Scream, but Make It Soft Serve
There are bad movies. There are so-bad-they’re-good movies. And then there’s The Ice Cream Truck (2017), a horror-comedy that somehow manages to be neither horrifying nor comedic, unless you count the part where you realize you paid money to watch it. Written and directed by Megan Freels Johnston — yes, the granddaughter of Elmore Leonard, a fact she should probably stop mentioning — this suburban fever dream is less Psycho and more Popsicle.
The premise has potential: a lonely woman returns to her hometown, only to find that her new neighborhood hides a killer driving an ice cream truck. It sounds like a perfect recipe for satirical horror — Stepford smiles, twisted nostalgia, and murder by dessert. Instead, what we get feels like a film made entirely out of Pinterest boards and Ambien.
If Blue Velvet and a Hallmark movie had a love child, then immediately abandoned it at a cul-de-sac, it would look a lot like this.
Plot: Brain Freeze in Motion
The story follows Mary (Deanna Russo), a writer who moves back to her old suburban neighborhood while waiting for her family to join her. That’s right — she moves into a fully furnished home alone, spends her days gossiping with moms she hates, and wanders around like a woman auditioning for an antidepressant commercial.
Before long, Mary notices something… off. People are dying. An unsettling ice cream man keeps showing up at odd hours, smiling like he’s just buried someone under his freezer. Naturally, Mary does what any rational adult would do: absolutely nothing. She doesn’t call the cops, doesn’t move away, doesn’t even stop buying the ice cream. She just kind of… stares into the middle distance like she’s trying to remember her Netflix password.
The Ice Cream Man himself (Emil Johnsen) deserves a medal for effort. He’s creepy, yes, but mostly in that “guy who overexplains craft beer” kind of way. He murders people between scoops of vanilla like it’s part of his job description — which, technically, it is. Sadly, his menace melts faster than the plot.
By the time the film hits its “twist” ending (and I use that word as generously as the director used editing), you’ll be begging for brain freeze.
Characterization: A Neighborhood Full of Nobodies
Let’s talk about Mary, our protagonist, who has the emotional range of a freshly painted fence. Deanna Russo does her best, but the script gives her less to work with than a broken ice cream scoop. Mary is meant to be complex — torn between suburban conformity and suppressed desire — but she mostly just looks vaguely annoyed at everything.
She flirts with the teenage boy next door, goes to awkward backyard parties, and delivers dialogue that sounds like it was written by someone who’s only ever heard humans talk through a baby monitor. It’s supposed to be psychological horror; it plays more like Real Housewives of Des Moines.
The supporting cast fares no better. The neighbors are a carousel of clichés: the drunk mom, the judgmental gossip, the predatory teenager. You could swap them out for mannequins and the film wouldn’t change. Everyone’s behavior exists in that uncanny valley between satire and soap opera — you’re not sure whether to laugh, cringe, or go check on your own ice cream supply.
Tone: Where Comedy Goes to Die
The film bills itself as a “horror comedy,” but the only funny thing about it is how little horror or comedy it actually contains. It’s like someone took Desperate Housewives, drained it of energy, and replaced every punchline with an awkward silence.
The humor is too self-conscious to land — winking irony delivered without rhythm. And the horror? Well, that depends on how terrified you are of prolonged small talk. There’s a five-minute scene of Mary chatting about curtains that’s somehow scarier than the murders.
Director Megan Freels Johnston seems unsure whether she’s making satire, surrealism, or just trying to pay homage to her grandfather’s legacy through sheer nepotism. The end result feels like she tried to direct Twin Peaks after reading only the Wikipedia summary.
Pacing: One Long, Slow Melt
At a lean 96 minutes, The Ice Cream Truck somehow feels like it lasts longer than the Cold War. The first half moves at the pace of drying paint, while the second half moves like that same paint, but now flaking off in despair. Every scene feels ten seconds too long, every transition thirty seconds too late.
The film’s sense of rhythm is so off that even the murders — which should be the exciting bits — arrive with the enthusiasm of a PTA meeting. The kills are bloodless and tame, as if the movie’s afraid to mess up its pastel color palette. If you came for gore, you’ll leave craving a Goosebumps episode.
Even the soundtrack can’t decide what it’s doing. At times it sounds like a Lifetime movie, then abruptly shifts into synth horror like it’s auditioning for Drive 2: The Cul-de-Sac Chronicles.
The Ice Cream Man: Mr. Softee’s Evil Twin
Let’s spare a moment for our titular villain — the Ice Cream Man. Emil Johnsen gives it his all, to his credit. He’s got the smirk, the creepy calm, the uncanny politeness. But the character is so underwritten he might as well be lactose intolerant. He kills a few people off-screen, smiles ominously, and occasionally quotes philosophy like a serial killer who’s been to therapy.
You keep expecting him to reveal some grand motivation — childhood trauma, supernatural curse, secret identity — but nope. He’s just… weird. And not even interestingly weird, just “probably not invited to neighborhood barbecues” weird.
In a better film, he could’ve been iconic — an avatar of suburban rot and hidden menace. Here, he’s just that guy you hope doesn’t make eye contact at the ice cream truck window.
Visuals: Instagram Horror
Visually, the film is pretty — in the way a realtor’s photo of a house looks before you realize it’s next to a sewage plant. The cinematography bathes everything in soft light and pastel tones, creating a Stepford dreamscape that should feel unsettling but mostly feels like an HGTV pilot.
Johnston clearly knows how to frame a shot, but not how to fill it with life. The film’s atmosphere is all aesthetic, no tension. Every scene looks like it belongs on an Instagram account called “Murder but Make It Minimalist.”
Even the ice cream truck itself, that supposedly ominous symbol of childhood gone sour, looks like it just came from a nostalgia convention. You half-expect it to sell overpriced vegan popsicles rather than death.
Ending: A Scoop of Nonsense
Without spoiling too much (though honestly, there’s nothing to spoil), the finale attempts to blur the line between reality and fantasy. Is Mary imagining everything? Was the Ice Cream Man real? Does this movie even know? By the end, it’s clear that The Ice Cream Truck isn’t trying to answer questions — it’s trying to end before you turn it off.
The supposed “twist” is meant to leave you chilled; instead, it leaves you shrugging. If confusion were a flavor, this movie would be a melted Neapolitan of missed opportunities.
Final Thoughts: A Sundae of Disappointment
The Ice Cream Truck had all the ingredients for a killer horror-comedy sundae: suburban satire, a surreal villain, and a writer-director with pedigree. But instead of a decadent dessert, we get a bowl of freezer-burned nonsense. It’s slow without being suspenseful, weird without being clever, and bloody without being bold.
It wants to be Get Out but ends up as Get It Over With.
So if you’re in the mood for horror that chills your spine, maybe look elsewhere. But if you enjoy watching a talented cast trapped in a movie that feels like it was edited during a nap, then congratulations — this one’s for you.
Final Rating: ★☆☆☆☆
(One out of five scoops — melts under scrutiny, leaves a bad aftertaste, and makes you question your life choices.)
