How to Make a Killing (2026) is a film that looks good on paper. It’s a re-imagining of the 1949 British black comedy Kind Hearts and Coronets, which was loosely based on the 1907 novel by Roy Horniman, and with current flavour and possible Hollywood plant/AI-generated power player Glen Powell at the centre, we have what looks like a licence to print money. Personally, I can’t quite put my finger on Powell. He’s a capable enough actor and he looks like a leading man, though I feel he’s more akin to Ryan Reynolds range-wise, than, say, Ryan Gosling. I can’t quite figure out his “vibe”. He delivers and wisecracks effectively, but I haven’t yet felt like there’s a living breathing man behind the competence. But more on that later. Anyway, it’s a week day, I’m tired, let’s give it a go. So, blue-collar fella Becket Redfellow (Powell) is disowned by his billionaire grandfather at birth, being that he’s born out of wedlock to his defiant 18-year mother. After some time toiling at a Manhattan suit tailor shop, a childhood frenemy walks in embodying the right kind of life. The devil’s power of suggestion does its work and his life mission upswings to eliminate the Redfellow family members inline ahead of him so that he may collect a 28 billion dollar inheritance. What do we have here? Is it the makings of a black comedy replete with witticisms on what one deserves just for being born? No. And the problem is not for lack of trying, but the mismanaged tone. It’s not exactly comedic, nor is it thrilling. It’s hinting at a commentary on the takedown of the 1%, but doesn’t hit the way Ready or Not (2019), The Menu (2022), or even Blink Twice (2024) does. Instead it fumbles any points and potential the same way Hollywood fumbled its remakes of British gems The Ladykillers (2004) and Death at a Funeral (2010). In Kind Hearts and Coronets Alec Guninness played all eight victims of the D’Ascoyne family to comedic effect. Try as they might, Topher Grace and Ed Harris bring their patented and welcome je ne sais quoi as familial targets, but their appearances are brief and even distracting given what little they amount to. Margaret Qualley is also present with a steady take on the femme fatal, but her effort is lost in this muck posing as a well-aimed arrow at the rich and entitled. Still, even with its constant mood swings and a bemusing ending working against it, I can’t help but see Powell as the overarching cause of the film’s tonal misfire. I’m comfortable with deplorable bastards and moral ambiguity, but it’s his flippant portrayal that makes this film neither cool nor sad. My guess is casting agents see Powell as the whole package, with his obvious talents and grace. And in theory they’re right, but his balance of funny and brooding is off here (and elsewhere, see our review of The Running Man (2025) remake), feeling almost manufactured. It’s as if there is no him, no personality beyond his swings between charm and smarm to ground the film. This is harsh I know, and I’m sure Powell works hard and he has made me laugh in previous roles, but I can’t help but sense that I’m being sold a program that’s too pleasing to be true.

WATCH OR NOT: NOT