Ice Cream Man (2026) | Film Review

Eli Roth clearly looked at the success of Thanksgiving, and immediately asked himself one question: “How much more fake blood can I fit into a single movie?” The answer is Ice Cream Man, an often gloriously unhinged horror bloodbath that feels like Weapons and Terrifier had a very sadistic baby. It is a film so laser-focused on delivering outrageous kills that everything else – including story, character development, and occasionally common sense – takes a back seat.

Ice Cream Man (no relation to the 1995 Clint Howard cinematic gem) follows a mysterious sweet treats vendor who begins terrorizing a small town, leaving behind a trail of increasingly horrific murders. As parents are dispatched by their maniacal children who are all under the influence of delicious flavor, panic spreads and a group of locals attempt to uncover who is behind the carnage before they become the next victims. That’s really all you need to know because Ice Cream Man is not interested in its story nearly as much as it is finding new and inventive ways to turn human beings into special effects showcases.

Let’s get the obvious criticism out of the way: the acting is pedestrian. Not terrible, not embarrassing, just serviceable. I will not single out the actors here as the characters exist primarily to move from one kill sequence to the next, and very few leave much of an impression. But criticizing the performances feels a little like criticizing Friday the 13th because Jason lacked emotional depth. Nobody is showing up to watch an Oscar-winning performance.

They’re showing up for the kills, and those are absolutely insane.

Director Eli Roth essentially takes what worked on Thanksgiving, casts out the thriller aspects, and throws it against the wall, creating one elaborate practical-effects amputation after another. Every sequence seems designed to top the one before it, with enough blood, severed limbs, and shattered bones to make even seasoned horror fans raise an eyebrow on occasion. The practical effects work is genuinely impressive, delivering the kind of gore that has become increasingly rare in an era dominated by CGI and a severe lack of imagination.

The closest comparison I can draw from is the second half of From Dusk Till Dawn, when that film completely abandoned restraint and embraced a band playing guitar on mutilated corpses. Ice Cream Man lives in that space for nearly its entire runtime, forgoing the fantastic writing of the first half of that film. This is practical-effects gore heaven, packed with moments that are disgusting, hilarious, and strangely impressive all at once.

Thankfully, Roth understands that this level of excess only works if audiences are having fun. The humor is abundant throughout and lands far more often than it misses (one moment of mocking horror movies and their incessant exposition lands particularly well). The movie never takes itself too seriously, which is exactly the right approach. When bodies are being transformed into abstract art projects every five minutes, a little self-awareness goes a long way.

Horror fans will also appreciate the numerous nods to genre classics. There are clear influences from A Nightmare on Elm Street, Friday the 13th, and countless other slashers. Some references are subtle, others practically come with flashing arrows pointing toward them, but most feel like affectionate tributes rather than lazy imitation.

Unfortunately, once you wipe away the gallons of blood, there isn’t much story underneath. The mystery is simple, the characters are thinly drawn, and the mythology never develops into anything particularly compelling. At times the film feels almost pedantic in its simplicity, checking narrative boxes just long enough to get everyone into position for the next outrageous kill.

But here’s the thing: I don’t think Eli Roth cares. And honestly, neither will most horror fans.

Ice Cream Man feels like a filmmaker fully committed to one objective: create the most insane kills this side of grindhouse cinema and let everything else sort itself out. Story is secondary. Character development is optional. Logic is on a sabbatical.

Yet somehow, the movie mostly works.

This is not elevated nor prestige horror. It is not trying to explore grief, trauma, or the human condition. It is a blood-soaked carnival ride built entirely around practical gore, dark humor, and audience reactions. Some viewers will dismiss it as all style and no substance, and they won’t be entirely wrong. But for die-hard horror fans? They’re going to want a double scoop.