Late Fame

Set in present-day New York, the resurgent celebrity of director Kent Jones’s “Late Fame” is Ed Saxberger (Willem Dafoe), a one-time poet of the city’s downtown bohemian art scene. Based on a posthumously published novella written in 1895 by Arthur Schnitzler (Samy Burch adapted it), “Late Fame” begins with Saxberger’s lone published collection of poetry, Way Past Gone, having been discovered by recent NYU grad Meyers (Edmund Donovan) who loosely runs a small artistic circle. That Saxberger is less a celebrity, really, than a cult favorite, and that he is reclaimed by this miniscule clique rather than, say, a poetry foundation, or a New York Times culture writer, evokes “Late Fame’s” more modest aims and quiet revelations, both of which help to temper some of its broader elements, as does Dafoe’s affecting, understated performance.

Saxberger has been working at the post office for decades with his poetry-writing past so far behind him that his dive bar buddies are unaware of it. Yet, for one brief moment, we also glimpse Saxberger with a plastic bag that appears to contain a couple books, not only suggesting that he has maintained his interest in the art world but subtly rebutting the frequent movie cliché that a blue-collar lifestyle and intellectual pursuits do not go hand in hand. He is carrying that bag, in fact, when he is approached by Meyers, who lavishes him with praise. Meyers talks about how much the poems relate to the present moment, an idea that is never expounded upon any further, tinging it with the scent not so much of someone blowing smoke but the way a young person who doesn’t yet know any better tends to talk in too many superlatives. As he prattles on, Jones gives Dafoe a big, juicy close-up, his lips transforming into a smile at once flabbergasted and flattered, instantly communicating that no matter how much he begs off, he will become ingratiated with Meyers and his group.

That group dubs itself The Enthusiasm Society, an alternative to the cynicism and snark that rules the modern age, even if occasionally in their Whit Stillman-like affectations a little snark still shines through, especially when addressing the social media influencer gang that hangs out in the same place on the other side of the same room. They welcome Saxberger into their group as some odd mixture of mentor and mascot, urging him to write a new poem for a reading they plan to stage. Given not just these plot points but The Enthusiasm Society’s retro attire, like it’s a “Midnight in Paris” costume party, “Late Fame” tiptoes right up to the line of caricature. Yet, if they become semi-unwitting caricatures in the context of the movie’s world, they never quite become caricatures in terms of the movie itself. You find it hard to take them seriously, but you believe that they take themselves seriously, rich kids cosplaying as struggling artists. 

Their performative nature is echoed in Gloria (Greta Lee), the lone female member of their expectedly male-heavy group. Saxberger does not meet her initially, a shrewd narrative decision to enhance her intentionally created air of mystery, and from the moment she first sweeps into the room in her cabaret star-like costuming and larger-than-life manner, it is obvious to us and to him that she is performing. It’s a charismatic performance, both Gloria’s and Lee’s, and though Saxberger is partially content to let himself get caught up in it, he also delicately presses her for the truth. That truth is not hard to foresee and speaks to the screenplay’s occasional tendency toward pat predictability. Yet, just as often, the script transcends it, appearing to plant familiar seeds that don’t quite pay off in ways you expect, or even more refreshingly, such as in the case of Saxberger being on the wagon, don’t pay off at all.

The Enthusiasm Society does expectedly combust, but this is portrayed less as a nominal surprise than a reflection of how such movements are always destined to burn as briefly as they might brightly. Indeed, the one fragment we hear in an internal monologue of Saxberger’s never-finished new poem merely evokes how the season of Saxberger’s poetry has long since passed. The poem he reads at the climactic event turns out to be an old one, and that poem turns out to be an act of remembering, providing the sequence two layers of reflection. And the way Dafoe infuses his character’s reading with a sense of peace rather than disappointment or even wistfulness brings “Late Fame” home. It’s as if he is flipping through an old photo album and when he’s done, he shuts it and puts it back on the shelf, happy to have the memories, content in knowing that’s all they are. And the final scene goes to show that in a movie made of so many words, or attempted words, that sometimes, no words need to be spoken at all.

