Glen Powell leads the charge of Edgar Wright’s action-packed The Running Man, an action-packed fest filled with nail-biting tension, adapted from Stephen King’s bestselling novel (aren’t they all at this point?). As Ben Richards, a man living in a totalitarian government who takes a gig in a popular television show to make money for his sick daughter, Powell is quick and feisty, and Wright has captured the anxiety of the novel well. Nevertheless, the genre remains a little uneven – caught somewhere between dark dystopia and “fun” flick, there are times in which The Running Man feels off, and in which Powell’s status as Hollywood heartthrob does not suit the character of Richards, a man down on his luck.
When he is fired from another job for union activism, Ben is at a loss with where to go next. Against his wife Sheila’s will, he signs up to play for the Network in an effort to make some extra cash – but, impressed with his attitude, the programmers register him for the deadliest game of all, the Running Man, in which five Hunters and the general public hunt contestants down for thirty days. None have survived but, according to big boss Dan Killian (Josh Brolin), Ben is no typical player – he has “what it takes” to win. That is, a hate-fuelled rage against the government, and a burning desire to see his daughter well again. But of course, the Network isn’t all it’s cracked up to be – in their world, no one ever truly wins.
As Ben, Powell is believable as a dexterous labourer whose past employment lends him an advantage, climbing on the outsides of buildings in nothing but a towel, wielding a gun with extreme confidence. The notion that he is “the angriest contestant” the Running Man has ever seen however is more debatable – this is perhaps Powell’s performance, but it is more so attributable to the constant reminders from other contestants that yes, he is indeed angry. The caricatural poor-good-guy and rich-bad-guy is on full display here, with none to balance it out. As his brief ally, Michael Cera as revolutionist Elton is a standout, if perhaps comically martyrial, and Colman Domingo provides an excellent performance as the host of the show, Bobby T (the Caesar Flickerman of this universe, if you will). Brolin is good enough, all teeth and evil charisma – his performance as a villain in the new Knives Out: Wake Up, Dead Man is somewhat less superficial than this, but it does the job. Gravity composer Steven Price provides the soundtrack, a rambunctious cacophony that fuels Ben’s lust for victory. It feels slightly out of place at times, reinforcing the push-pull dynamic between genres – is this supposed to be fun? Or are we supposed to really feel the tyrannical weight of the Network?
The early stages of the Running Man, in which Ben evades the Hunters in hotels and back alleys, excellently tense, and Powell’s athleticism is on peak display here, as is Wright’s ability to keep the audience’s heart in its mouth. The excitement somewhat fizzles in the latter half, but this is no doubt down to King’s novel, where the middle act slows the action considerably, making for a somewhat tepid conclusion. What’s shocking here however is how absent Wright is from his film at a first glance – there is a certain degree of humour, perhaps, and the rapid-fire cuts he is famous for. This is not necessarily a bad thing – there were already stark differences between his earlier works and the likes of Baby Driver and Last Night in Soho). It is only looking more closely that Wright does emerge, in places, in atmosphere. And this – in its relentless attempt to make a shockingly violent, cold, relentless story that feels more and more like the modern day into a fun action film – is where The Running Man falls short.
