Chilled to Imperfection: Three decades on, Ice Cream Man remains a sticky splatter of missed opportunities and cult oddities.
By 1995, horror had begun to lean into its self-awareness, but Ice Cream Man, directed by Norman Apstein, wasn’t quite in on the joke—or if it was, it delivered its punchlines with a busted scooper.
Set in a seemingly idyllic suburb where childhood innocence melts into madness, the film stars Clint Howard as Gregory Tudor, a traumatised boy turned deranged adult who inherits an ice cream truck… and uses it to serve up frozen desserts laced with severed fingers, eyeballs, and worse. It’s a premise ripe for absurd horror-comedy gold—but what we get is a lumpy mess of gore, uneven pacing, and tonal whiplash.
There’s a certain offbeat charm to Ice Cream Man, thanks largely to Clint Howard’s twitchy, off-kilter performance. He leans into Gregory’s tragic backstory with a kind of unhinged commitment that almost makes you feel for him—almost. But even Howard’s peculiar screen presence can’t save a film that struggles to balance grotesque horror and campy fun. It often veers too far in either direction and ends up stranded in a sticky, blood-stained middle ground.
The film’s greatest crime isn’t the body parts buried in sundaes—it’s the wasted potential. There’s an entire subplot involving a gang of precocious kids playing junior detectives, seemingly lifted from a Spielbergian playbook, but with none of the polish. Their interactions often feel like a rough draft of The Monster Squad, minus the cohesion or chemistry. And while the kills are creatively grotesque, the direction and editing drain them of impact.
Still, Ice Cream Man has nestled itself in cult corners for its sheer oddity. It’s one of those late-night cable curiosities—the kind of movie you stumble upon half-awake, unsure if it was real or a fever dream. There’s a cheap, backyard-horror spirit to it that some might affectionately admire, especially with its practical effects and lo-fi aesthetic. But admiration doesn’t equal success.
The Prognosis:
Three decades later, Ice Cream Man remains a curious artifact of mid-90s direct-to-video horror—part slasher, part black comedy, part botched parody. It never manages to be scary, funny, or compelling, but there’s something to be said for its persistence. Like freezer-burnt leftovers, it’s still there… but only the brave or nostalgic should dare a second bite.
- 30th Anniversary Retrospective by Saul Muerte
