It’s hard to really pin down the tone of The Running Man. Directed by the stylish, often funny, and occasionally terrifying Edgar Wright, the new film takes what could be accused of being a feature-length Black Mirror premise, and turns it into a satisfying, heartwarming movie that is also one of the bleakest dystopic thrillers in ages. How can The Running Man both capture the camp of the 1987 adaptation and also be its own thing? How can it make relevant social commentary without going too far? And, for god’s sake, how can it be extremely faithful to the Stephen King source material while not turning into a total bummer?
It’s unclear how Wright pulls off this magic trick, but leading man Glen Powell, doing his best I’m-not-Ryan-Gosling impression, certainly helps. In the early 2000s, a remake of a sci-fi horror/novel like this would have starred Tom Cruise or Colin Farrell (Minority Report, the second Total Recall), and we would have all had to deal with that level of hyper-earnestness. Thankfully, Powell’s charm is part of what carries things through, but there’s something else The Running Man has going for it: a simple, yet horrifying premise, executed with precision, and just enough outrageous twists to keep you guessing.
