'The Running Man' Struggles to Outrun Dystopian Fatigue

In 1982, writing under the pseudonym Richard Bachman, Stephen King envisioned an authoritarian America in the year 2025. This future was ruled by a monolithic Network that maintained social order through violent game shows and the suppression of the underclass. Now that the real world has caught up to King’s timeline, director Edgar Wright has delivered a new cinematic adaptation of The Running Man, attempting to bridge the gap between 80s sci-fi prophecy and modern reality. While the film is a marked improvement over the 1987 Arnold Schwarzenegger vehicle in terms of faithfulness to the source material, it ultimately stumbles, offering a polished but surprisingly hollow thriller that lacks the shocking punch of true dystopia.

Collaborating with screenwriter Michael Bacall, Wright constructs a world closer to King’s grim vision than previous adaptations. The story follows Ben Richards (Glen Powell), a hotheaded laborer blacklisted for insubordination who is desperate to fund medical care for his sick daughter. In a society where poverty is criminalized and healthcare is a luxury, Richards turns to the Network’s exploitation game shows as a last resort. He is fast-tracked onto the flagship program, The Running Man, a 30-day survival gauntlet where contestants are hunted across the country by elite assassins while the public watches with bloodthirsty glee.

The setup is undeniably relevant. The film’s depiction of economic inequality, exorbitant drug prices, and the anesthetizing power of media feels uncomfortably close to home. However, this very proximity robs the film of its shock value. In an era where dystopian fiction has saturated the market—from The Hunger Games to Black Mirror—the premise of murder-as-entertainment no longer feels like a radical warning from the future. Instead, it plays as "retro-future sociology," a stylistic exercise that acknowledges our current anxieties without offering fresh insight.

Visually, the film carries Wright’s signature kinetic energy, though it feels restrained compared to his previous works like Baby Driver or Scott Pilgrim vs. the World. The action is crisp and competent, with sequences like a hotel explosion in Boston delivering satisfying, old-school thrills. Yet, the film suffers from a repetitive structure. Richards moves from one close call to the next, aided by a roster of resistance figures who feel more like plot devices than fully realized characters. These include William H. Macy’s anarchist forger and Michael Cera’s jittery subversive, whose inclusion adds sparks of humor but fails to deepen the emotional stakes.

The episodic nature of the chase creates a rhythm that is simultaneously fast-moving and lumbering. As Richards hops trains and evades capture, the narrative momentum drags, making the 30-day ordeal feel exciting in moments but numbing in aggregate. The climax, set aboard a military aircraft, aims for high-octane spectacle but lands closer to standard action-movie fare—functional, but lacking the inventive flair audiences have come to expect from Wright.

Much of the film’s weight rests on the shoulders of Glen Powell. Known for his charismatic turns in Top Gun: Maverick and Hit Man, Powell here attempts to channel a grittier, desperate everyman. While he brings a convincing physicality to the role—darting eyes, a mean glare, and a body built for survival—critics note that his inherent "sweetness" undermines the necessary edge. He plays the part of a hardened survivor well, but it often feels like an impersonation of 80s action heroism rather than a transformative performance. He lacks the "blinding charisma" required to elevate Ben Richards from a victim of circumstance to a mythic revolutionary figure.

Conversely, the villains relish their screen time. Josh Brolin exudes corruption as Dan Killian, the Network executive who manipulates Richards into the game, while Colman Domingo devours the scenery as Bobby T., the sadistic, preening host who whips the studio audience into a frenzy. Their performances provide the film’s most entertaining moments, embracing the campy amorality of the premise.

Ultimately, this iteration of The Running Man occupies a strange middle ground. It is too grim to be a pure popcorn flick like its 1987 predecessor, yet too stylized to fully land its social critique. Wright seems torn between honoring the bleakness of King’s novel and indulging his own pop-culture sensibilities. The result is a movie that functions as a decent Bruce Willis-style thriller but fails to leave a lasting mark. It posits that a reality TV star can spark a revolution—a fantasy that, in today's climate, feels like the "pulpiest of dreams" rather than a rallying cry. While it succeeds in creating a cohesive world, it struggles to tell a story that feels urgent, proving that sometimes, catching up to the future means the shock of the new has already worn off.