Hit Man

If you’ve ever wondered what happens when the coolest guy in Hollywood pretends to be the biggest dork in New Orleans, look no further than the opening minutes of Hit Man. Most movies about contract killers involve silencers, moody neon lighting, and men who look like they haven’t slept since the Clinton administration. But Richard Linklater’s latest doesn't just subvert that trope; it mocks it with a grin. It’s a breezy, whip-smart reminder that cinema doesn't always need a $200 million budget or a multiverse to be absolutely electric.

The Powell-aissance is Real

I watched this while drinking a seltzer that had gone completely flat, and honestly, the lack of bubbles didn't even matter because Glen Powell provides enough carbonation for the entire room. He plays Gary Johnson, a mild-mannered psychology professor who lives with two cats (named Ego and Id, naturally) and spends his weekends helping the police catch people trying to hire hitmen. The twist? Gary discovers he has a freakish talent for acting. He doesn't just show up; he crafts entire personas—British aristocrats, Russian thugs, Patrick Bateman-esque psychos—tailored to whatever the "client" expects a killer to look like.

Glen Powell is essentially a golden retriever who accidentally swallowed a philosophy textbook, and this role is his definitive graduation into the A-list. It’s a performance within a performance. When he meets Madison (Adria Arjona), a woman trying to escape an abusive marriage, Gary throws away the script. He adopts the persona of "Ron," a suave, confident version of himself, and promptly falls into a romantic rabbit hole that threatens to collapse his entire fake life. The chemistry between Powell and Arjona is a rare beast in contemporary cinema. Movies today are so allergic to actual sex appeal that watching these two flirt feels like discovering fire for the first time.

A Script Written Over Zoom

While Hit Man feels like a classic 90s star vehicle—the kind of movie Tom Cruise or George Clooney would have killed for—it is very much a product of our current moment. Linklater and Powell co-wrote the screenplay during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, hammering out the beats over Zoom calls. You can feel that pent-up creative energy in the dialogue. It’s dense but fast, moving from Nietzschean philosophy to "don't-get-murdered" logistics without skipping a beat.

The film also serves as a fascinating commentary on our obsession with true crime. The real Gary Johnson was a real guy (the story is loosely based on a 2001 Texas Monthly article by Skip Hollandsworth), but Linklater pushes the story into the realm of "what if?" It asks a very modern question: If you pretend to be someone else long enough, do you actually become them? In an era where everyone is "curating a brand" or "maintaining a persona" on social media, Gary’s literal mask-wearing feels hilariously on point.

Behind the Fake Mustache

One of the best things about the production is how it balances the "police procedural" elements with the "screwball comedy" vibes. Retta and Sanjay Rao are wonderful as the cops listening in on the stings, acting as the audience's proxy as they watch Gary get deeper into trouble. Then there's Austin Amelio, who plays a slimy undercover cop named Jasper. Amelio is so good at being unlikable that you’ll want to reach through the screen and pour a drink on his head.

The trivia behind the disguises is a blast, too. Powell reportedly spent hours in the makeup chair for some of the briefest cameos, obsessing over the details of Gary’s various "hitman" identities. It’s that level of commitment that keeps the film from feeling like a one-note joke. Even when the plot takes a darker, more "noir" turn in the third act, Linklater’s direction stays grounded. He doesn't go for flashy camera moves; he lets the performers drive the car, and man, can they drive.

It’s worth noting the weird distribution history here. Netflix famously dropped $20 million to acquire the film after its premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival, leading to a very limited theatrical run before it hit the streaming algorithm. It’s the classic contemporary conundrum: a movie this good deserves the big-screen treatment with a laughing audience, but it likely found ten times more viewers because it popped up on everyone’s homepage on a Friday night.

This is the kind of movie that reminds me why I fell in love with movies in the first place. It’s smart without being condescending, sexy without being exploitative, and funny without trying too hard. Richard Linklater continues to be the most consistent "cool uncle" of American cinema, and Glen Powell has officially arrived. If you’re looking for a sharp, cynical, yet strangely romantic way to spend two hours, this is the one you’ve been waiting for. It’s a masterclass in how to be effortlessly charming in an era that often feels like it's trying way too hard.