Originally reviewed following its SXSW premiere in April 2025.

In the long lineage of horror films that wield slasher tropes like a blood-drenched badge of honor, Clown in a Cornfield doesn't just join the pack—it charges to the front, pitchfork in hand. Based on the cult-favorite novel by Adam Cesare, this deliriously entertaining adaptation plays like a lost relic of '80s genre mayhem that's been juiced with a 21st-century panic attack. It's frenetic, funny, and gleefully unhinged, never content to simply pay homage to its predecessors when it can eviscerate them instead.

On its face, the premise is familiar: a teen girl moves to a suspiciously wholesome small town and finds herself entangled in local drama that quickly turns lethal. But director Eli Craig—whose genre-savvy fingerprints are all over the beloved Tucker and Dale vs. Evil—understands that repetition without rhythm is just noise. Here, he choreographs chaos with flair, zipping through setups and slaughters but knowing precisely when to pull the rug. When you think you've mapped the terrain, the film takes a hard left. Then another. Then, it throws the map into the fire.

Our protagonist, Quinn Maybrook, played with no-nonsense vulnerability by Katie Douglas, arrives in Kettle Springs with wounds both seen and unseen. She's the "new girl" in the traditional horror schema, but Douglas sidesteps that archetype with a grounded and reactive performance. The strained but caring relationship with her father (Aaron Abrams) and the quick, charged rapport she develops with local ruffian, Cole Hill (Carson MacCormac) give Douglas something to play off beyond just slasher survival mode—relationships that add texture and weight to her performance, even as the world around her descends into carnivalized chaos.

The film also benefits from Craig's ability to lace every ounce of dread with a punchline. One standout gag involving Quinn trying to place a phone call under duress earned genuine belly laughs at the SXSW screening—only slightly marred by the fact that the moment was prematurely gifted away in the trailer. File that under the ever-growing reasons, modern trailers should be outlawed.

That gag's not the only thing that earned a response. A romantic revelation late in the game prompted audible cheers and spontaneous applause, the kind of communal burst that horror screenings live for. The twist works not because it's shocking, but because the groundwork is subtly, playfully laid. It's emblematic of the film's larger MO: play with convention, then twist the knife.

Though it gestures toward a critique of generational strife—town elders blaming youth for their own failures and indulgently lashing out—the film is less interested in social commentary than in letting that tension explode in a shower of corn husks and clown blood. It's not exactly deep, but it's smart enough to know that its real power is in the delivery system: the carnival ride, not the pamphlet.

Frendo will undoubtedly draw comparisons to the likes of Pennywise and Art the Clown—an understandable impulse given their icon status, but one that may ultimately do this film a disservice. Unlike his more famous clown counterparts, Frendo lacks a supernatural aura. He's not an ageless demon or a silent sadist from the avant-garde hellscape; he's a boots-on-the-ground mascot of small-town grievance, masked up and armed for a sort of vigilante '“justice.” That groundedness makes for a less terrifying experience—something that might disappoint viewers expecting their clown horror to include boundary-pushing gore and nightmare fuel scares. But the film's tone works perfectly in context, calibrated to its YA source material. That's not to say Craig skimps on the bloodletting—far from it. The kills are punchy, well-staged, and often surprisingly gnarly, with a satisfying emphasis on practical effects that gives the violence a crunchy, tactile thrill.

The supporting cast also goes above and beyond what the genre demands. What initially seems like a standard lineup of disposable teen clichés gradually reveals a sharper, more thoughtful approach. These aren’t just archetypes—they’re people, with agency and contradictions and emotional hooks. They're not just clown fodder...until they become clown fodder. The writing lets them breathe before it lets them bleed. Special mention must go to Carson MacCormac as Cole Hill, the town’s would-be rebel heartthrob.

Kevin Durand, in a disappointingly brief role, brings exactly the sort of gravitas you want in a horror-adjacent authority figure—hulking, charismatic, slightly unhinged. It’s a shame he’s not onscreen longer, as there’s a real sense he could’ve injected even more offbeat menace or gravely comic relief had he been truly let loose.

Craig and company also deserve praise for resisting the urge to bog things down with mythology. There’s (almost) no clunky exposition dumps, no overdetermined backstory. (I do mean almost.) But it's mostly a lean, mean narrative that knows exactly when to pause for a punchline and when to break out the garden tools. It barrels forward, sure of itself in a way that few slashers this self-aware manage to be.

Clown in a Cornfield doesn’t pretend to reinvent the genre, nor does it wallow in nostalgia. Instead, it weaponizes familiarity, using the known as bait before snapping the trap shut with a painted-on grin. It’s that rare modern horror film that respects the intelligence of its audience without pandering, trusting that we know the rules—and that we’ll enjoy watching them get shredded. It’s gruesome, it’s hilarious, and it’s pretty damn fun.