'How to Make a Killing' review: An inheritance thriller that squanders its fortune

Courtesy of A24

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An engaging premise slowly unravels into sheer absurdity in John Patton Ford’s “How to Make a Killing,” yet another would-be star vehicle for Glen Powell who, after “The Running Man” stuttered both commercially and critically, is still trying to find his footing as he graduates from charming bit player to full-blown studio leading man. Sadly, this isn’t the one. The more you poke holes in its shoddy premise, the more ludicrous it becomes. It’s not that “How to Make a Killing” needs to be 100 percent realistic, but within the rules of the world it creates, you need to believe it could maybe, possibly, conceivably happen. That bar is not cleared.

“How to Make a Killing” is essentially “A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder” for people who hate musicals. All common sense is tossed out the window. FBI investigators overlook glaring motives and surveillance footage while Powell’s Becket methodically murders his way through his own bloodline in pursuit of a $10 billion inheritance. Never mind that the executor of the estate could, I don’t know, simply leave the money to someone else. The film gestures toward eat-the-rich satire without ever actually committing to being satire. It starts with a frothy, mischievous spirit, only to pivot into something self-serious and twist-heavy in its final stretch. An eye-rolling framing device sours the experience further, draining the movie of whatever breezy charm it initially had.

It’s especially disappointing given the talent involved. Powell’s cachet, at least in my eyes, is beginning to dwindle. Margaret Qualley is stranded in a supporting role that wastes most of her strengths. And Ford, whose “Emily the Criminal” showed a sharp eye for character and tension, feels oddly out of sync here, as if he’s trying to inflate pulp into prestige.

The central question hovering over the entire film is simple: can Powell convincingly channel a Patrick Bateman-esque sociopath and sell the idea that he’d bludgeon his entire family tree to death? The answer, unfortunately, is no. The performance never quite locks in. The movie is a tedious parade of buzzwords and winking asides that don’t build toward anything substantial. It has a certain A24-adjacent gloss and some stylish flourishes, but there’s little here that hasn’t already been mined more effectively elsewhere.

Though not officially a remake of the 1949 classic, many of the bones remain the same. Becket’s mother defies her wealthy family by refusing to terminate her pregnancy and is cast out, left to raise him alone. After she dies of cancer, Becket bounces through foster care and eventually lands in a dead-end retail job, clinging to his late mother’s advice to reclaim the life he believes he was denied. His chosen path? Systematically eliminating every relative who stands between him and obscene generational wealth.

The rogues’ gallery includes Topher Grace as a trendy Christian pastor, Zach Woods as a dopey photographer-bro, and Ed Harris as the steely patriarch who, to his credit, chews through every scene he’s in. It’s a bold conceit that grows more irksome the longer it drags on. After the first murder, Becket’s uncle, played by Bill Camp, offers him a lucrative job at his financial firm. After the second murder, the FBI finally starts circling. Most rational people might take the hint and cut their losses. Not Becket. The escalation stops feeling daring and starts feeling dumb.

The biggest issue is that Powell never convinces as a sadistic mastermind. Yes, his victims are largely insufferable, but Powell lacks the icy calculation or manic drive to make Becket feel dangerous. He feels like a guy play-acting at sociopathy. The math never adds up.

The entire story is filtered through a framing device that radiates “you’re probably wondering how I got here” energy, undercutting tension from the outset. You never truly sympathize with Becket because the film never gives you a compelling reason to. And just when it seems like the climax might land somewhere satisfying, the movie zigs into one last absurd twist that plays less like a clever subversion and more like a middle finger to the audience for bothering to engage.

As family members keep dropping dead, you’d expect at least a ripple of suspicion within their orbit. Instead, everyone treats it like a run of unfortunate coincidences. The FBI is bafflingly incompetent. Logic collapses. The longer the film runs, the more time you have to sit there and think about how none of this makes sense. A smarter movie would move quickly enough to prevent that kind of scrutiny. “How to Make a Killing” lingers, daring you to notice its flaws.

And notice them you will.

Grade: C-

HOW TO MAKE A KILLING opens in theaters Friday, February 20th.