catch every sight gag. If the franchise has a soul, it’s here: pure, unfiltered joy in the macabre.

    “A deliriously fun fusion of scares and silliness that never takes itself seriously.” –IGN[3]

  2. The Babysitter: Killer Queen (2020)

    Three years later, McG doubled down with this sequel, thrusting Cole—now a high schooler still haunted by his past—into a lake house getaway that spirals into fresh cult carnage. Returning faces like Weaving, Lewis, and Amell mingle with newcomers Bella Thorne as a pill-popping rebel and Jenna Ortega in an early breakout role. It’s bigger, bloodier, and more bonkers, yet ranks second for diluting the original’s focus amid escalating absurdity.

    The plot ramps up stakes: memory-erasing drugs and a new satanic faction propel Cole from victim to reluctant hero. Strengths abound in the expanded ensemble—Thorne’s manic energy rivals Weaving’s, while Ortega’s deadpan wit hints at her Wednesday stardom. Kills escalate creatively: a boat propeller evisceration and acid-tub plunges outdo the predecessor in sheer volume, nodding to Final Destination‘s Rube Goldberg lethality. McG amps the visuals with hallucinatory flourishes and a soundtrack blending 80s hair metal with modern trap, maintaining the franchise’s party vibe.

    However, cracks emerge. At 106 minutes, it meanders in the middle, prioritising set pieces over character growth. Cole’s arc feels repetitive—still the awkward outsider—while Bee’s reduced screen time robs the film of its heart. Comedy veers slapstick, occasionally undercutting tension where the original balanced both. Reviews dipped to 69% on Rotten Tomatoes, with critics noting “diminishing returns” despite the fun.[4] It echoes Ready or Not in class-warfare undertones but lacks that film’s taut scripting.

    Production trivia underscores ambition: shot during COVID lockdowns, it leaned on green screens for water stunts, yielding mixed results. Cult impact persists via streaming metrics—over 56 million views in its first month—and Thorne’s unhinged performance spawned TikTok edits. Yet it trails the first for rewatch magic; the novelty wears thin without the debut’s tight alchemy. Still, it proves the franchise’s legs, teasing untapped potential in its gonzo universe.

    Placed here, Killer Queen shines as a worthy companion: rowdier, starrier, but less refined. Fans adore its Easter eggs—like John Carroll Lynch’s boom-mic killer—but it cements the series’ need for evolution.

Conclusion

The Babysitter franchise exemplifies horror comedy’s golden era, where streaming platforms nurture bold, B-movie reveries that theatrical caution stifles. McG’s entries rank high for their infectious energy, proving babysitters can wield hatchets as deftly as lullabies. The original’s precision edges out the sequel’s sprawl, but together they form a bloody diptych celebrating youth’s dark underbelly. With whispers of a third instalment—perhaps delving deeper into Cole’s psyche or Bee’s backstory—the future brims with promise. Amidst franchise fatigue, these films remind us: horror laughs hardest when it bleeds.

Will McG deliver another cult classic, or has the well run dry? Their staying power lies in accessibility—perfect for Halloween marathons or ironic date nights—while subtly critiquing millennial anxieties. Dive in, rank your own, and revel in the splatter.

References

  • Weaving, S. (2017). Interview with Fangoria.
  • Rotten Tomatoes. The Babysitter (2017).
  • Goldman, D. (2017). “The Babysitter Review.” IGN, 6 October.
  • Rotten Tomatoes. The Babysitter: Killer Queen (2020).

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