Ick – Film Review

Joseph Kahn’s Ick is exactly the kind of genre mash-up that lives or dies on its tonal tightrope. A gooey cocktail of sci-fi horror, small-town melodrama, and sharp-witted comedy, the film embraces its B-movie roots while ambitiously tackling themes of family, identity, and redemption amid a neon-soaked alien infestation. With Brandon Routh in charming form and a surprisingly poignant emotional undercurrent, Ick doesn’t always stick the landing—but it sure has fun splattering its way there.

In the film, Hank Wallace (Brandon Routh), a once-celebrated high school football star whose dreams fizzled out, is left to teach science in the same small town he once ruled. Now living in the shadow of his former self and caring for his ailing, cantankerous father (a grizzled Jeff Fahey), Hank’s life is a slow burn of disappointment—until the “Ick” shows up.

An alien lifeform that oozes, mutates, and infects with Lovecraftian flair, the Ick begins to consume Hank’s sleepy hometown. The outbreak starts subtly—an odd rash here, an unexplainable disappearance there—but escalates into a full-blown invasion as citizens begin to contort, mutate, and combust in spectacularly gross practical effects.

The horror is balanced by an unlikely alliance: Hank, his precocious student Grace (Malina Weissman), and his ex-girlfriend Staci (Mena Suvari) must uncover the truth about the Ick, stop its spread, and reckon with their messy pasts—especially once Hank begins to suspect Grace might be his daughter.

What makes Ick work is how confidently it embraces its tone. Joseph Kahn (Detention, Bodied) directs with his usual punk-rock edge, blending garish colors, rapid pacing, and meta-dialogue with horror-comedy beats reminiscent of Slither or Gremlins 2. The Ick creatures themselves are a highlight—wet, squishy, biomechanical nightmares brought to life with a mix of prosthetics and practical gore. The film revels in its grotesque transformations, often eliciting both laughs and gasps.

Yet beneath the slime lies an unexpected emotional core. Hank’s arc—from burnout to reluctant hero—feels earned, thanks in large part to Routh’s warm, slightly world-weary performance. His chemistry with both Suvari and Weissman brings depth to scenes that could easily play as parody. The film touches on legacy, missed opportunities, and how trauma echoes across generations—all while alien goo coats every surface.

Suvari, returning to genre territory she once thrived in (American Beauty, Stuck), gives Staci a convincing blend of sarcasm and sorrow, while Weissman imbues Grace with intelligence and guarded vulnerability. Their three-way dynamic offers some of the film’s strongest scenes, grounding the alien madness in something relatable.

If Ick has a weakness, it’s in trying to do too much. Kahn crams so many influences, tones, and ideas into its 92-minute runtime that not all of them land. One minute it’s a heartfelt domestic drama, the next a gross-out horror-comedy, the next a satire of suburban paranoia. These shifts, while often energetic and engaging, can sometimes feel jarring or underdeveloped.

Subplots involving Dylan (Harrison Cone), and Hank’s father’s add flavor but occasionally bog down the pace. Cone gives a spirited performance, and Jeff Fahey chews the scenery with gusto, but these tangents sometimes detract from the central alien conflict.

The third act, in particular, leans heavily into exposition and big-budget spectacle. While there’s clear ambition—especially in a wild, slime-drenched high school showdown featuring flamethrowers and mutated marching band students—the resolution feels rushed. The Ick’s motivations are left intentionally vague, which works thematically but may frustrate sci-fi purists hoping for a meatier mythos.

Stylistically, Kahn is in top form. The film’s visual palette pops with neon greens and deep blues, giving it a sickly vibrant aesthetic that fits its themes of infection and secrecy. Editing is fast and kinetic without becoming disorienting, and the synth-heavy score by Nathan Barr adds a fun, retro texture.

Kahn also knows how to layer his comedy with commentary. Jokes about small-town politics and conspiracy culture are slyly woven in, making Ick smarter than it first appears. The film doesn’t take itself too seriously—but it also knows when to pull back and let its characters breathe.

One of the film’s most memorable sequences features an infected PTA meeting descending into slime-fueled chaos, complete with suburbanites turned into fleshy monstrosities ranting about fluoride and 5G. It’s absurd, funny, and disturbingly timely.

Ick is messy, heartfelt, and often hilarious—a slimy spectacle that wears its genre influences on its goo-covered sleeve. It may not reach the thematic depth of The Thing or the satirical sharpness of Shaun of the Dead, but it doesn’t need to. What Kahn delivers is something wholly his own: a punk-splatter family reunion with just enough heart to balance the horror.

With standout performances from Routh, Weissman, and Suvari, and a production design that lovingly embraces its low-budget roots, Ick is a fun, gross, and oddly touching reminder that sometimes the monsters we fight are the ones we carry with us—and sometimes, they just want to eat your face.