Movie Review: Brie Larson’s "Unicorn Store" Brings Colour to the Drudgery of Adulting

Unicorns and glitter and crushing millennial malaise, oh my!

I know we’re not supposed to like quirky comedies about developmentally-arrested adults acting like children anymore. I know they went out of fashion with the Garden State soundtrack and jorts.

And I know you don’t need reminding or chastising, because these movies are often obviously, abominably bad from the outset. You can hear them coming a mile away, thanks to the impending war drum of The Lumineers' "Ho Hey", usually wedged in the trailer, allowing us to safely steer clear.

But, well, did’ya know Brie Larson went and made one of these things? And, honestly, whether it’s an intergalactic genocide or a film in which adults rediscover the magic of childhood, we really shouldn’t ever close the book on anything until Brie Larson has chimed in with her take.

Her feature directorial debut Unicorn Store manages to overcome (some of) the genre’s worst clichés with its full-throated sincerity and spiky sense of humour, depicting a magical store that sells the one thing you need. In her character's case, it's a unicorn. In my case, it was a store comprised of lovable character actors in bespoke pink suits.

Larson’s first, smartest decision as director was to cast herself as the lead. As we lamented in our review of Captain Marvel, she didn’t get to demonstrate the heights of her dramatic or comedic talents in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. She has the opportunity here, as Kit, an art school drop-out who has to move back home with her parents (Bradley Whitford, Joan Cusack). Determined to prove she’s not a failure, she leaves behind childish things—including her predilection for rainbow-inspired crafts and glitter-infused attire—and takes a temp job where she’s promptly harassed by her skeezy boss (Hamish Linklater). She chalks it up as yet another part of professional life that she—like most women—just has to get used to. Adulting!

Before Kit can get used to the taste of coffee or stock up on graph paper (for ill-defined professional purposes), she receives an ornate invite to "The Store", where a mysterious proprietor (Samuel L. Jackson) informs her she’s getting a unicorn. Kit, swept up by a childhood dream come true, proceeds to prepare her parents’ house for the horned horse’s arrival. That means hiring handyman Virgil (Mamoudou Athie) to make her a stable. And, umm, buying—and dying—some hay.

Is the unicorn real? Has Kit lost it? Why does Samuel L. Jackson’s wig look like that? These are the questions that drive Samantha McIntyre’s screenplay, and are satisfyingly teased out by Larson. She’s aided by a stellar cast, with reliable screen parents Whitford and Cusack bringing a lot of warmth, and Athie being an endearing foil for Kit. They and Larson help keep Unicorn Store from spinning out of the realm of reality, even as Jackson’s impossible, fairy-floss hairdo keeps getting caught on the fishing wire suspending your disbelief.

Don’t discount it because it traffics in 'girly' imagery (and I hate to use the term). Being colourful, or playful, or fantastical does not render something immediately frivolous. Hollywood has successfully commodified stereotypical 'boy' stuff like superheroes and gritty comic books, and because they are now depicted in cinema with grave seriousness, they’re considered legitimate for adults. Fact is, they’re often tapping into the same easy childhood nostalgia that Kit craves here. And often, those flicks don’t interrogate that nostalgia. Unicorn Store does. Well, it does enough. More importantly, its lead character does not appreciate or accept infantalisation, and the filmmaker behind the character doesn’t either, with her sure-handed craft.

Ultimately, this is a lovely picture for younger viewers that will likely have resonance for older viewers too (especially parents, prospective or regular). Like Brigsby Bear before it, Unicorn Store skewers when necessary, without judging those who prefer to keep things sweet.

3.5/5

Unicorn Store is now on Netflix. Rated PG for mild themes, mild coarse language.