In Defense of Edgar Wright’s The Running Man

Edgar Wright’s most recent movie wasn’t met with the same success as his previous releases — commercially or critically — yet The Running Man fits perfectly into the themes he’s been developing since the beginning of his career.

For all the troubles we faced in 2025, one thing stands out: the wide and diverse range of films that made it to the big screen. From the slick, tight spy drama of Black Bag to the bombastic last ride of Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible – The Final Reckoning, and the phenomenal successes of Sinners, Wicked: For Good, Weapons, or One Battle After Another, it felt like there was something for everyone in a dark room packed with strangers.

Sadly, The Running Man didn’t seem to be part of that group.

On paper, this film had it all. It was an action-packed adaptation of a novel by the world’s most famous living writer, Stephen King. The cast included Glen Powell, a rising star riding high after successes like Top Gun: Maverick, Hit Man, and Anyone But You. And above all, Edgar Wright was at the helm.

The British filmmaker, known for his highly stylized directing and for such critical and popular films as the Cornetto trilogy, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, and one of the most haunting films I’ve seen in recent years, Last Night in Soho, seemed like a match made in heaven for The Running Man: the story of a desperate worker in a dystopian America who chooses to participate in the most dangerous TV game show in the world to save his child.

The first trailers promised an adrenaline-filled film, with Wright’s signature blend of intense action scenes and humor (or humour, depending on which side of the Atlantic you’re on). I was one of the many waiting impatiently to see what Wright had cooked up this time, and among the first to go watch it in a theater.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that I was one of the few who went to see it… and even fewer who actually enjoyed it.

Not only did The Running Man disappoint on its opening weekend, but it was also met with a lukewarm reception from critics and audiences. Most of the criticism focused on the adaptation of King’s novel — especially the ending — and, although Wright’s direction and the performances were praised, the overall consensus that emerged was that the film was yet another case of “style over substance.”

I’ve always struggled with that particular criticism. Film is a visual medium, and style is part of the substance. But I think the response to The Running Man has less to do with what’s on screen and more to do with the context of its release, and with the way we collectively misread Edgar Wright as a filmmaker.

Wright is often treated as a clever stylist who makes cool, flashy movies about nerds and genre tropes. The Running Man reveals something else: a deeply political filmmaker whose anger about authority, media, and inequality has been there all along, hiding in plain sight between the jokes, the needle drops, and the whip pans.

A Dystopia That Feels Uncomfortably Present

First things first, let’s go back to what The Running Man is about.

The story follows Ben Richards, a down-on-his-luck blue-collar worker, desperate to get a job that would allow him to pay for the treatment his sick daughter needs. Blacklisted for “insubordination” in a dystopian, authoritarian version of the US, he decides to go to the Network — a powerful media conglomerate that has taken over America’s government and economy — to participate in a game show that could earn him the money he needs.

Unfortunately, he’s only offered the most dangerous and lucrative game in history: The Running Man.

The rules? Survive 30 days out in the world while a team of highly skilled hunters tracks him down.

The reward? A billion new dollars.

What follows is a gripping, high-stakes game of hide-and-seek, where Richards must not only face ruthless killers, but also a bloodthirsty public and a megacorporation ready to twist every truth to stop him from defeating them.

Did I say dystopian? It sure was when it was written.

The book was published in 1982 under Stephen King’s pseudonym Richard Bachman — but he actually wrote it ten years earlier, and it was shelved until he became famous enough to flood the market with his work.

If there’s one thing King nailed in his story, it’s the portrayal of an America that feels uncomfortably close to home right now: authoritarian leaders in power, corporations taking over public interests, masked goons acting lawlessly in the streets, an overabundance of amoral reality TV shows, and technologies used to watch, control, and manipulate people’s actions.

The ultimate irony? The story takes place in 2025.

What was considered science fiction in King’s book has edged disturbingly close to our reality, which makes it an extremely tricky story to adapt to the screen today.

