Alright, let’s cut through the bullshit: Alex Scharfman’s Death of a Unicorn is like a drunk toddler swinging a sledgehammer at a piñata full of glitter, gore, and half-baked ideas. The guy’s a debut director, previously slumming it as a producer and writer on indie snoozefests, and here he dives headfirst into genre cinema with the subtlety of a flaming dumpster rolling down a hill. Does he stick the landing? Not quite. But does he splatter enough blood, guts, and unhinged energy to make it worth the ride? Fuck yeah. This flick’s a hot mess, but it’s a fascinating hot mess, like watching a unicorn puke rainbows while impaling a billionaire. You’re horrified, you’re laughing, you’re confused, but you can’t look away.

Picture this: Paul Rudd, playing a spineless lawyer named Elliot Kintner who’s about as decisive as a soggy napkin, is driving through the Canadian Rockies with his activist daughter Ridley (Jenna Ortega, serving sardonic goth queen vibes like it’s her day job). They’re headed to some bougie home of a corporate family packed with the kind of rich assholes who’d sell their kids for a tax break. Then, BAM! Their rental car smacks into a goddamn unicorn. Not some cutesy My Little Pony reject, but a gnarly, blood-drenched cryptid that looks like it crawled out of a medieval nightmare and decided to haunt a Hot Topic.

They chuck the poor bastard in the trunk and roll up to the estate of pharma overlord Odell Leopold (Richard E. Grant, sneering so hard he probably pulled a muscle), his creepy Stepford-wife Belinda (Téa Leoni, channeling “I’m two martinis away from a breakdown”), and their roided-out failson Shepard (Will Poulter, who’s so good he deserves his own movie). Turns out, unicorn blood is the ultimate snake oil: it cures cancer, clears your pores, and makes your mojitos taste like heaven. Naturally, the pharma vultures lose their goddamn minds, snorting, drinking, and bathing in the stuff like it’s the last day of a Wall Street bender. But surprise! The unicorn’s family ain’t happy, and soon, the retreat turns into a blood-soaked shitshow as mythical beasts start skewering the one-percenters.

This movie’s satire is about as subtle as a jackhammer at a yoga retreat. It’s screaming “EAT THE RICH” so loud you can hear it from space, with unicorn guts as the garnish. The Leopolds are cartoonish corporate ghouls, the kind of people who’d slap a “philanthropy” label on a puppy-kicking contest and call it a day. Richard E. Grant is having the time of his life, especially in a scene where he chows down on unicorn steak like he’s auditioning for Hannibal. It’s grotesque, it’s hilarious, and it’s peak “fuck the man” energy.

But Scharfman’s got more up his sleeve than just class warfare. There’s a quieter thread about grief that tries to sneak in like a vegan at a butcher shop. Ridley, who lost her mom before the movie starts, forms this weird, metaphysical bond with the unicorn and its pissed-off parents. It’s supposed to hit you in the feels, but it lands like a wet fart—earnest but awkward, like the script was forced to include a “touching moment” to balance out the carnage. Still, the idea that magical creatures vibe with human loss adds a speck of depth to the bloodbath.

Scharfman also plays with some artsy-fartsy symbolism: the unicorn as a pure, sacred force that gets pimped out and exploited by greedy bastards, mirroring how capitalism shits on everything holy. There’s a recurring bit about medieval unicorn tapestries that could’ve been cool if the script didn’t treat it like an afterthought. It’s like Scharfman had a Pinterest board of “deep ideas” but forgot to actually use them.

The screenplay is like a blender full of good ideas, bad execution, and a shot of tequila for courage. One minute, Ridley and Elliot are having a raw, father-daughter heart-to-heart; the next, some billionaire’s snorting unicorn dust off a Fabergé egg while cackling like a Bond villain. Tonal whiplash isn’t always a dealbreaker—hell, it can be a blast—but here, it feels like Scharfman couldn’t decide if he was making a prestige satire, a creature feature, or a Lifetime movie about family healing. Pick a lane, dude.

