Death of a Unicorn

If you’ve ever wished Jurassic Park had more glitter, sharper satire, and a Clydesdale-sized unicorn capable of disembowelment, then Alex Scharfman’s gloriously absurd directorial debut, Death of a Unicorn, might just be your new favorite movie. Equal parts creature feature and capitalist takedown, this A24-backed horror comedy doesn’t just play with genre—it unhorns it, guts it, and dances in the sparkly entrails.

Let’s get this out of the way: this film lives and dies by its casting, and casting director Avy Kaufman deserves her own Oscar campaign. In a movie that walks a tightrope between campy bloodshed and biting social commentary, the wrong ensemble could’ve tanked the whole thing. Instead, we get a wickedly in-sync cast that understands the script’s bizarre wavelength. Téa Leoni delivers punchlines like she’s back in her prime. Richard E. Grant chews through the scenery as a billionaire cancer patient with the gusto of a man who’s tasted immortality—and liked it. Anthony Carrigan’s weary butler Griff steals every scene with just a blink and a sigh. And Will Poulter? A revelation. His unicorn-snorting trust fund brat is a creature all his own.

The plot gallops in fast: Elliot Kintner (Paul Rudd, delightfully straight-laced amid the chaos) and his daughter Ridley (a fierce Jenna Ortega) are en route to a remote estate when they hit what appears to be a mythical creature. Not just any beast—a unicorn. Elliot’s first instinct is to bludgeon it to death (purple blood everywhere, thanks), while Ridley makes a more soulful connection. That divergence—pragmatism vs. empathy—sets the tone for the film’s deeper questions.

Of course, this isn’t just roadkill. The unicorn’s blood clears Elliot’s allergies and zaps Ridley’s acne. When the pharmaceutical dynasty they’re visiting catches wind of this miracle goo, things spiral into body horror, genetic commodification, and eventually a unicorn family revenge rampage. Think Saltburn meets Gremlins via a Jurassic Park homage, with a dash of Carpenter’s slasher DNA.

Scharfman’s script is as twisted as it is clever. There are layers here—some shallow, others surprisingly rich. The satire of Big Pharma’s profit-over-ethics ethos lands hard, even if the grief subplot between father and daughter feels undercooked. Yet, when Ridley unearths the truth about unicorns—less Lisa Frank, more apex predator—the film transitions from parody to primal scream. It’s not just about magical beasts; it’s about who controls magic, who exploits it, and who gets trampled in the process.

Yes, the CGI is occasionally spotty—particularly in the first half—but by the time the third act rolls around and the unicorns go full rage mode, complete with gory horn kills and mythologically-inspired set pieces, it hardly matters. The film leans into its monster movie chaos with such conviction that you can forgive the janky visuals. After all, the ‘80s horror inspirations weren’t flawless either, but they had heart—and Unicorn has gallons of the stuff (literal and metaphorical).

Visually, the film benefits from Larry Fong’s sharp cinematography and a score by Dan Romer and Giosuè Greco that nods to genre classics while carving out a darkly whimsical tone all its own. Meanwhile, the production design’s lavish-yet-lurking estate setting adds to the slow-creep dread of privilege gone unchecked.

If there’s a unicorn-shaped hole in modern cinema, Death of a Unicorn doesn’t just fill it—it rams its horn through the wall. Is it perfect? Not quite. Is it unforgettable? Absolutely. It’s a blood-slick, morally twisted fairytale that skewers the ultra-rich, challenges our sanitized perceptions of myth, and does so with wit, nerve, and a hell of a lot of purple goo.

A deranged, delightful satire with teeth—and hooves. Watch it for the cast. Stay for the carnage.