I used to work in a music store. One day, a guy came in and bought a guitar. I asked for his email so I could send him a receipt. He looked down, suddenly went sotto voce, and gave me his email address, which was his name and, I’m assuming, the year he was born. He had the same name as one of the most famous and successful authors in the world. Maybe he was in a band, maybe he had a hobby, but either way, I’m sure he wasn’t a writer—or, at the very least, happy not to be a writer.
So what it’s been like for writer/director John Patton Ford? Born in 1981, he’s made two features—2022’s Emily the Criminal and last month’s How to Make a Killing—and presumably has to deal with John Ford jokes every day of his goddamn life. Maybe I’m wrong, but it could be worse (ask Paul W. S. Anderson). Ultimately, the only thing that matters to a director is whether or not they can keep making movies. No other medium’s commercial potential is tied so tightly to its practitioners being able to work, and it’s not uncommon for feature directors to go years without doing any directing. Besides, John Ford may be a legend of world cinema, but it’s still a plain, common name. At least his name isn’t John Patton Hitchcock.
In Ford’s latest, Glen Powell stars as Becket Redfellow, one of many heirs to a family fortune he was excluded from as a child. His mother was a teenager when she got pregnant, and when she didn’t get an abortion, was disowned and disinherited (somehow, he wasn’t). All grown up, the black sheep Redfellow murders all the other heirs in his way: poison drops, poison toothpaste, ropes, pulleys, speedboats. The FBI starts following him after the second Redfellow dies, but they never catch up with Powell. After taking care of Bill Camp and Ed Harris’ Redfellows, Powell’s Redfellow is convicted of a murder he didn’t commit. On top of all that, he’s got a Good Girlfriend (Jessica Henwick, who he never planned on falling for), and a Bad Girlfriend (Margaret Qualley, who he never should’ve slept with).
You know who’d love this movie? Luigi Mangione. At least he could relate.
How to Make a Killing looks gorgeous, the rare wide release film with adequate lighting. Todd Banhazl shot digitally with an Alexa 35, proving that 35mm isn’t always necessary if you want to meet the baseline standards of 2001 or 2006. Like last year’s Roofman, Ford’s film is the kind of movie that was a dime a dozen in the 2000s, and a healthier film industry would be churning out dozens of movies on the level of How to Make a Killing every year. That doesn’t mean it’s great, or even particularly good, but is it MUCH worse than 2003’s Matchstick Men? Probably not. Thin gruel, but we still need more of it.
I’ve tried to like Glen Powell. I never had to tolerate him, and never hated him like Timothée Dead Eyes Chalamet, but he’s starting to wear thin, and I’m not the only one getting tired of him. Powell’s been positioned as “the next movie star” ever since Tom Cruise blessed him promoting Top Gun: Maverick in 2022, but he’s failed to become a household name or a dependable box office draw like, say… Timothée Chalamet. Powell’s eager-beaver affect got on my nerves for the first time in this movie, but that’s probably because he was just phoning it in more than usual. Look at Qualley—she can’t hide her disdain or her disinterest on or off screen, and she’s checked out from the word go. At the same time, good-looking and engaging movie stars don’t need Chekhov to make a movie work.
Unfortunately, How to Make a Killing arrives several years past the “eat the rich” trend typified by The Menu, Succession, and Triangle of Sadness. The fake-out “happy” ending isn’t fun or subversive, just false and predictable, a particularly nasty cynicism that’s seeped into 2020s American pop culture. As a product of its time, How to Make a Killing is instructive and not much else; it’s a movie you can sit and watch, but that’s as much praise as I’m willing to give it, and that’s better than most in movies in theaters right now can manage.
—Follow Nicky Otis Smith on Twitter: @NickyOtisSmith