Edgar Wright's take on Stephen King's 'The Running Man' is frenetic, fun action that lovingly nods to genre tropes - but exhausts itself with muddled tone.
Under the pseudonym of Richard Bachman, Stephen King wrote some of his darkest and most prophetic books - two of which have been released as movie adaptations this year.
It’s no surprise, really. At a time when authoritarianism, wealth inequality, AI deepfakes and content-consuming apathy are pervasive, stories like The Long Walk and The Running Man no longer feel like predictive sci-fi dystopias - more exaggerated reflections of a world gripped by powerlessness and anxiety.
That’s not to say Edgar Wright’s The Running Man is all doom and gloom - far from it, thankfully! It is, however, decidedly more faithful to King’s original vision than the campy Schwarzenegger-starring 1987 version (a film packed with cheesy one-liners, vigorous aerobics, and a bizarre baddie decked out like a helmeted Christmas tree.)
We begin in a 2025 where the United States is being run by a totalitarian police state who control the media and the minds of the public via various violent game shows. 'The Running Man' is the deadliest of all, requiring contestants to outrun trained assassins for 30 days to win a grand prize of $1 billion (€864,350,000).
Ben Richards (Glen Powell) - possibly the world’s angriest man - knows taking part in such a thing would be madness, but he’s been blacklisted from work and can't afford medicine for his sick daughter. In a last ditch attempt to help his family, he reluctantly dons the show's trademark red jumpsuit and signs his life away; the veneered-grin of watchful producer Dan Killian (Josh Brolin) almost as blinding as the lump sum on offer.
“We’ve got the cash if you’ve got the balls” cries host Bobby "Bobby T" Thompson (Colman Domingo, all pizzazz), who opens the show with a series of deepfaked, rage-baiting introductions to the three contestants. Alongside Richards is “hopeless dude” Jansky (Martin Herlihy) and “dangerous dude” Laughlin (Katy O'Brian), each handed a video camera to record two messages a day - and a 12-hour head start before the hunt begins.
From here, Wright launches an adrenaline shot of frenetic, fun action that playfully pastiches 80s genre tropes. Cinematographer Chung Chung-hoon (Oldboy, Last Night in Soho) swaps the neon-drizzle of fictional dystopias past for a crisp cornucopia of screaming advertorials amidst a grey-scale city of destitute citizens.
As with all of Wright’s movies, the technical attention to detail is meticulous. There’s a dynamic rhythm and movie-nerd level of precision that excels during action choreography - helped in no small part by some pitch-perfect needledrops. A stand-out sequence sees revolutionary Elton Parrakis (Michael Cera) - armed with a Psycho Hydro water gun - take on a hoard of hitmen in a Home Alone-style booby-trapped home.
And then there’s Glen Powell in a towel - words soon to decorate a thousand thirst-driven Letterboxd reviews. After spotting the assassins while en route to take a shower, an exhilarating cat-and-mouse chase ensues, culminating in Richards scaling a motel - butt naked.
It's in such moments that Powell, with his chiselled jaw and charismatic charm, once again proves he can confidently carry a film - and a convincing number of disguises. From maniacally screaming “I’m still here, ya shit eaters” with a tongue poke, to some cheeky arse slaps, he layers Richards’ character with an endearing petulance that’s at times sincere, at times goofy, but always slyly self-aware.
Yet for all of Powell’s playfulness and Wright’s kinetic flair, the storytelling stumbles at tone - caught between satire and sincerity, never fully committing to either. There’s an overwhelming sense of garish literalism: a parody of The Kardashians titled The Americanos, Arnie on a dollar bill note, and the lacklustre heart tugs of Richards’ more emotive lines: “I’m just a guy, trying to get back to his family.”
What results is something that feels more akin to a Saturday Night Live skit than a social commentary with any edge, relying on broad comedy over bite.
At times, you find yourself questioning if this is intentional. Wright, after-all, has form when it comes to affecting the corniest elements of classic action flicks. But while Hot Fuzz merged Hollywood cliches with nuanced British idiosyncrasies to elevate its themes and emotional stakes, The Running Man lacks the same wit and originality to make its parodic elements clear - or its more serious elements feel authentic. Everything ends up sweet, but oddly shapeless - like a piece of toffee stuck in your teeth that you keep licking and licking, but can’t quite dislodge.
Much of this could have been resolved with stronger characterisation, the lack of which leads to a messy second half running on fumes. In particular, the side characters of Parrakis and Richards’ hostage Amelia (Emilia Jones) are barely introduced, hurriedly bonded and starkly underwritten - the latter achieving a complete moral awakening within the span of about 10 minutes.
Meanwhile, the violent fates of the show’s two other contestants are conducted with such sporadic underwhelm, we’re given little reason to care about anyone involved.
By his own admission, Wright made The Running Man in a very short time period. With this in mind, it remains an impressive achievement that’s for the most part an enjoyably bombastic romp that feeds our desire to escape into a version of 2025 where bad guys get blown up, heroes are good dads, and nothing’s that serious.
And while in many ways the movie mirrors its own fictional TV shows - glossy, spectacular, but shallow - there's still Glen Powell in a towel. That's reason enough to run to the cinema.
The Running Man is out in cinemas now.
