I was hoping Edgar Wright’s The Running Man would be the feral media satire of my dreams; instead it’s mostly a brisk jog. Sticking closer to the Bachman novel and throwing in AI deepfakes is bang on for 2025, but it never feels as nasty or unsettling as the premise promises. When the show can fake reality so easily, the whole “real people really running” thing starts to look a bit daft.
On the surface it’s classic Wright: punchy chases, scruffy punk rebel ’zines, and a soundtrack crate-dug within an inch of its life. But excellent needle drops alone do not a good movie make. Glen Powell is a likeable lead, Colman Domingo and Josh Brolin chew the scenery, yet the satire stays soft. Michael Cera’s Home Alone pastiche is the highlight – a deranged little detour that briefly shows how sharp this could have been. The rest is fun in the moment, but it evaporates on the way out of the cinema.