To start, here are three truths. I'm a sucker for remakes/adaptations. I'm a sucker for (most) Edgar Wright movies. I'm a sucker for '80s and '90s actioners starring the veteran Expendables cast.
Based on data, Wright's The Running Man should be unequivocally my shit. That, unfortunately, isn't the case. Disappointment has nothing to do with Glen Powell's casting, hamfisted yet compelling media corruption themes, or leanings into comedy. For a while, The Running Man is very much my shit—until a horrendous third act that feels chopped to inconsequential bits. Wright and co-writer Michael Bacall's screenplay rages against network machines that feed the masses propaganda, keeping hierarchical classes at war; however, their climax and beyond feel like a wishy-washy finale, rushed to completion.
Powell stars as Ben Richards, a slumming father in a dystopian world where poverty is a death sentence. In a last-ditch effort, Ben tries out for television game shows where he can win enough to buy flu medicine for his daughter. Ben promises his wife Sheila (Jayme Lawson) he won't consider The Running Man and its $1 billion jackpot, since there hasn't been a single survivor yet—but fate has other plans. Producer Dan Killian (Josh Brolin) wooes Ben into competing in his cat-kills-mouse reality show with showbiz praise, claiming he stands the best odds ever to live 30 days and beat his "Hunters" (led by a masked Lee Pace as Evan McCone).
Ben, thinking only of the riches his family will inherit, agrees … and the chase begins.
By 2025 standards, Wright's "Running Man" satire is megaphonically overt with purpose. It's more brutish than The Hunger Games; a swagger-soaked Colman Domingo spews propaganda as host “Bobby T” that smells like roses. In a troubling era of monopolistic media consolidation—where David Ellison’s Paramount Skydance, which backed The Running Man, is a modern-day villain trying to absorb Warner Bros. Discovery—there are still countless droves who don't see alarms flashing red. Then there’s Donald Trump’s regime, which has successfully manipulated its fanbase through televised fearmongering and blatant lies. In that regard, Wright has properly calibrated his Stephen King adaptation to simplistic yet necessary warnings that need to be heard by those who've averted their eyes.
Credit Brolin's turn as the slithery, ratings-hungry executive for making those worries hit like twelve sacks of potatoes. You'll leave The Running Man bruised and battered by its blunt sense of messaging, if only to remember the threats Ben keeps in his crosshairs.
That said, Wright's jazzy editing style and mile-a-minute wits are nowhere to be found. The energetic director behind The Cornetto Trilogy is far in the rearview, as The Running Man fumbles its funny-then-serious tonal shifts. One minute, Ben's spitting one-liners like a Mini-Schwarzennegar; the next, composer Steven Price underscores an unearned dramatic swing with schmaltzy "epic hero" tunes. Wright seems torn between two styles—a rebellious, Blaxploitation influence that drives Ben's "underground" movements, and infuriated subplots that charge forward, drenched in a flat seriousness. It's fun for a while, as Ben sticks it to the 1%’ers who are profiting off the poor's suffering, but Wright's never as clever or pointed as we're used to. There's a numbness that brings me back to studio rehashes of Robocop and Total Recall, two glossy yet hollow shells of sci-fi rebranding that lack the same thrilling presence.
None of that is Powell's fault, who steps into the "Blockbuster Headliner" conversation (and will be held accountable for the film's box office). As Ben Richards, he's serviceable across the board: the loving family man, the chisled hunk kicking ass in nothing but a bath towel, the anointed hero who despises the establishment. It's not his fault Jayme Lawson is relegated to damsel housewife duties, or Katy O'Brian's horned-up contestant Laughlin is criminally underused. Daniel Ezra's funky conspiracy vlogger randomly breaks momentum (think Lynne Thigpen as "The DJ" in The Warriors, but trying to expose “The Running Man”), and William H. Macy appears all too briefly as accomplice Molie Jernigan. Powell's got the smile to draw audiences, the build to brawl like a big boy, and the likeability to boast chemistry with his entire ensemble—including a scene-stealing Michael Cera as this loose canon rebel lookin' like Quint from Jaws—but Wright often struggles to highlight any of that beyond what we'd expect from fundamental theatrical formulas.
That's all well and good. Sometimes we just need some popcorn entertainment. But then Act III comes into focus—or, more appropriately, loses focus of everything established to that point.
The Running Man boasts one of the most disjointed finales of 2025. Everything Wright establishes to that point is thrown out the window in favor of what feels like a clip show clincher. Emilia Jones' hostage Amelia tries to force a change-of-heart arc into three at-the-buzzer scenes, while Ben's entire personality and his perception of Dan’s network are rewritten. The movie hyperfocuses on Dan's deepfake videos, which spread hoaxes as truth, but Ben's logic abruptly changes when he is shown a single video that he believes without question. It's nonsensical and betrays established in-universe rules in favor of a flashier, more action-packed outro that’s over in a blink. The whole thing reeks of studio interference, as if someone uncredited had finished Wright's script without any prior context.
I've often proclaimed myself a mark for Edgar Wright, but after this and Last Night in Soho, I'll have to adjust my words. The Running Man is a sloppy adaptation that speaks loudly but hardly makes the most of its platform. It's a jumble of well-intentioned rebellion and confused execution, albeit with a splash of explosive excitement to keep us distracted. Worst of all, without Wright's name in the credits, I'd never believe this was an Edgar Wright flick. Maybe there will be a worthwhile director's cut in the future, but as is, The Running Man doesn't even make the podium.
2.5/5