The Unbreakable Boy

It’s a strange thing to watch a movie that has essentially been a ghost for three years. The Unbreakable Boy was filmed in the strange, hazy corridor of late 2020, originally slated for a 2022 release, and then—poof—it vanished from the schedule. For a while, I wondered if it was destined to be a permanent resident of the "shelf," that mythological place where finished films go to die due to studio mergers or tax write-offs. I watched this while eating a bowl of cereal that had gone slightly soggy because I got distracted by a text about my car’s extended warranty, which is exactly the kind of mundane tragedy Austin LeRette would have found a way to laugh at.

Now that it has finally arrived in 2025, it feels less like a "late" movie and more like a time capsule of a specific brand of earnestness. Directed by Jon Gunn—who has quietly become the go-to architect for films that sit at the intersection of "faith-based" and "humanist drama" (think Ordinary Angels or The Case for Christ)—this isn't your standard, Sunday-school-lesson cinema. It’s a film that asks a genuinely difficult philosophical question: Is joy a response to our circumstances, or is it a radical, stubborn act of defiance against them?

A Body of Glass, a Spirit of Steel

The story centers on Austin LeRette, played with an infectious, twitchy energy by Jacob Laval. Austin is a "double-whammy" kid: he’s on the autism spectrum and lives with osteogenesis imperfecta, a brittle bone disease that means a sneeze or a stumble could result in a trip to the ER. It’s a premise that, in lesser hands, would be a one-way ticket to Hallmark-scented manipulation, but Jon Gunn’s script (based on the book by Scott LeRette) avoids the most saccharine traps.

Instead of focusing solely on the "brokenness" of Austin’s body, the film leans into the "unbreakability" of his perspective. There’s a cerebral layer here about the nature of perception. Austin sees the world through a lens of pure, unfiltered wonder—a "glimmer," as the film calls it. It forced me to reckon with my own cynicism. While I’m complaining about 5G speeds or the price of eggs, Austin is finding cosmic significance in a pizza delivery or a specific song. The film posits that Austin isn't the one who needs fixing; it’s the rest of us, with our calcified hearts and obsession with "normalcy," who are truly disabled.

The Levi Factor and the Geometry of Grace

Zachary Levi (who we all know from the Shazam! films or the cult-classic Chuck) plays Scott LeRette, Austin's father. This is arguably Levi’s most grounded work in years. He captures the exhaustion of a man who is trying to be a hero but frequently finds himself running on an empty tank. Scott isn't a saint; he’s a guy struggling with his own history of substance abuse and a nagging sense of inadequacy. The chemistry between Levi and Meghann Fahy (who was so brilliant in The White Lotus) feels authentic to the weary, tag-team rhythm of parents raising a high-needs child. Fahy brings a quiet, steel-spined grace to Teresa that keeps the film from drifting too far into Scott’s internal monologue.

What I appreciated most about the performances is that Austin is treated as a person with a perspective, not a prop for his parents' growth. So often in these contemporary dramas, characters with disabilities are used as "magical" catalysts to make the protagonist a better person. Here, the film feels more like a dialogue between two different ways of existing. Austin’s "unbreakability" isn't a superpower; it’s a choice to remain open to the world even when the world is physically trying to crush him. It’s a heavy philosophical lift for a family film, but it works because the stakes are so intimate.

Why It Vanished (and Why It’s Back)

There’s a reason this film felt "obscure" before it even came out. In the current streaming-dominant landscape, mid-budget dramas like this often get lost in the shuffle. Lionsgate and Kingdom Story Company seem to have waited for the right cultural temperature to release it. In an era of high-octane franchises and "misery-porn" prestige dramas, a film that is preaching to the choir while actually remembering to write a decent melody is a rare find. It’s a small, quiet movie that arrived with very little fanfare, but its obscurity is more a reflection of the industry’s current volatility than the film’s quality.

The cinematography by Kristopher S. Kimlin gives the film a soft, golden-hour glow that mirrors Austin’s worldview without feeling like a commercial. It captures the suburban landscape of the Midwest with a sense of "ordinary holiness." The score by Pancho Burgos-Goizueta is similarly restrained, opting for melodic warmth over manipulative swells. It’s a film that respects the viewer’s intelligence enough to know that we don't need a violin to tell us when to cry.

Ultimately, The Unbreakable Boy is a film about the courage it takes to be happy. It’s easy to be cynical; it’s hard to be hopeful. While it occasionally stumbles into a few too many "teachable moment" montages, the central performance by Jacob Laval and the weary humanity of Zachary Levi kept me pinned to my seat. It’s a movie that reminds me that while our bodies—and our plans—are fragile, the way we choose to see our neighbor is where the real "unbreakable" stuff lives. If you’re looking for something that offers more than just a distraction, this little-movie-that-could is worth the find.