It’s one thing to tell a story about a dystopian society as a warning about where we could be headed. Blade Runner, 1984, Soylent Green... they all depict worlds where the issues of the time are exaggerated to make the audience wonder what might happen if society continues down the same path. Those stories can afford bleak, nihilistic endings because that’s the message: stop the system from turning bad before it’s too late, and there’s nothing you can do.

But what can you do when the system of your story already looks a lot like the one you’re living in?

That’s the dilemma Edgar Wright and his co-writer Michael Bacall ran into when it came to sticking the landing.

King’s original novel ends with Richards crashing a plane into the Network’s building. He knows he doesn’t stand a chance of winning against a power with too many resources and too much support to ever let him bring them down. That bleak ending stood out in 1982, during Reagan-era optimism, but in the context of the American cynicism of 1972, when it was actually written, it feels even more appropriate. The ending gained even more mythic weight after the first adaptation with Arnold Schwarzenegger in 1987, which kept the bare bones of the premise but turned it into a more crowd-pleasing, optimistic blockbuster.

This new adaptation starts from two challenges: stay as close as possible to King’s book, while still making it feel relevant to our current moment. Wright’s film keeps most of what made the story so compelling in the first place — from Powell’s furious portrait of an ordinary worker to the globe-trotting scale of the game — but he deliberately tweaks the ending in an attempt to satisfy both sides of the fandom.

On one hand, Richards still flies a plane toward the Network’s building at the end of the film, but he’s shot down by one of their missiles before he can succeed.

On the other hand, Wright and Bacall add an epilogue: Richards’ journey has inspired a rebellion among people who are tired of being exploited by an oligarchy and fed lies on TV to keep them docile.

This new take sparked a lot of debate among viewers and critics. Some despised it for betraying the novel’s spirit, others praised the slightly more hopeful ending for giving the audience a reason not to just sink into despair.

I’m firmly in the latter camp.

A nihilistic ending makes sense when the threat is still abstract or not yet part of everyday life. But when we already live in a world where a handful of corporations are richer than entire countries, where technologies such as AI can already twist and fake every word we say, and where we have enough content to watch on our screens to forget what happens beyond them, sticking to the original ending feels less like a warning and more like a “Captain Obvious” observation.

By showing how Richards’ run on the show actually inspires people to stand up and turn off their TVs, Wright’s version ends up closer to the spirit of the book: change the outcome, don’t let the bad guys win.

In the end, that’s what great filmmakers understand — and Edgar Wright is very much one of them.

Edgar Wright, The Quietly Angry Filmmaker

Edgar Wright burst onto the global scene 20 years ago with his bonkers zombie film Shaun of the Dead, and has since built a career as a cinephile filmmaker. Through the Cornetto trilogy, which includes Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, and The World’s End, Wright has sharpened his innate sense of frenetic editing and visual flair, using all the classic tropes of zombie invasion, buddy-cop action, and alien apocalypse movies with an explosive British sense of humor.

In between the latter two, he managed to create the equally bonkers Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, before following up with the heist, music-filled Baby Driver, and the psychological horror thriller Last Night in Soho. Once again, each film was praised for Wright’s impeccable visual flair and sense of pacing, with far less attention given to how his writing complements his direction.

If there’s one thing moviegoers don’t associate Wright with, it’s political filmmaking. His movies are not as message-driven as Ken Loach’s, nor as emotionally explicit as those of Mike Leigh. And yet, once you scratch the surface of fancy cuts and cool shots, it becomes clear that Edgar Wright is as political as his compatriots. And probably even angrier than them.

The Cornetto trilogy is an entire narrative of individual liberties threatened by an authoritarian entity. The zombies in Shaun of the Dead represent the conformity of regular life (commute–work–sleep), and the protagonist has to fight to keep his unique identity. Hot Fuzz pits its heroes against a secret society trying to keep an iron grip on a quiet countryside town. The World’s End sees the protagonists fight an alien attempt at assimilation of a local community.