The Show Went On

It has been 25 years and 10 days since the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, and so that means it has been 25 years since America: A Tribute to Heroes. That was the hybrid telethon-benefit concert broadcast live on all four major television networks, and all cable channels too, organized by George Clooney and produced by Joel Gallen in which various celebrities phone banked and esteemed musicians performed to help raise money for the United Way’s September 11th Fund. The show opened with Bruce Springsteen offering “a prayer for our fallen brothers and sisters” by repurposing his unreleased song about his adopted hometown of Asbury Park, “My City of Ruins,” as one about New York City and Washington. (Watch here.) It’s a singularly powerful performance, one that meets a moment no one wishes they would ever need to meet. As a noted Springsteen admirer, you might think I would have been on my couch and in front of the TV for America: Tribute to Heroes, but I wasn’t. No, I was at the Val Air Ballroom in West Des Moines, Iowa seeing Lucinda Williams live for the first time.

You know the cliché when it comes to music: “I like everything except for country.” And for the first 20 or so years of my life, I was under the impression that I liked everything except for country too. I worked at a pizza place in high school, and the owners loved country most of all, and so most of the time, the little radio propped above the pizza prep table was tuned to 92.5 KJJY: Iowa’s Country Station. This meant enduring lots of Alan Jackson, Brooks & Dunn, Tim McGraw, and Faith Hill. Enduring might not be the right word. There are plenty of people, snot-nosed critics included, who would go to bat for those artists, and fair enough, it’s just, they never did much for me. How many times can one sullen teen who prefers Public Enemy listen to “Gone Country?” The one song that I remember hearing on KJJY and liking was Mary Chapin Carpenter’s “Passionate Kisses.” It was only some years later that I learned this song was, in fact, written and originally recorded by Lucinda Williams.

If I can credibly claim that any two albums changed my life in so much as they fundamentally reoriented my taste in and understanding of music, they are “Fever” by Kylie Minogue and “Car Wheels on a Gravel Road” by Lucinda Williams. Grunge was the genre always said to speak for my generation, but it never really spoke for me, not like Kylie did and has continued to with her unique blend of authenticity and joy. And I innately and spiritually connected with Lucinda’s synthesis of blues, country, and rock ‘n’ roll in a way I never did with grunge’s sludgy guitar, or all the soft-as-The-Andrews-Sisters pop-punk that followed it. I had already been drifting toward country through deeper inspections of The Rolling Stones, but “Car Wheels on a Gravel Road” was the light and the demarcation line. Lucinda not only opened my eyes to country but made me realize that music was alive, that on some level it was all love and theft, to borrow the phrase of Bob Dylan, and that genre was flexible. For me, all music is Before Car Wheels and After Car Wheels. 

Nobody would confuse suburban Des Moines with rural Louisiana, or Mississippi, or Texas, or Arkansas, places where Williams cut her teeth and set her songs, but when you stepped inside the Val Air Ballroom back at the turn of the century, you felt transported to some honkytonk down south. Lucinda certainly made it appear that way when she and her band, including Iowa native and guitar hero Bo Ramsey, strolled on stage that Friday night on September 21, 2001, most of them sporting cowboy boots and shit-kicker hats. She leaned into the microphone and in her immaculate southern drawl said one word: “Hey.” Then they tore into “Metal Firecracker,” the greatest break-up song ever recorded, and proceeded to play, I don’t know, four, five, maybe six songs in a row before she said another word, foreshadowing the theme of the night: we’re here to play.

It’s not that Lucinda did not speak. She did, briefly commenting on how much the Val Air resembled an old honkytonk, in fact, and as a prelude to her bluesy onslaught “Joy,” she excoriated the 43rd President. And though Iowa was still a purple state in those days, this was the patriotically correct post-9/11 era, remember, where a single discouraging word could bring you up on charges of treason in the court of public opinion, and so her boldness stayed with me. Mostly, though, she just played. She and her band played so long that they reached a point where they had obviously exhausted their planned setlist and at the end of a song, they would stand there on stage for a minute and discuss what to play next and then play it. During this improvised portion of the show, they played “I Envy the Wind” off the record she had just released that June, and midway through it, a woman standing near me ran off in tears, hiding her face. Maybe the song made her cry, maybe the world did, or maybe it was both. It was 10 days after 9/11, everybody was a wreck, and nobody would have minded if the show just kept going forever.

