Death of a Unicorn (2025)

There’s something quietly devastating about Death of a Unicorn. Yes, it’s quirky and darkly funny, and yes, the premise sounds like something out of a surreal bedtime story—but beneath the absurdity is a film that takes its emotions seriously. It’s not just about a unicorn getting hit by a car. It’s about the things we try to fix, the people we hurt along the way, and the cost of trying to own something that was never meant to be ours.

Elliot (Paul Rudd) is a father trying to repair something broken with his daughter Ridley (Jenna Ortega). Their weekend trip is meant to be a reset. But before they even reach their destination, they accidentally kill a unicorn. Not a metaphorical one. An actual, white-horned, mythic animal lying bloodied on the road. And from that moment, the tone begins to shift. They take the unicorn with them to a secluded retreat hosted by Elliot’s boss, Odell Leopold, a tech billionaire with more charm than scruples. Odell sees the unicorn not as something miraculous but as a goldmine.

It’s a wild premise, and it’s handled with more care than you might expect. Director Alex Scharfman manages to walk the line between satire and sincerity. He never treats the unicorn as a joke—it matters, and the way people respond to it says a lot about who they are. Some want to protect it. Some want to study it. Some want to sell it. And quietly, in the background, is a daughter watching the adults fail to be better.

What surprised me most is how emotionally grounded it feels. Rudd gives a performance that’s gentle and understated. He’s not trying to be funny—he’s just trying to hold things together. His Elliot isn’t a hero. He’s unsure of himself, awkward, a little too willing to follow orders—but he’s also trying. Trying to reconnect with his daughter, trying to do something right for once. That effort, even when it’s clumsy, makes him compelling.

Jenna Ortega, on the other hand, is the emotional anchor of the film. Her Ridley is sharp, guarded, and observant. She sees the world clearly—its beauty, its hypocrisy—and doesn’t pretend otherwise. Ortega never plays her as a caricature. Ridley’s pain is real, and her resilience never feels forced. She’s the one who seems to understand what the unicorn actually means, even when no one else does.

Richard E. Grant is magnetic as Odell. He’s theatrical without being cartoonish, and his version of wealth and power is deeply unsettling because it feels so recognisable. He speaks in corporate language and fake warmth, masking a coldness that reveals itself in chilling ways. There’s a moment late in the film where he describes the unicorn in marketing terms, and it’s one of the most disturbing scenes—not because it’s violent, but because of how normal it sounds coming from his mouth.

Visually, the film is stunning. There’s a soft, dreamlike quality to the way it’s shot. The colours feel intentional—warm and glowing in moments of magic, washed out and cold when things turn grim. The retreat itself is a mix of nature and architecture, glass and stone, beauty and control. It’s both a sanctuary and a trap, and the production design reflects that tension.

The unicorn, crucially, looks real enough to believe in. The effects are subtle and practical, not flashy, which makes its presence feel grounded. It never becomes a gimmick. You believe in it because the film does. And when the story becomes darker, the unicorn’s presence becomes even more tragic—a symbol of something pure that doesn’t belong in this world.

The pacing is thoughtful. Scenes breathe when they need to. Conversations stretch out and hang in the air. There’s silence, hesitation, awkward pauses—and it all feels lived-in. You get the sense that these characters don’t always know what they’re supposed to say, and that feels true to life. The dialogue is careful and specific. It doesn’t sound like movie characters talking. It sounds like people trying—and sometimes failing—to connect.

The score is quiet, atmospheric, and emotionally rich. It doesn’t verwhelm, but it sits just under the surface, adding texture to each scene. The original song by St. Vincent, “DOA,” plays over the closing credits, and it lingers. It doesn’t feel like a wrap-up. It feels like an echo.

There are small things that don’t quite land. A few characters don’t get the development they deserve, and occasionally the film leans a little too hard into its surrealism. But those moments are rare, and they don’t take away from the larger experience.

Death of a Unicorn stays with you—not because of the spectacle, but because of the emotion behind it. It’s about the things we wish we could undo. The people we try to protect. The wonder we try to hold onto. And the quiet sadness of realising that sometimes, we are the ones who ruin what we’re trying to save.

It’s a strange, beautiful, haunting film. And if you let it, it will move you.