Edgar Wright’s The Running Man is a rare instance of a modern remake that understands exactly why the source material mattered in the first place. While the 1987 Arnold Schwarzenegger version, directed by Paul Michael Glaser, leaned heavily into cartoonish spectacle, Wright’s approach is more aligned with the tone of Stephen King’s original novel: grim, urgent, and uncomfortably plausible. Yet, this isn’t a film that takes itself too seriously. It is dynamic, propulsive and sharply orchestrated, balancing adrenaline-fuelled action with a meaningful critique of authoritarianism.
Led by Glen Powell in a career-defining turn as Ben Richards, the film manages to feel both contemporary and eerily foreboding, reminding us that dystopia doesn’t arrive all at once—it arrives gradually, disguised as entertainment.
Taking place in a near-future America crushed under economic collapse and rising fascism, the story follows Ben Richards, an unemployed factory worker desperate to help his ailing family. In a last-ditch effort to secure financial security, he volunteers to appear on a state-sanctioned reality show called “The Running Man”, where contestants must evade a rotating cast of government-appointed killers for thirty days. If he survives, Ben wins a fortune; if he dies, his wife and baby daughter still receive a smaller payout. The show dominates national broadcasting, feeding a population pacified by spectacle and violence. As Richards navigates urban wastelands, propaganda broadcasts, and shifting alliances, he becomes more than just prey—he becomes a symbol of resistance against the illusion of freedom that the state sells its citizens.
Powell carries the film with a performance that manages to blend vulnerability and defiance, trading the invincible muscleman persona of Schwarzenegger’s interpretation for something more human and relatable. Jayme Lawson (Sinners) brings emotional depth as Ben’s wife, Sheila Richards, grounding the stakes before the mayhem begins. Colman Domingo, Lee Pace, and Josh Brolin each standout in supporting roles, embodying media moguls and hunters with impressive nuance. Props must also go to Willam H. Macey for an all too brief appearance as Molie Jernigan, a man who assists Ben when he is on the run. Meanwhile, Michael Cera is one again on form as chaotic anarchist wannabe Elton Parrakis.
What elevates this adaptation above its predecessor is how sharply it confronts contemporary anxieties. The film does not simply ask what society would do to entertain itself—it asks what it is already doing. Deepfake footage is weaponized to control political narrative. AI-driven surveillance tracks Richards with chilling efficiency. The media machine edits, reframes and rewrites reality in real-time, showing how truth becomes a casualty long before bodies hit the ground. Here, King’s themes—authoritarian creep, structural inequality, the commodification of violence—are not speculative hypotheticals; they are our current reality
Edgar Wright’s stylistic fingerprints are unmistakable: tightly choreographed action set pieces, precise editing and a score that hits with purposeful precision. This is Wright’s most accomplished Hollywood film to date and Glen Powell proves again that he is Tom Cruise’s rightful heir as cinema’s new favourite action man. See on the biggest screen available.
