I have not read Stephen King's The Running Man, and after watching Paul Michael Glaser's tacky 1987 adaptation, I never felt much motivation to do so anyway. Now we have another adaptation of the novel, directed by Edgar Wright and co-written with Michael Bacall, and this one has more meat on its bones than the original The Running Man. Yet Wright's movie, though comparatively an improvement, is as dull as Glaser's sci-fi action-adventure.
The biggest mistake made by this adaptation is the casting of Glen Powell. His Ben Richards behaves like an actor named Glen Powell who has been hired to appear in an extended skit devised by the writers of SNL. One look at his face assures you that you are watching a comedy in which nothing is quite serious. Ben, after all, brings his baby with him while asking for his job back. The only scene in which Powell's performance aligns with the film's substance is when he is paired with Michael Cera's Elton. Their escape from the authorities—marked by gleeful acts of violence—briefly turns the movie into something absurdly, cartoonishly enjoyable.
I suspect this is the exact tone Wright intended to extract from the material, but his efforts are thwarted by a lack of control over the film's tone and atmosphere—and by a miscast Powell. Glaser's interpretation was no holy grail, but it did benefit from a sweaty, macho force courtesy of Arnold Schwarzenegger. He was joined by María Conchita Alonso, whose marvelous physique exuded a raw sensuality that went toe-to-toe with the lead actor. Glaser also wrung cheap thrills from the film's high-speed momentum, as players were hurled through tubes on rocket sleds.
In Wright's version, there is nothing distinctive that the actors bring to the table—Josh Brolin, as a slimy producer, is the lone exception—nor are there any memorable images. Wright locks Powell inside his own acting box, where he amuses himself with various impersonations (a blind Irish priest, for instance). Even the players' descent into the game zone is blandly staged, with the camera facing them head-on, utterly devoid of momentum.
Like the 1987 film, the new The Running Man offers an inept commentary on politics, society, and evil studio heads. Both Glaser and Wright present a thin, clumsy understanding of villainy and its victims—the television audience. In both versions, the public revolts against the bad guys after hearing the voice of the real Ben (one of the videos is manipulated by AI software). The filmmakers severely underestimate the common man: first by portraying the masses as angry or intoxicated zombies, and then by assuming they will awaken and take action after watching a single video message.
One could argue defensively that the commentary is merely casual popcorn entertainment—why so serious? But that defense only underscores the filmmakers' facile approach here. Ben is given no thoughts, no memories, no friends, and no social life (except for whatever rigid demands the script requires). His interactions are purely plot-driven, and the issues the movie raises are neatly, conventionally tied off to produce a happy ending. What Wright ultimately misses is the opportunity to create a richly imagined fantasy. The Running Man is not something to be experienced; it is merely a chore to be endured.
Final Score- [3.5/10]
Reviewed by - Vikas Yadav
Follow @vikasonorous on Twitter
Publisher at Midgard Times