Here’s a bold statement: black comedy, when done right, can be a razor-sharp critique of society, but when it misses the mark, it’s just a dull blade. And that’s exactly where How to Make a Killing finds itself—straddling the line between brilliance and blandness. But here’s where it gets controversial: is it a failed homage to a classic, or a missed opportunity to carve out its own identity? Let’s dive in.
Glen Powell stars as Becket Redfellow, a working-class man with a chip on his shoulder and a hit list in his pocket. Sound familiar? That’s because the film wears its inspiration—the 1949 Ealing black comedy Kind Hearts and Coronets—on its sleeve. In the original, Alec Guinness masterfully portrayed eight relatives marked for death by a would-be heir, showcasing a range that’s hard to match. Powell, no stranger to shape-shifting roles after his turn in Richard Linklater’s Hit Man, steps into this legacy. But while Hit Man struck a delicate balance between humor and tension, How to Make a Killing feels like a flat imitation, lacking both the biting wit and chilling darkness that define its predecessor.
Written and directed by John Patton Ford, the film follows Becket, an outcast from a wealthy family, as he plots to eliminate his relatives to reclaim his inheritance. The setup is intriguing, especially with Ed Harris as the formidable patriarch, Whitelaw Redfellow. And this is the part most people miss: the promise of more Ed Harris is one of the film’s few saving graces. Yet, despite this, Becket’s journey feels curiously unengaging. His descent into serial killing lacks the moral complexity or dark humor needed to make it compelling.
Becket narrates his story from a jail cell, four hours before his execution, with a glibness that feels more forced than authentic. His lack of remorse or anxiety is meant to be charming, but it falls flat. Even his quip about his last-meal cheesecake—“Kill me now”—lands with a thud. If the film had leaned harder into Powell’s signature wit with an edge, it might have found its footing. Instead, Becket remains a protagonist who’s hard to care about.
His motivations are equally undercooked. After losing his job to nepotism, Becket is spurred on by his mother’s advice to seek “the right kind of life” and a flippant comment from his childhood crush (Margaret Qualley), who jokes he should call her after killing three or four people. These encounters offer glimpses into the ultra-rich, with notable performances from Topher Grace, Bill Camp, and Raff Law. But here’s the kicker: while the film features Hollywood’s nepo babies, it never fully commits to the meta commentary it could have explored.
The standout performance comes from Zach Woods as Noah Redfellow, a self-proclaimed “White Basquiat,” whose quirky presence briefly injects life into the film. Jessica Henwick, as Becket’s girlfriend, also shines, her warmth making Becket’s actions even more questionable. Yet, even these moments aren’t enough to salvage the film.
Ford’s previous work, Emily the Criminal, proved he could weave contemporary class themes into a gripping narrative. But How to Make a Killing feels disjointed, failing to connect its themes of wealth, inheritance, and morality in a meaningful way. And this is where it gets even more controversial: in a year that’s already given us Park Chan-wook’s No Other Choice, a sharp satire about killing for survival, How to Make a Killing feels like a pale comparison.
So, where does that leave us? How to Make a Killing is a film with potential that never quite materializes. It’s neither dark enough to be chilling nor funny enough to be farcical. Here’s the question I’ll leave you with: Can a black comedy survive without a clear tone, or is it doomed to fall flat? Let me know what you think in the comments—agree or disagree, I want to hear your take.