The dialogue’s got its moments, especially when Poulter’s Shepard is spitting unhinged one-liners, but it’s also got Ridley preaching anti-capitalist TED Talks like she’s been possessed by a Reddit thread. Ortega sells it with her trademark deadpan swagger, but her character’s a one-note moral compass in a movie full of lunatics. Meanwhile, Rudd’s Elliot is so underwritten he might as well be a cardboard cutout with a Post-it note that says “dad.” His arc, something about redemption or whatever, feels like it was scribbled on a napkin during a lunch break.

Visually, this movie’s got some serious high points. Cinematographer Larry Fong uses the northern lights to create a trippy, fairy-tale-gone-wrong aesthetic that’s equal parts gorgeous and unsettling. Scenes drenched in neon-purple unicorn blood are so pretty you almost forget you’re watching a slaughter. There’s a bonkers moment where touching the unicorn’s horn triggers an 80s-style cosmic montage, and it’s the kind of batshit brilliance that makes you wish the whole movie was that bold.

But Scharfman’s direction is shakier than a chihuahua in a thunderstorm. The pacing’s all over the place, with action scenes that feel like they were choreographed by a Roomba. The camera lingers on random shit—like a close-up of a wine glass—while skimming over the actual gore and chaos. For a movie about unicorns shanking rich people, it’s weirdly tame, like it’s afraid to go full Evil Dead. The comedy doesn’t pop either; the jokes are there, but the delivery’s flat.

The unicorns themselves are a mixed bag. Sometimes they’re badass, toothy monsters straight out of a Guillermo del Toro fever dream. Other times, they look like they were rendered on a PlayStation 2. The VFX-puppetry combo is ambitious but inconsistent, and it kills the vibe when you’re supposed to be scared of a creature that looks like it’s lagging in an online game.

Will Poulter is the MVP, and it’s not even close. His Shepard Leopold is a glorious trainwreck—a juiced-up, insecure man-child with a penchant for “unicorn mixology” that’s so weird it’s almost performance art. Every line he delivers is a gift, every facial expression a meme waiting to happen. If the rest of the movie had his energy, we’d be calling this a cult classic.

Richard E. Grant and Téa Leoni are having a blast as the Leopold parents, leaning into their roles like they’re auditioning for a Tim Burton villain squad. Anthony Carrigan pops up as a butler who’s so underused it’s criminal—give that man a spin-off. Jenna Ortega does her thing, serving dry wit and goth-girl energy, but her character’s so static it feels like she’s just collecting a paycheck. Paul Rudd, bless his heart, is stuck in a role so bland it’s like he’s acting through a fog of NyQuil. You can tell he’s trying, but there’s nothing to work with.

Death of a Unicorn could’ve been a wild, horned middle finger to greed, a gory love letter to genre chaos. Instead, it’s a timid chimera that can’t decide what it wants to be. It’s got the balls to show unicorns disemboweling billionaires, but it doesn’t have the guts to lean into its own insanity or the heart to make its emotional beats land. The result is a movie that’s part horror, part satire, part family drama, and 100% disjointed.

Still, there’s fun to be had. Poulter’s unhinged performance, the occasional visual stunner, and the sheer absurdity of the premise make it worth a watch if you’re in the mood for something weird. Just don’t expect it to change your life or, y’know, make total sense.

TL;DR: A24’s Death of a Unicorn is a creature-feature, eat-the-rich satire with sparkle in its eyes and blood on its hooves — but it fumbles the genre juggling act. Will Poulter shines, the unicorns are gnarly, and the class war is loud, but it’s all too disjointed to stick the horned landing.

Recommended for: Folks who’d pay to see Paul Rudd punch a mythical creature.
Not for: Anyone who needs their satire sharp, their horror scary, or their CGI convincing.