‘The Running Man’ – Review

Let it be said, once again and without hesitation, that Edgar Wright remains one of modern cinema’s purest pop-culture auteurs. He’s a filmmaker who thrives on velocity, vibe, and verve, someone who can fuse genres together into electrifying cinematic cocktails that feel wholly fresh while paying homage to the best of what came before. From the cult-like fervour of the Three Flavours Cornetto Trilogy, to the pomp, pop, and passion of Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, to the musically charged heist thrills of Baby Driver, and the haunting, twilight-soaked nightmare of Last Night in Soho, Wright’s career has been defined by creative reinvention.

You never quite know what you’re going to get with Edgar Wright, and that unpredictability is part of the thrill. Now, he jumps into his boldest arena yet with The Running Man, a long-held passion project and one of the most eagerly anticipated adaptations of a Stephen King work in decades. Wright has spoken for years about wanting to crack this story open, and he finally gets his chance as he reimagines King’s (writing as Richard Bachman) brutal, adrenaline-soaked sci-fi thriller for a new generation. The result? Ready. Set. GO. This is the action movie event of the year.

In a near-future society, The Running Man is the top-rated show on television — a deadly competition where contestants, known as Runners, must survive 30 days while being hunted by professional assassins, with every move broadcast to a bloodthirsty public and each day bringing a greater cash reward. Desperate to save his sick daughter, working-class Ben Richards (Glen Powell) is convinced by the show’s charming but ruthless producer, Dan Killian (Josh Brolin), to enter the game as a last resort. But Ben’s defiance, instincts, and grit turn him into an unexpected fan favorite — and a threat to the entire system. As ratings skyrocket, so does the danger, and Ben must outwit not just the Hunters, but a nation addicted to watching him fall.

From the opening frames, Wright makes one thing abundantly clear: this is his vision of The Running Man. While Paul Michael Glaser’s 1987 version has its cult status largely thanks to Arnold Schwarzenegger and its glossy, neon-splashed excess, Wright’s film leans harder into the King text. The world is grimier, the stakes feel sharper, and the dystopia cuts closer to the bone.

Set in a decaying future ruled by mega-corporations whose most profitable commodity is violence-as-entertainment, The Running Man presents a society where the line between reality TV and gladiatorial combat has fully dissolved. Wright builds this world with obsessive precision. Every location feels tactile, oppressive, lived-in. The towering monoliths of the Network, the rusted industrial fringes, the broken-down slums where people cling to survival, all of it is fully realised with real sets, real textures, and a commitment to practical effects that feels downright invigorating in the modern CGI age.

There’s a DIY, in-camera ethos to the film that throws you directly into the grit of its action sequences. Wright’s love for practical stuntwork shines as bodies are hurled, explosions tear through concrete, and the city’s infrastructure literally collapses around our characters. All of this ambience adds not only authenticity but intensity. You don’t just watch The Running Man: you feel it. The grit. The sweat. The escalating sense of danger as the game show closes in.

And yes, it moves. Fast.

Wright gives the film a pounding rhythm, a relentless sense of forward drive. This is a story where you never quite know what lurks around the corner, because Wright won’t let you get comfortable. He twists the energy of a live broadcast, a ticking clock, and an unpredictable gauntlet into a constantly escalating thrill ride.

One of Wright’s masterstrokes is fully embracing the grotesque spectacle of The Running Man’s central conceit: a televised execution disguised as entertainment. The aesthetic is loud, brash, and drenched in hyper-produced excess: bright lights, roaring crowds, synthetic pop music, and a veneer of corporate gloss layered over genuine carnage. It’s gaudy, outrageous, and deeply unsettling, all at once.

Wright channels video-nasty energy, 80s VHS textures, and modern streaming-era sleekness into a visual stew, and it works. There’s a performative ugliness in the way the Network packages brutality, and Wright weaponises that artifice brilliantly. This is spectacle with sharp teeth.

And speaking of the 80s… Wright plays with nostalgia without relying on it. He infuses the film with a classic 1980s do-or-die, man-on-a-mission vibe, but never lets it consume the story. Instead, he uses that retro DNA to charge the movie with a sense of mythic action-hero energy.