Friday's Old Fashioned: The Rose Bowl Story (1952)

There’s a line in “The Rose Bowl Story” (1952) about how the only thing that matters in Pasadena, California is keeping the Tournament of Roses committee happy. It suggests the fabled Rose Parade and those who oversee it as akin to a nefarious cabal running the whole southern California city. Alas, nothing so diabolical is allowed to infiltrate this wholesome, humdrum motion picture. Why at one point the Rose Queen, Denny Burke (Vera Miles), lectures the star player of an unnamed Midwestern college team, Steve Davis (Marshall Thompson), that he is not paying proper homage to the so-called Grandaddy of the Bowl Games. Perhaps not, but I also wonder why if the Rose Bowl was so significant, William Beaudine’s movie was made under the umbrella of a low-budget studio like Monogram Pictures rather than, say, MGM, or 20th Century Fox. The camera panning the interior of the mighty stadium nestled in the Arroyo Secco at night that ends with an obvious cut to disguise that its two actors sitting in the bleachers are not really in the Rose Bowl at all made me wonder if Beaudine broke in overnight to steal the shot.

Though the scene-setting narration of “The Rose Bowl Story,” with accompanying aerial images of Pasadena, hint at a movie about the Rose Bowl itself, that’s not really the case. It proves more of a melodrama-romantic comedy hybrid with Coach Hadley’s (Richard Rober) wife in the hospital, and Steve not only falling in love with Denny once his team arrives in California but struggling to learn the right reasons for playing – that is, for love of the game rather than money and future business prospects. It’s a storyline that current shadow college football commissioner Nick Saban and his junior senator from Texas consigliere could love. The plotting, editing, and blocking, however, evince next to no snap, crackle, or pop. Even at a mere hour and thirteen minutes, “The Rose Bowl Story” is one of those movies that moves like it’s stuck in mud. The only time it perks up are the scenes in Denny’s home. Yes, her father Iron Mike Burke (Jim Backus), predating the other Iron Mike, a one-time football player himself, is just a broad, if not occasionally insulting, caricature, but the scene where he re-enacts an old football play with a decorative artifact is more exciting than the climactic Rose Bowl game itself. What’s more, Denny’s phone-hogging younger sister Sally is played by a young Natalie Wood who, bless her heart, brings energy where there generally is none. And though it’s not enough to redeem this stinker, in so much as it has one, Wood is “The Rose Bowl Story’s” MVP.  

A Post That Goes Without Blogging

I have been listening to the new record by Wild Pink and enjoying it given that its modern spin on heartland rock evokes an updated version of the kind of 90s alternative country album I would have loved. Indeed, the opening cut “Box Store” contains a rather conspicuous lyric for a person of a certain age:

There’s a box store in a strip mall
Where I got my TV
I watch old movies from the late 90s
When casting directors loved William Fichtner

Now, I’m not sure I agree one hundred percent with Wild Pink’s ensuing analysis of Fichtner’s acting style, declaring him “measured and calmer / Than the other big dogs / Like Clooney and Wahlberg.” I mean, has Wild Pink seen “Albino Alligator” (pictured above)? But I also like the embedded notion in these lyrics that even a person who shops at a big box store gets to be a critic. Either way, when I heard those lines, I may as well have been an old Bluetick Coonhound picking up a scent. What actor, I immediately wondered, would I have cited in such a song? For about half-a-second, I imagined an epic blog post in which I would work my way through all manner of late 90s acting stalwarts to reach a conclusion. It was about half-a-second because as soon as I envisioned this epic blog post, I realized I already knew my answer. Here, then, is the revised line in my make-believe cover version of “Box Store.” 

There’s a box store in a strip mall
Where I got my TV
I watch old movies from the late 90s
When casting directors loved Hope Davis. 

That was easy. Now, if we can just get some more casting directors with late 90s taste, please. 

Erupcja

In “The Moment,” Charli XCX channeled Larry David for the TikTok generation. In the Polish American “Erupcja,” on the other hand, in her capacity as both co-star and co-writer, Charli XCX is reimagining “Serendipity.” Kate Beckinsale’s character in that 2001 romantic comedy believed that fate sent her signs and that how she read those signs determined her happiness. In director Pete Ohs’s “Erupcja,” every time Bethany (XCX) and her childhood Polish friend Nel (Lena Góra) reconvene after years apart, a volcano erupts, which they read as fate sending them a sign of their being soulmates. And if you can’t stop a volcano from erupting, only seek to contain the fallout, when Bethany and Nel reconvene in Warsaw at the same time Bethany’s boyfriend Rob (Will Madden) plans to propose, there might well be another chemical discharge but also emotional fallout to which they remain oblivious. That turns “Erupcja” into something not quite profound, perhaps, but with deeper knowledge than this genre typically allows, a diaphanous 71-minutes drama that manages to knock you over with a feather.

