A smart, stylish, slightly self-satisfied dystopia

Edgar Wright's The Running Man sprints through dystopia with caffeinated conviction, turning Stephen King’s bleak parable into a slick, hyper active spectacle of our surveillance-saturated age. Wright's version hews closer to King’s grim novel than the 1987 camp classic, trading quips for cultural critique.

- Troy Ribeiro

The film imagines a world where entertainment and execution have become indistinguishable, and the only prize for integrity is a billion-dollar bounty. Wright's direction is a gleaming, frantic blend of satire and spectacle. A game show where the prize is survival, and the cost is one’s soul.

Beneath the neon shimmer and visual gymnastics lies a pointed commentary on how the media turns rebellion into ratings, dissent into digestible drama, and class frustration into televised catharsis. Yet, amid the sensory overload, Wright occasionally forgets to breathe, leaving audiences dizzy rather than disturbed.

The breathless second act, packed with ideas and chases, risks blurring its own message. The result is a film that is thrilling, clever, and a touch too pleased with its own velocity.

Actors’ performance