Every time, Simon Pegg and Nick Frost must face an anonymous, brainless crowd trying to enslave their characters. Each film starts with an apparently normal situation, before turning the climax into a bombastic war cry for freedom. While the effect is not subtle, it at least has the merit of shaking up the established order while remaining relentlessly entertaining.

But if Wright’s activism could be hidden behind popcorn and comedy in those films, he decided to state the obvious in his first foray into straight horror with Last Night in Soho.

Following Ellie, a young girl going to London to study fashion, the film turns into a fantastical dream at night, where she is transported into 1960s London. There, Ellie ends up following Sandie, an aspiring singer trying to make her way into the Soho scene.

At first glance, this story seems tailor-made for another comedy banger from Wright. His love of films and strong visual approach could make you think he’s going to look at this period with pink-tinted glasses.

But Last Night in Soho is a horror film. And Wright knows his tropes.

Instead of a lavish and fun ride with The Beatles and Sean Connery, Wright shows how the 1960s were a time of abuse, exploitation, and denigration toward women. Sandie is abused by her manager, his clients, and many other men, exploited for her body, her skills, and ultimately, her life. This movie is not only a warning against nostalgia for entertainment, but also a direct response to the Brexit movement that promised to bring back Great Britain’s former glory — reminding people of a time when they were supposed to be happy and free… which was true only for a minority of the population.

With this blatant attack on nostalgia, it feels completely natural for Wright to keep exploring his anti-authoritarian thread with his next film. The Running Man might be his clearest statement yet about authority, spectatorship, and the cost of keeping the public entertained and numbed.

Wright keeps all of the tropes that make his films unique, but this time for a story following his angriest protagonist, fighting an economic power that keeps people below water and distracted by endless, brainless entertainment.

One scene in particular captures that mix of playfulness and fury perfectly: the attack on the safe house with Michael Cera.

At first, his character looks like the archetypal Wright geek: beard, long hair, a kind of child-like wonder, and a head full of half-jokey revolutionary ideas. The water-gun gag in that sequence is both hilarious and unsettling: we’re invited to laugh at this overgrown kid pointing a toy at heavily armed goons, right up until the moment the scene shifts, and we realize just how efficient and dangerous he actually is.

Cera’s character turns out to be not just a memeable idealist, but a deeply committed activist who does his real work behind closed doors. In a way, he feels like a stand-in for Wright himself: someone whose goofy, enthusiastic exterior hides a very sharp, very political mind, using humor and style as a way to get close enough before landing the real blow.

Maybe it’s why people didn’t connect with this movie as much as the previous ones. They finally realized that under his bubbly personality and love for filmmaking, Wright uses style to let the substance of his films sneak under people’s skin.

To me, Wright would be this friend at a party who keeps a mass of people entertained with endless anecdotes and jokes — but once the atmosphere has cooled down and only a few guests are left, he launches into an exhaustive, furious rant about how the last 40 years of political discourse have led the country into such a state of inequalities and despair, still cracking a few jokes to keep you hooked.

Wright doesn’t yell his political opinions for the critics to applaud his stance. He whispers them low enough for them to exist, but only if you find the time to scratch the paint of his style.

Maybe that’s why his movies grow on me over the years. And why The Running Man will probably end up as my favorite film of 2025.

PS — Why This Movie Hit So Hard

Maybe this is why The Running Man stayed with me long after the credits rolled. I’ve spent this past year wrestling with the same quiet fight the film turns into a spectacle: trying to carve out meaning, hope, and momentum in a world that often feels too loud to hear you. Defending Edgar Wright’s film felt a lot like defending all the people — myself included — who don’t always fit the narrative they’re placed in. If this essay has a point beyond cinema, it’s this: misunderstood things are worth standing up for. Sometimes that includes the art we love. Sometimes it includes ourselves.

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