Every time Rob mentions Warsaw, he says, “Warsaw, Poland,” just like that, both city and country, as if he’s willing himself to be there, perhaps, but also determined to embrace it since it means so much to Bethany. It’s evocative of his unwitting sweet nature, even if that sweet nature proves no match for what his girlfriend feels with Nel. “The earth doesn’t shake,” Bethany explains of her relationship with Rob. “Volcanos don’t erupt.” These are sensations that Ohs brings to life on the soundtrack through rattling glasses and tableware, even luggage on the cobblestone streets, making it seem as if distant volcanic tremors are sending a warning on a frequency that not everyone can hear. Indeed, at breakfast, Rob gets a notification on his phone of a cancelled flight home: Italy’s Mount Etna has erupted. That’s the sign: Bethany essentially ghosts her would-be fiancé just as Nel inadvertently ghosts her ex-girlfriend Ula (Agata Trzebuchowska) just back in town. It’s not so much that the rest of the world can wait as it ceases to exist.

Among the most intriguing elements of “Erupcja” is that Bethany and Nel’s relationship is presented as platonic yet conveyed with the same sort of headlong rush typically associated with a physical relationship, suggesting that romantic soulmates exist in all manner of shapes and sizes. Ohs brings that connection to life less through traditional scenes with beginnings, middles, and ends than through aesthetic jolts of montage and music – eruptions, if you will. Such an approach is unsuitable to filling out backstory and so Ohs leaves the exposition to novel-like narration by Jacek Zubiel that in his wry tone suggests a kind of cheeky cultural anthropologist. Nel works at a flower shop, and through this narration we learn that she and Bethany met when the latter was buying flowers for herself, an action that can appear as self-care through one lens and narcissism through another.

Indeed, if there is self-evident selfishness to Bethany and Nel’s way of life, that is not glossed over but made clear. Nel’s American expat artist friend (Jeremy O. Harris) goes so far as to point out that, like, you know, “Volcanos kill people.” To Bethany and Nel, though, this concrete fact seems to go in one ear and out the other, making me think of the recent SNL sketch where in playing one real-life media influencer feuding with another real-life media influencer, Chloe Fineman described her character’s dispute as “worse than 9/11.” Another movie might also have written off Rob as collateral damage, but the denouement of “Erupcja” cedes the stage to him, imbuing a genuine sense of his confusion and dismay, as if Bridget Monyahan’s character had been given a say in “Serendipity.” And as the narrative gets handed off to him, Bethany recedes from view, her quasi-resolution mentioned in passing by the narrator as an afterthought. Before that happens, though, she delivers a monologue straight to the camera by reciting Lord Byron’s poem Darkness, which comes across like the most XCX touch of all. This poetry recitation is what passes for an explanation, like a celebrity apologizing via Instagram without apologizing for anything in particular.

12th Annual Not-at-TIFF Film Festival

The only thing that stayed with me from the otherwise unnecessary “Anchorman” sequel was Marion Cotillard and Jim Carrey as “the incredibly polite Canadian news team” concluding each sentence with a preemptive sorry. There was just something about those almost aggressive anticipatory apologies that tickled my funny bone. It’s one of the classic Canada jokes, right, a civility that a certain sort of American who will cut in line ahead of you at the supermarket and say that’s what freedom is would mock. And yet, considering that we, the United States of America, willingly gave the car keys back to a President with pudding where his brain should be and that now he has incited a trade war with our kindly neighbors to north in the manner of an imperious monarch who got indigestion from some pure Canadian maple syrup and decided to MAKE THEM PAY, I think it’s time we start being the ones to apologize upfront. Going forward, when talking to a Canadian, any and all Americans should be required to issue a preemptive “Sorry” of our own and Canadians should never have to say “Sorry” to us again until they have determined our national apology sufficient. On that note, here is the lineup for this year’s Not-at-TIFF, our annual alternative to the Toronto International Film Festival kicking off today in, well, obviously. Sorry.

All screenings theoretical.

12th Annual Not-at-TIFF Film Festival 

Tu dors, Nicole. Even by the standards of my least favorite season, this summer has been wretched, and there are few movies that capture the somnambulant, nigh unbearable suspended animation of summer with as much style and dry wit as Stephane Lafleur’s 2014 French-Canadian comedy-drama.

