Edgar Wright is one of contemporary cinema’s true auteurs: an English wunderkind who exploded into the hearts of movie geeks with the gloriously irreverent Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz, before cementing his cult-king status with the deliriously entertaining Scott Pilgrim vs. The World. Here was a whizz-kid with the directorial flair of a young Raimi, Tarantino… hell, even Spielberg. After the box-office smash Baby Driver—Wright’s first film that wasn’t outwardly comedic—he seemingly had a blank cheque to do whatever he pleased.
That, as it turned out, was Last Night in Soho, a psychological thriller set in a seedy 1960s London. A strikingly confident and stylish love letter to giallo cinema and to the city itself, it was unfortunately a major box-office flop. With his armour now chinked, Wright returns to our screens with the far more mainstream prospect of The Running Man.
This is a far more faithful adaptation of Stephen King’s 1982 novel than the 1987 Schwarzenegger vehicle. The story follows Ben Richards (played by rising star Glen Powell), a hot-headed working-class father whose insubordinate nature has cost him numerous jobs. Struggling to support his family, Richards enlists in The Running Man, a brutal reality TV show in which contestants must survive 30 days while being hunted by trained killers.
It’s perhaps coincidental that this film arrives the same year as another King adaptation centred on a dystopian survival contest, The Long Walk. Then again, given the current political climate in the U.S., maybe we shouldn’t be surprised.
While not quite as strong a film as The Long Walk, The Running Man is a hugely entertaining roller-coaster ride. It’s a bucket of extra-buttery-popcorn fun, and Wright is clearly having a blast, getting to play in his biggest cinematic playground yet.
He proves himself to be a skilled world-builder: from the grimy slums of the working class to the pristine futuristic districts of the elite, the line between have- and have-nots couldn’t be clearer. Wright also has great fun leaning into the satire—from a parody of the Kardashians to Colman Domingo’s scenery-chewing game-show host—and none of his trademark wit has been lost. The action sequences are, for the most part, extremely entertaining, with a hotel chase standing out (fans of Powell will be delighted to know he performs most of it almost naked). Fun as it all is, this is nevertheless Wright’s most stylistically neutral film, with the director reigning in his trademark kineticism.
Although Wright maintains a breakneck, edge-of-your-seat pace for much of the runtime, the film begins to lose momentum in the third act. As the narrative sprints toward its finish line, it stumbles and gets tangled up in its own plot threads. The climactic fight aboard a plane—with all its low-gravity tomfoolery—should be a perfect opportunity for Wright’s bravura style, but it’s far too over-edited, resulting in a generic, hard-to-follow set piece.
And what of the Running Man himself? Powell is a smart piece of casting: an up-and-coming star with bags of charisma and great comic timing, making him a strong match for Wright’s sensibilities. What doesn’t come across quite as effectively, however, is the character’s anger. He’s a little too cool and charming for someone meant to be boiling with rage, and he
never fully convinces as a blue-collar worker. Still, Powell brings plenty of fun to the role, especially when the script calls for him to don multiple disguises—recalling his stellar turn in Richard Linklater’s Hit Man.
The Running Man’s weak box-office performance is disappointing, given that this is, in many ways, Wright’s biggest swing for the fences. He remains one of cinema’s most talented and entertaining filmmakers working today.
