What would you do to reclaim something that was stolen from you? Most of us would probably be embarrassed to answer what we’d do for a Klondike bar, let alone the $28 billion fortune that Becket Redfellow (Glen Powell) has been owed since birth. Except that “right” is mostly a technicality, and not something he should realistically expect to obtain. By name, he is a member of the Redfellow family, a fabulously wealthy, generational-spanning empire rivaling names like Biltmore, Rockefeller, and Kennedy. They live above the rest of America in their Long Island estate named Huntington, which originally served as the title for this film.

Becket’s mother was the daughter of Whitelaw Redfellow (Ed Harris), the lion who sits atop the family rock. “Was” is a word used both literally and figuratively. Her illegitimate pregnancy from a lowly band member had her ostracized; the years of struggling as a single mother at the poverty line culminated in her death from illness. Before she left, she taught Becket everything she knew about being rich, such as shooting a bow, ordering the right wine with a meal, and dressing for every occasion. Those things didn’t do much for Becket in the present as he lived on the outskirts of New Jersey. But it would pay off one day, with her final words of wisdom being that he should live the life he deserves.

Interestingly, she didn’t mention anything about the money. But it was kind of the elephant in that sad hospital room, something so tantalizing that it could be used to rationalize using extreme measures to achieve her final mortal wish. It’s also not hard to feel a little entitled to the money when the actual possessors haven’t done anything else to earn it. Why should they get all the fun, while Becket gets none of it? What if Becket were to cut the line by pruning a few branches from the family tree? And like cigarettes or Oreos, once you’ve had one, there’s no way to stop.

For both Becket and writer/director John Patton Ford, this whole thing comes a little too easily. The seven family members standing in the way of the fortune are all vapid assholes, the kind of self-aggrandizing sort that we’ve been inundated with over the past few years in this wave of “eat the rich” cinema. Youngest Taylor (Raff Law) is a fratboy partier; Noah (Zach Woods) is a pretentious visual artist who calls himself “White Basquiat”; and Steven (Topher Grace) is a scam-artist pastor.

There’s supposed to be a challenge/conflict inflicted upon the audience at the sight of people being murdered simply on the assumption that Becket is more worthy of the fortune. Does it make us bad if we’re enjoying the carnage? That would be a question to wrestle with had the material supposed more of a bite. As it currently stands, it’s too shiny, sleek, and willing to please rather than provoke. It’s an adaptation of the 1949 Ealing Studios dark comedy Kind Hearts and Coronets, the kind that Minnesota’s own Coen brothers later championed loosely and directly with Fargo and The Ladykillers.

The influence of American Psycho is also quite apparent, even down to the white poster featuring Powell in a suit with slicked hair akin to Christian Bale’s Patrick Bateman. Taking on the role of a bad person is one of the biggest tests of an actor’s ability to have the audience stick with them. Leonardo DiCaprio (The Wolf of Wall Street), Brad Pitt (Fight Club), Bryan Cranston (Breaking Bad), and Robert De Niro (Taxi Driver) have it in them. I’m still not sure if Powell does on that same level. This is the other side of the coin to his charming turn in Hit Man from a few years ago. However, the disguises and charisma in Richard Linklater’s film were used to explore how much of our identity is a performance. Here, it’s mostly just for show.

Good things come to those who wait, a mantra that Ford doesn’t follow enough in his sophomore feature. The framing device of Becket narrating this story from a jail cell is a momentum killer; the victims are uninspired caricatures, and the presentation is merely watchable. For all the extravagance thrown around, this whole thing feels little more than a cheap exercise in posturing.