John Paterson Ford’s latest film, How to Make a Killing—the follow-up to his debut Emily the Criminal—is a multilayered work that occasionally fumbles but ultimately manages to cross the finish line.
On the surface, the film plays as dark comedy and satire, yet at its core it is a character-driven story. In that sense it recalls American Psycho, minus the extremity of bloodshed and sexual violence.
Ford both wrote and directed the film, giving him full authorship from conception through execution—for better and, at times, for worse.
The script has clear issues: the third act feels rushed and overburdened with hurdles. While these narrative obstacles are conceptually necessary to flesh out character and logic, their execution thins the film’s momentum.
From the outset, the film’s framing device—beginning in the present and unfolding largely in retrospect—feels like a structural shortcut. Rather than crafting a fully unfolding chronology, Ford leans on retrospective narration, a choice that can read as lazy unless used with formal purpose. Nonlinear structures like Pulp Fiction are exceptions precisely because they transform narrative experience; here the device remains comparatively conventional.
The characters largely remain who they are from the beginning. There is no singular catalytic event that alters them; their trajectories feel predetermined. The razor-sharp, satire-inflected dialogue reinforces this sense that we are observing a closed moral ecosystem rather than transformation.
Ford’s direction is otherwise assured until roughly the final fifteen minutes, where events compress and cluster unnecessarily. At a lean one hour and forty-seven minutes, the film could easily sustain another ten minutes without breaching two hours—time that would allow the finale to breathe. As it stands, the rushed ending becomes the film’s Achilles’ heel.
The conclusion itself is narratively inevitable and logically consistent with the story’s core argument. Yet a slightly extended resolution could have smoothed the kinks that now undercut the third act. One obvious plot hole is forgivable within satire, but only if surrounding structure holds firm.
The cast is stellar, led by Glen Powell and Margaret Qualley, both delivering controlled performances even in moments that might appear thin on the page. Qualley in particular operates within the character’s emotional detachment. Her apparent lack of affect reads less as performance limitation than character design.
The lone moment where she is permitted emotional permeability arrives during a brief phone conversation; within seconds she reveals vulnerability and depth. Powell, with greater screen time, naturally has more opportunity to articulate range, yet his most revealing moments likewise occur in a handful of pivotal scenes—consistent with the film’s satirical register.
Despite the rushed finale and tonal compression in the final stretch, the film largely works. Its thematic core—materialist culture resurfacing in new forms, from 1990s Manhattan socialites to contemporary influencer capitalism—lands as both relevant and recognizably true.
Technically, the film is polished. Score, cinematography, production design, and costume all align cleanly with the world. The score never intrudes; the cinematography remains controlled. The costume design, in particular, quietly excels: Powell’s shifting wardrobe across social environments blends seamlessly while signaling status and context with precision. Its subtlety may cause it to go unnoticed, yet it is among the film’s most attentive craft elements.