Glen Powell’s dark comedy about murder lacks humor.

Movie review

HOW TO MAKE A KILLING

Running time: 105 minutes. Rated R for colorful language and some enthusiastically bloody scenes. In theaters Feb. 20.

There are a staggering eight deaths in “How to Make a Killing.”

Seven are victims, and the last—we’ll just say—poorly-adapted source material takes a messy dive. It’s a sanguine spectacle.

Writer-director John Patton Ford takes it upon himself to “modernize” “Kind Hearts and Coronets,” that cheeky classic starring Alec Guinness, all for the sake of shoving it into a 2026 New York City backdrop. Leaving behind all wit and charm, we find Mr. Everywhere, Glen Powell, starring as Becket Redfellow, who hatches a ludicrously ambitious plot to murder his wealthy relatives and snag their riches.

Now, let’s not throw shade at updates. However, transitioning this tale to a bustling metropolis is like asking a fish to ride a bicycle—futile and a bit tragic.

Once upon a time, in Edwardian England, the idea of merrily offing family members felt plausible, wrapped in dark wit and clever class commentary. You could almost believe it might slide under the radar of the law; after all, DNA evidence and surveillance cameras were things of fantasy. But now? With Beckett’s outrageous antics glaring under the New York City skyline? Forget it. His name alone—Becket Redfellow—sounds like something out of a bad sitcom.

Who would have thought that dispatching a family of billionaires—only around 3,000 on the globe—would miraculously evade the sharp gaze of the FBI? Two laid-back agents carrying out their duties with less vigor than a sloth on a lazy day beggars belief and insults the viewer’s intelligence.

Sure, the filmmakers think they’re clever, reminiscent of Al Capone’s tax evasion days, but that was a century ago. This is 2026, where legal prowess is more advanced than ever. The ludicrous notion that our hero remains invisible as he flits about, bumping off relatives in a hustle, stretches credulity to its limits.

Suspending disbelief is easier when a film is truly enjoyable, rendering reality irrelevant. Yet, “How to Make a Killing” barely sparkles during the opening act and sinks into a dull slough with a somber, sluggish pace as the credits draw near, leaving the audience drumming their fingers in impatience.

So, what about Powell’s performance? Well, it’s almost like he’s auditioning for a role in “where’s the talent?” He delivers an unassuming portrayal that makes him nearly invisible amid the chaos. Perhaps it’s a sign of brilliance or just pure, utter vacancy. Either way, he might need some kind of emotional navigational system to stir things up.

Becket’s ascent to wealth entails offing various eccentric relatives: a vacuous playboy, a creatively challenged artist, and that ever-fascinating Hillsong pastor played by Topher Grace. All of whom seem hilariously unaware of their impending doom.

Ed Harris does his best to play the intimidating patriarch as if he’s taken refuge in a rural Oklahoma shack, playing it a tad too over the top. Movies with countdowns always make me uneasy—if it drags, it’s a mental clock-watching exercise, and “How to Make a Killing” definitely qualifies.

The only other noteworthy figure? Julia (Margaret Qualley), Becket’s childhood accomplice in this absurdity, who’s known about his diabolical scheme since they were knee-high. Her character is colder than a winter in Alaska, but lacks the allure that might make her enchanting—instead, she feels about as lively as a TI-85 calculator. A shame, considering her electrifying performance in last year’s “Blue Moon” with Ethan Hawke.

And just in case you fancy a better adaptation of “Kind Hearts,” look to the Tony Award-winning musical “A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder,” where the charming deaths turn into catchy tunes—quite the antithesis of “How to Make a Killing,” which drags so slowly you’d swear it was earning its riches one painstaking minute at a time.