The Running Man

It's notable that some of 2025's highest profile films (if not highest grossing) are directly about fascism. Whether an alternate history of our world like the exploits of Bob and Willa, or a near-future dystopia where poor people are forced into a brutal game as their only chance for a better life, more have dispensed with the subtext or fantastical settings that allow viewers to enjoy the story on its own without thinking too hard about what it all means. Looking around the world, it's easy to guess why. Democratic backsliding at home is an extra fire under the ass of American filmmakers, for while our situation is far from unique, it's punctured the long-standing feeling of "It couldn't happen here!", accompanied by the deflating return of a villain we thought vanquished. While the aforementioned films were shot last year, Edgar Wright's remake of The Running Man began filming the day before the US Presidential election. Yes, he's a Brit, the film was shot largely in the UK, and the script and financing and casting were all locked in by then. But given his popularity the world over, and much of the top-billed cast being American, you'd be hard pressed to convince me the outcome of that day was far from the minds of those on set.

Thing is, if you want to make a big action spectacle with A-list stars and a recognizable supporting cast, you're going to need a large financial backer. Not just for production costs, but also to coordinate and fund marketing and distribution. So despite their narrative of tearing down the system, there's an inherent contradiction in any studio-made movie with an anti-establishment message. They are an inseparable part of the very system they seek to undermine. As such, regardless of the intentions of the cast and crew, the resulting piece is an unmistakable product of corporate reputation laundering, a large company seeking to profit from calls for the destruction of the system in which it thrives. The Running Man may be the most nakedly egregious example, as not only is post-acquisition Paramount helmed by the half-billionaire son of a billionaire tech CEO, but his relationship with America's wannabe dictator and his network's selling out of the First Amendment to grease the wheels on the merger make clear that he is not the least bit concerned about its warnings. That isn't to say this contradiction shows through in the finished product: rather, the context surrounding it necessitates interrogating their intentions in its release.

Wright is clearly thinking about that. As it hurtles towards its finale, the movie turns in on itself. Ben Richards (Glenn Powell) has figured out how to incentivize the titular show to prolong his tenure, and positioned himself well to survive the deadly game. At which point, creator and producer Dan Killian (Josh Brolin) pops in to offer him a deal: the audience has come to love him with such a fervor, why not capitalize on it? He'll have the opportunity to win with a bang, then get his own show with a flashy title and catchy theme song. They love his righteous, "burn down the system" anger: it's delivered killer ratings. When he balks, Killian presents him with a video of the deaths of his wife (Jayme Lawson) and infant child, an incentive to get revenge on the perpetrators, the perfect narrative set up that will easily bring the audience along for the ride. Is the video real? Irrelevant. What matters is that as Richards threatens to undermine their game, the Network calmly informs him they'll move his pieces to their whims, shaping perceived reality in the quest for ever greater ratings by allowing the masses the illusion of revolution. It's a deadly twist on Network's sickening insight, visceral even as it's not a new idea.

But this is still a major studio tentpole: they do not do well with ambiguity. We must learn his decision, we must see the aftermath, we must know what ultimately happens. Even the plot points rendered meaningless by certainty must be walked back for "catharsis". Ironically, that drive all too often undermines what had been the point, and deadens the human connection you have to the story and the fidelity of the world in an attempt to turn the audience into cheerleaders for the protagonist. And so The Running Man joins the astoundingly long list of titles this year whose final ten to twenty minutes do material damage to all that came before.

The emotional story en route is fairly stock, attempting to ground us in a world that is reminiscent of our own, but more exaggerated and cartoonish even before considering the sci-fi tech. Richards is fired for wasting company time by saving the life of a co-worker. His 2-year-old daughter is sick, and pharmaceutical prices have risen so steeply as to make Mylan blush. Hence, his submission to a game which will pay his family handsomely for every day he survives, every goon he kills, and every Hunter he knocks off: in a world where 100 Schwarzenegger-emblazoned New Dollars is a lot, he's winning thousands a day, with a grand prize of one billion. Their well-being is enough to convince him the near-certainty of death is worthwhile, and that returning to them will be enough fuel to crown him its first ever winner.

Despite how common much of its social commentary is in this type of story, the screenplay smartly avoids calling attention to many of them. A self-driving car automatically pulls over for an emergency vehicle, allowing a "mulisha" the chance to pounce. The only civilian who willingly helps him is a black man (Bradley Throckmorton, played by Daniel Ezra). While the faked videos of Richards berating the audience are a central plot point, their realization of the destructive potential of AI generated video is left in the background. Part of what's allowed everyone to get so hopelessly hooked on this garbage television programming is that sets are provided for free to everyone, echoing modern monopolistic business practices. Newer models of TV are surveillance devices à la 1984, so black market shop keep Molle Jernigan's (William H. Macy) old CRTs are amongst his most popular wares. The worldbuilding goes on and on and on, so much of it only getting brief mentions before stepping back and allowing you to ruminate on their meaning and consequence. This does mean some elements you'd want explored more deeply are left on the table, but the central plot is engaging enough that they're not too distracting.

Where it falls down (before faceplanting the ending, that is) is character development. No one is deeper than a puddle, from our protagonist to Killian to host Bobby T (an absolutely electric Coleman Domingo) to the decades too late Kardashian knock-offs the Americanos. Their motivations and desires may as well be tattooed on their chests, and they lack for any real change. Sure, Richards' broader fury at the world turns towards specific people as his nightmare continues, but it's always fueled by personal grievance stemming from a society intent on crushing him under its boot. His outlook never evolves, hindering our ability to truly understand what's outside the walls of the Network. While the game involves him running through parts of the country, exposing us to the crushing poverty enveloping the vast majority of citizens, such fundamental elements as the implied fascist government are never even glimpsed.

All the while, much of the dialog is lacking. Wright does away with Arnold's exhaustingly quippy Richards in favor of one who can barely contain his anger, which is an upgrade. Those cheesy lines are given to Tim (Martin Herlihy of Please Don't Destroy) instead, who's quickly dispatched. But in their place, Richards gets few memorable lines apart from some inane slogans. Powell is mostly "standard action guy", more charming than most and with a bit of an edge, but never enough to pop. He needed more bombast to pull it off, such as Domingo's over-the-top carnival barker persona or Brolin's slick smarm. Even the slightly more colorful characters are paper-thin internet forums come to life, robbing them of intrigue even as they have their share of solid moments, with only Michael Cera's slightly crazed revolutionary truly rising above.

All of this plays into the lackluster finale by confounding the stakes of Richards' fight and frustrating our ability to care about any of the actions he takes. While the set pieces throughout are fun and creative, the ending feels like an afterthought, a "yada yada" to achieve Wright's desired conclusion without doing the work to make it a natural evolution. As such, no time is taken to contemplate what it means for the world or his characters, leaving the audience with a furrowed brow. Why do all this table setting and then refuse to dig in? It's a disservice to what came before, a collection of ideas that read as a warning about where we're heading, but fated to get lost amongst the confusion sowed by the final few scenes.

Although this easily surpasses the classic Arnold adaptation, and there's plenty of fun to be had, it fails to live up to the expectations it set for itself, crumbing under the weight of its self-imposed pressure.