Straight Talk. I have seen “9 to 5,” and I have seen “Steel Magnolias,” and I have even seen “A Smoky Mountain Christmas,” but I have never seen the late Dolly Parton’s 1992 romantic comedy in which she plays a small-town Arkansan who comes to the big city of Chicago and through some sort of humorous mix-up finds herself on a radio show dispensing advice and wisdom to so many callers. The reviews seem to have been mixed, but what do snooty critics like me know about anything? Dolly Parton as an uncredentialed radio psychologist sounds like the greatest movie ever made! 

Twice as Nice. Women’s professional basketball in the United States has not merely had to fight for relevancy but its very existence since the beginning, as Jessie Maple’s 1989 drama demonstrates. It’s not just that “Twice as Nice” starred real-life twin USC basketball stars Pamela and Paula McGee as fictional twins battling to be the #1 draft pick in a fictional women’s basketball league almost a decade before the WNBA was inaugurated, but that the movie itself was nearly lost forever until a 2015 grant from the National Film Preservation Foundation ensured the literal film would be saved. Now, the WNBA has grown so much that specious forces have gone from outright ignoring it to co-opting it, exploiting the league to help foment a new version of the welfare queen and sucking all the joy from the Caitlin Clark Experience by using her as a cudgel in their never-ending culture wars. There was Russell and Wilt, and then Bird and Magic, but Clark’s foremost rival is shaping up to be The Discourse. If she can beat the formless, shapeshifting, malevolent Discourse, she really will be the GOAT.

Adaptation. I have no quarrel with Emily Wilson going scorched earth on Christopher Nolan’s “Odyssey.” As the French are fond of saying, if you pay for your seat to the show, you reserve the right to criticize it. (Then again, Wilson appears to have attended a press screening.) The whole kerfuffle that erupted, however, interested me less than the bigger question of whether an adaptation should pay fealty to the work it is adapting, or whether the only limitation should be a filmmaker’s imagination. And no movie has better captured the toil and tricky nature of modifying one artform for another quite like Michel Gondry and Charlie Kaufman’s 2002 screen adaptation of Susan Orlean’s “The Orchid Thief” that in its meta knottiness lives the adapting ideal as breaking free of the original pan and doing your own thing. 

The Swimmer. Speaking of The Odyssey, here is a perfect movie for our moment, the 1968 Frank Perry-directed adaptation of a John Cheever book combining an Odysseus-like quest via suburban swimming pools by a narcissistic, hollowed-out has-been still toiling under the impression that he’s the bees-knees without realizing that emotionally, intellectually, and mentally he’s underwater. You sometimes see people speculate that Burt Lancaster’s WASP version of Odysseus is dead but that’s just because “The Sixth Sense” ruined message boards for the rest of time. He is alive and everyone in his orbit is forced to suffer his delusions of grandeur along with him. 

The French Revolution. It was only after Sam Neill died, I am ashamed to say, that I learned he had starred as America’s greatest friend in liberty, my dawg, the Marquis de Lafayette, in a 1989 two-part international television historical drama, “La Révolution Française.” And though I am as hesitant to watch Movie Lafayettes as much as I am Movie George Washingtons, which is one of several reasons I steered clear of “Young Washington,” a movie starring not only Sam Neill as Lafyette but Jane Seymour as Marie Antoinette piques my interest. I mean, not even Meryl Streep has played Marie Antoinette and Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. If you can play Marie Antoinette and Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman, then Karen Silkwood is a cakewalk.

Days of Thunder. Is Tom Cruise’s 1990 NASCAR movie good? Well, no. Did it require the sequel that was recently announced? God, no. But if I were rich and attending a benefit for an arts organization auctioning off a package to go see the “Days of Thunder 2” with Nicole Kidman (who will apparently and for understandable reasons not reprise her role from the original) and her girlfriends reviewing it aloud in real time and requiring me to sign a non-disclosure agreement to not repeat anything they say, buddy, I would break the bank. 

As always, on the eighth day we rest and watch a YouTube video. And at this year’s TIFF, Penélope Cruz will be receiving the Special Tribute Award for her “extraordinary and unique contribution to the world of film.” Oh, right, I apologize, Cruz will be receiving the Special Tribute Award, presented by CHANEL. Cruz, after all, has been a brand ambassador for CHANEL since 2018, just as she has been the brand ambassador for Emirates and its Fly Better campaign since 2023. And though it might speak poorly of the modern film industry, what’s true is true and what’s true is this: there is still no better Movie Star Moment from the 2020s than Penélope Cruz in the above Emirates ad. In that moment, she is not shilling for Emirates, no, she is remaking Emirates entirely in her image. 