And yes, Arnold fans, rejoice. There is a cameo. A very cool, very respectful nod to Schwarzenegger’s iconic turn as Ben Richards that will send the crowd into a frenzy. It’s handled perfectly: not a wink, not a parody, just pure reverence for the legacy of action cinema.

One of the most exciting aspects of Wright’s adaptation is his commitment to King’s original novel. He digs deep into the Bachman tone, bleak, angry, and razor-sharp, and reintegrates the political bite that King originally put front and centre. The film pulls in trademark King elements with glee: a Maine setting baked into the story’s foundation, references to classic King geography (including one infamous town that fans will immediately recognise), a smattering of King-verse Easter eggs, some subtle, some wild, all delightful. For King fans, it’s a treasure hunt wrapped inside a dystopian action epic.

At the heart of this maelstrom is rising Hollywood heavyweight Glen Powell, who cements his position as a bona fide A-list action star with his turn as Ben Richards. Powell plays Richards as an everyman with nothing left to lose; a working-class, pressure-cooked figure driven by desperation to save his family and expose the truth. This isn’t the quippy supersoldier type; this is a man consumed by righteous fury, pushed past the breaking point and forced into the most violent game on Earth.

Powell goes through the wringer. Emotionally. Physically. Morally.

He plays Richards as “the angriest man in the world,” and that fury becomes the engine of the movie. Watching him transition from frightened civilian to unstoppable force is one of the film’s greatest pleasures. Powell attacks the role with a bruised intensity that recalls Mel Gibson’s early action work and Will Smith’s 90s charisma, but filtered through Powell’s own modern swagger. This is the performance that transforms him into a full-blown action icon.

Every great action movie needs great antagonists, and The Running Man delivers a trifecta of scene-stealing villains.

Josh Brolin is sensational as Network executive Dan Killian: a cold, calculating corporate sadist who see-saws between charming showman and ruthless puppet master. Brolin brings a slick, smirking narcissism to the role, crafting Killian as the ultimate ratings-driven villain, a man for whom human life is merely a line item. He’s magnetic, maddening, and darkly funny.

Then you have Lee Pace as Evan McCone, the hulking “Hunter” who leads the game’s lethal pursuers. Pace turns himself into a terrifying physical presence; an angel of death in tactical gear, whose towering silhouette becomes one of the film’s most iconic images. He’s brutal, efficient, and utterly unstoppable… or so he thinks.

And rounding out the antagonistic energy is the always exceptional Colman Domingo as Bobby T, the flamboyant, razor-tongued host of The Running Man. Domingo plays the character like a cross between a televangelist, a shock jock, and a Vegas showman. He steals every scene he appears in. His monologues alone are worth the ticket price.

Wright stacks the film with character actors who flourish in this heightened world. One of the most delightful surprises is Michael Cera as Elton Parrakis, a punk-rock zine-maker who becomes an unlikely ally to Richards. Cera taps into anarchic energy we’ve never seen from him before; he’s wild, unpredictable, and somehow both hilarious and heartfelt.

And then there’s a late-game appearance from Emilia Jones (Amelia Williams) that flips the film’s entire trajectory and recontextualises its emotional stakes. Her arrival in the third act adds heft, urgency, and a surprising emotional resonance that deepens the narrative beyond its action-packed shell.

Wright loves to zag where others would zig, and The Running Man thrives on those left-field turns.

Is the action insane? Yes. Over-the-top in the best possible way? Absolutely.

Wright orchestrates set pieces with musicality, chaos, and a meticulous sense of geography. From urban chases to arena battles to guerilla assaults against the Network, each sequence escalates in ambition and danger. The kills are brutal, the stunts thrilling, and the choreography razor-precise. Wright hasn’t just made action — he’s made action that moves, that feels dynamic, dangerous, and alive. By the time the film hits its climax, you’re holding onto your seat for dear life.

The Running Man is an exciting, dangerous, ferocious, and utterly unrelenting action spectacle: a film bursting with pulse-pounding energy and the unmistakable fingerprints of Edgar Wright at the height of his powers. It’s bold. It’s brash. It’s blisteringly entertaining. And it’s easily one of the most exhilarating cinematic experiences of the year.

Image: Paramount Pictures