‘The Running Man’ Review: Tripping Over Its Own Ambition

Directed by Edgar Wright and starring Glen Powell as Ben Richards, this 2025 reboot of The Running Man (by Stephen King) re-imagines a dystopian game show in which contestants must evade highly trained hunters for survival and massive cash. Few modern filmmakers have as distinct a visual signature as Edgar Wright. His films pulse with kinetic energy, whip-fast edits, dazzling transitions, and a pop culture rhythm that’s unmistakably his.

So, when Wright announced he was tackling The Running Man, Stephen King’s grim dystopian novel previously adapted into a campy 1987 Schwarzenegger vehicle, expectations soared. Wright promised a more faithful, gritty, and socially charged version, one that would speak to modern audiences’ obsession with fame, spectacle, and moral decay. Add Glen Powell, Hollywood’s current golden boy, to the lead role, and it sounded like a match made in cinematic heaven, but for all its ambition, The Running Man never quite breaks free from the shadow of its own potential. From its opening frames, The Running Man looks expensive, and it should, with a budget north of $110 million. Wright and cinematographer Chung Chung-hoon (Oldboy) craft a futuristic world dripping in neon and grime, a fusion of retro-futurism and urban decay.

The cityscapes look incredible, filled with holographic ads and crumbling infrastructures that sell the illusion of a society built on consumption and control. The production design is immersive, and the score by Steven Price hums with anxious electricity. But the film’s world is more texture than substance. Wright hints at systemic corruption, propaganda-fueled paranoia, and the exploitative power of media, all compelling ideas in theory, yet he never delves deep enough to make any of it sting. It’s as though the movie wants to say something profound about the blurred line between entertainment and morality, but keeps tripping over its own pacing and action beats before it can finish a sentence. The early chase scenes pop, the editing rhythm feels alive, and the tone, grim yet satirical, seems to find its balance. But as the film barrels forward, that balance collapses. What starts as sharp and subversive gradually morphs into something disappointingly safe. There’s no denying that Glen Powell gives the film everything he’s got.

As Ben Richards, he’s intense, physical, and surprisingly vulnerable, a grounded performance in a world designed to dehumanize him. Powell’s charisma carries the movie through its flatter stretches, and his natural screen presence makes Richards more compelling than the writing allows. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for much of the supporting cast. Emilia Jones happens to be in this script for some reason, as Amelia,, is underwritten and underused, her subplot feels like an afterthought inserted to soften the film’s edges. Colman Domingo fares better, injecting life and theatrical menace into Killian, the game show’s manipulative host. His flamboyant performance feels like the only one truly in sync with Wright’s visual excess, a cynical showman who understands that spectacle is the only truth this world respects.

The strangest thing about The Running Man is how disconnected it feels from its director’s personality. Edgar Wright has always been a filmmaker with fingerprints, every frame of Shaun of the Dead or Hot Fuzz screams his identity. Here, it’s as if those fingerprints were wiped clean. There’s no sense of rhythm in the editing. The musicality that once defined Wright’s storytelling is gone, replaced with a generic score that could have been lifted from any other futuristic action movie. The camera doesn’t play, it observes. The humor doesn’t dance like previous work, it disappears. The film moves like a studio mandate rather than a passion project, and that lack of creative spark seeps through every scene. It’s especially jarring because Wright’s previous films, no matter the genre, always had life. Last Night in Soho may have been divisive, but it pulsed with ambition and cinematic love.

The Running Man, in contrast, feels mechanical, efficient but lifeless. It’s like watching someone else trying to imitate Edgar Wright, and not quite pulling it off. The film’s final stretch attempts to recapture some adrenaline, throwing Powell into massive chases, explosions, and confrontations designed to deliver that “blockbuster payoff.” But even these moments, while well-staged, lack any distinctive flavor. They’re not bad; they’re just indistinguishable. You could close your eyes and imagine another director behind the camera: Joseph Kosinski, Doug Liman, maybe even one of the Hunger Games filmmakers Francis Lawrence or Gary Ross, that’s how stripped of authorship the movie feels. It’s the definition of studio-safe filmmaking, visually loud, emotionally muted, and instantly forgettable.

Even the ending, an attempt to lean back into King’s darker tone, lands without impact. It’s neither bold nor haunting; it’s just… there. It looks like it was made by anybody. And that, more than anything else, is what makes The Running Man such a disappointment.

The Running Man releases in theaters on November 14.