Side Out. As a longtime Olympics devotee, attending one of those quadrennial sporting spectacles has always been high on my bucket list and I was recently able to procure tickets to four different events for LA28. One of my tickets is for beach volleyball. It felt appropriate given southern California being the spiritual home of the two-person version contested at the Games, and because the sport made its Olympic debut at the last American Summer Games in Atlanta in 1996. That was four years after it appeared as a demonstration sport in Barcelona and six years after C. Thomas Howell’s dramatic comedy “Side Out” which stands the test of time as the preeminent beach volleyball movie of our age by essentially being the only beach volleyball movie of our age. I also have tickets to handball and water polo, but those sports have even fewer movies than beach volleyball.

Independence Day. Sometimes I see the German-born dual citizen Roland Emmerich as cinema’s version of Roger Bennett, the dual British American citizen and soccer nut who in 2021 wrote a book as love letter to his chosen home. Emmerich had not yet obtained American citizenship in 1996, but you see the same sort of spirit in his magnum opus “Independence Day,” nevertheless, a corny, boisterous ode to American exceptionalism that even a partly cloudy patriot, to borrow the phrase of Sarah Vowell, such as myself yearns to believe in from time to time. Let’s close Not-at-TIFF by blowing this one up to 70mm and for two hours and twenty-six minutes believing with all our might.

Watched on a Plane: How to Make a Killing

This is another in Cinema Romantico’s non-existent sporadic series of reviews of movies watched on planes.

John Patton Ford’s “How to Make a Killing” was based on the 1907 novel Israel Rank: The Autobiography of a Criminal, as was the 1949 film “Kind Hearts and Coronets” in which Sir Alec Guinness played eight roles, all members of a wealthy family that a distant relative murders one-by-one to claim dukedom. The loose remake, then, would seem tailor-made for its star Glen Powell to follow in Guinness’s footsteps given that he convincingly played multiple roles in 2023’s “Hit Man.” Instead, Powell takes one role, starring as Beckett Redfellow, son of a teenage mother (Nell Williams) exiled from her affluent family for deigning to keep her baby and risk bringing shame to the family name. Despite her banishment, however, Beckett’s surname remains intact, and when his mom stresses that he should lead the life he deserves, he eventually takes that to mean murdering all his relatives in line for the massive Redfellow inheritance so he can claim it for his own. He is spurred to drastic action not only by his mother but by Julia Steinway (Margaret Qualley), his old childhood friend and “How to Make a Killing’s” resident femme fatale, in a sense laying a piece of Pule cheese at the end of an elaborate maze that Beckett cannot resist. And though Powell is only technically playing one part, in another sense, he assumes multiple personalities in so far as Ford’s screenplay requires him to cycle through different ones as the complicated plot plays out. Those personalities, alas, come across more like a matter of narrative convenience than they do a complicated sense of self, creating a fatal emotionally muddled tone. 

The story is framed as Beckett’s confession to a priest (Adrian Lukis) while awaiting his execution on death row in a few hours. Here, Powell deftly turns his own movie star features against themselves to fully inhabit the air of a charming psychopath. Problem is, in the flashback scenes, as Beckett hesitantly wades into his run of murders, egged on by Julia, the character and subsequently the performance feel altogether different, less psychotic than lucid. This is epitomized in how Beckett falls in love with Ruth (Jessica Henwick), girlfriend of his obnoxious cousin Noah (Zach Woods). Though the narrative speeds through their courtship, the chemistry that Powell and Henwick have is real, but overall, their genuine warmth never squares with the cold, calculating individual narrating the story. As the murders pile up and his choices close in on him, it’s as if “How to Make a Killing” wants to portray Beckett as a noir sap gradually ensnared in a web of his own deceit and lies even as the Beckett narrating the story suggests just the opposite. Ford’s camera, meanwhile, might salivate over Qualley, but Powell never does, never quite sure if he is supposed to, evocative of how his performance is compromised by the writing and direction as everything culminates in a scene that cannot decide between comedy and tragedy, a would-be punch to the face that whiffs.