The Running Man is set in a world where America is a totalitarian fascist state controlled by megacorporations and inequality runs rampant as ordinary people demean themselves in gladiatorial fights on live TV.
While the obvious joke is that Edgar Wright has made his second documentary, The Running Man is surprisingly disinterested in politics or actually saying anything of value. It wants to be a big and entertaining action film with a hint of subtext so as not to appear weightless, but Wright's adamant refusal to treat Stephen King's incindiery novel with the gravitas it deserves makes the whole thing frustatingly toothless.
The Running Man works best when it sticks to the source material. The first hour, where we meet our angry hero Ben (Glenn Powell), promises a far better movie than what follows.
Powell is fantastic as the lead. He embodies a weird mix of Arnold Schwarzenegger's superhero physique combined with the everyman energy of Bill Paxton and somehow makes it work. He's nothing like the character from the book in terms of looks, yet Powell captures the raw intensity and frustration that made King's protagonist relatable.
Ben is coerced into taking part in The Running Man by Dan Killian (Josh Brolin) to pay the medical bills for his sick daughter. The concept is simple: For one month, three contestants have to outrun hunters and the viewing public without getting killed, and the last man standing gets 1 billion dollars. Anyone who snitches on the contestants is awarded cash prizes which only go up if the tip leads to a kill.
The satire wasn't subtle in the 70s when King wrote his book, and it's uncomfortably prescient now. But Wright is frustratingly coy about the politics and he keeps cutting away just when there's a point to be made. Imagine what Paul Verhoeven could have done with the material. His seminal works from the 80s and 90s, like Robocop and Starship Troopers, are just as vital today as they were then. By comparison, The Running Man feels downright timid in its desire to not offend anyone in power.
Once the game itself begins, Wright moves to far more comfortable territory. There's a lot of fun in watching Powell dip in and out of disguises as his temper consistently gets the best of him. An early highlight is his escape from a YMCA hostel clothed only in a skimpy little towel, which provides both laughs and eye candy in equal measure. It fights against the dark and morbid tone of the material, but it also showcases how good Wright and Powell work together.
And therein lies the problem: Powell and Wright are a superb pairing, it's the material that doesn't fit their intentions. They're working on a big summer blockbuster when King's text searches for an acerbic filmmaker looking for a bridge to burn.
Wright is a talented director and he's proven himself an expert at delivering exposition in a way that doesn't feel like a chore. But that requires the rest of the film to fall in line with his sense of pacing and comedy, neither of which fit The Running Man at all. So when Michael Cera, who shows up as an uncharacteristic freedom fighter, suddenly pulls out a slideshow projector to explain his tragic backstory, the whimsy grinds against the rest of the film. It's a collision of two drastically different sensibilities.
By the time the film reaches the final stretch, where King accelerates the anger to dizzying degree, Wright pulls his punches even further. His third act plays everything so safe that we get the rare case where the adaptation has a worse ending than King's original book.
I can't help but wonder if it's a case of studio meddling or Wright losing his nerve. There's a clear moment around two thirds into the film where the film shifts gears, and whether it's due to reshoots or a last minute panic, but The Running Man suddenly loses the plot entirely. Instead of pulling off a final sprint, it limps to the finish line before sheepishly looking around to see if anyone is still cheering.
