The subgenre of crime thrillers involving intricately planned heists that go terribly awry predates Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs; that film stole so much from The Killing that Stanley Kubrick deserved a writing credit. Still, almost every post-1992 heist film seems to owe at least a little to Tarantino's vastly influential debut, and proving that his influence crosses cultural and national borders, Dad Savage is the latest British film to worship at Tarantino's Church Of Cinematic Amorality. Tarantino knockoffs are almost an industry unto themselves, and as far as slavishly derivative crime thrillers go, Dad Savage isn't half bad. But it is slavishly derivative, borrowing its fragmented flashback structure, its showy visual pyrotechnics, and its tone of hip, violent nihilism from The Killing and Reservoir Dogs. Of course, any film that features Patrick Stewart line-dancing can't be all bad. Stewart plays the title character, a colorful, country-music-obsessed kingpin who becomes the target of a scheme to rob him of a satchel full of money. Things go predictably wrong, however, when his son meets a mysterious death and Stewart ends up delivering his own brand of frontier justice as he tries to determine the killer. Dad Savage isn't a bad movie, but it isn't particularly good, either. It has a glossy, consistently inventive visual style and a solid cast, led by an enjoyably over-the-top Stewart and Trainspotting's Kevin McKidd, but the lowlifes that populate Dad Savage are so shallow and greedy that it's difficult to care whether they live or die. It doesn't help that the actors' accents are so thick and impenetrable that you'll have a rough time figuring out what's going on, a problem exacerbated by the gimmicky, convoluted nature of Steve Williams' screenplay.