The Running Man Review
Few filmmakers are as closely associated with movement and wit as Edgar Wright. His films pulse with energy, his edits dance to their own rhythm, and his humour is as visual as it is verbal, which makes his remake of The Running Man, a new, faithful adaptation of Stephen King’s work, such a puzzling and sad misfire. All of Wright’s usual flair — the camera glides, the needle drops, the intricate cutting — feels like a poor fit and, ultimately, doesn’t have any of his usual fingerprints across its epic narrative. It’s a film that rarely feels like his own, and is, at least for this writer, the biggest and perhaps, most crushing disappointment of the year.
Based on King’s dystopian novel, this version casts Glen Powell as Ben Richards, a down-on-his-luck average Joe struggling to make ends meet and provide for his family in the brave new world that surrounds them. His daughter needs medical care, but he doesn’t have the money for the drugs she needs (sound familiar?), and he is at his lowest ebb. In desperation, he decides to give the Games Network a go and earn the money his daughter needs, but ends up selected to “star” in The Running Man, the most dangerous yet wildly popular reality show.
Wright is, as many will attest, one of the smartest and most original filmmakers plying their trade right now, and when word came out that he was developing his version of this, many were notably excited, more so given that the 1987 Arnold Schwarzenegger version only scratched the surface of the book and was more action-oriented to fit the Austrian Oak’s power at the time. But while Wright’s craftsmanship occasionally flickers across the screen, it’s horrendous to report that you’d have never guessed this was his film. The few bursts of invention, mainly found in the first half hour, are sporadic at best, with the rest of the film a drab bore.
Even editing, his usual superpower, is strangely off-kilter. The rhythms slack, the tonal shifts jar, and its mixture of comedy, satire, corporate and political takedowns, and pure action is severely out of sync. And, from a filmmaker who helped bring Spaced, Shaun of the Dead, Scott Pilgrim and more to life, it’s also alarmingly humourless and drained of anything close to laughter, irony or even joy. Schwarzenegger’s film may lack subtlety outside of his own in terms of media culture takedowns and its views on the dystopia, but it was an outrageous, ridiculous film that sparkled with energy. This feels joyless throughout, bar a spectacular Colman Domingo (more on him in a moment).
Indeed, the satirical edge of the book has been blunted throughout: there are nods to AI-generated propaganda, Trump-era nonsense, and the political despair of modern America (and the world as a whole), but none of it lands. The references are surface-level at best, and Wright and co-writer Michael Bacall’s insights feel shallow and uninspired. There’s both anger and irony here, but it never commits to either, and its critiques are too thin to make the intended impact.
Powell, seen as the next big leading man who has taken his education with Tom Cruise to heart, brings his usual charm and everyman vulnerability. Still, he, too, struggles with the confused, pedestrian script. Thank goodness for Domingo, then, who gives the film its only true spark as Bobby T, the slick, sadistic host who turns human suffering into primetime entertainment with his smooth, sultry voice and penchant for fashion, with every moment feeling sharper when he appears.
If you look hard enough, there are remnants of real craft here, but The Running Man 2.0 is a stifling, rudderless experience that lacks sting and spectacle. For a film that talks so much about the destructive nature of entertainment in the modern world, it actually forgets to entertain us. Running, maybe, but tripping and falling all at the same time. Truly a devastating letdown.
★★
In cinemas on November 12th / Glen Powell, Colman Domingo, Josh Brolin, Lee Pace, Michael Cera, Emilia Jones, Jayme Lawson, William H. Macy / Dir: Edgar Wright / Paramount Pictures / 15
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