Why transform The Running Man into a comedy? Stephen King’s novel is a fierce political thriller about an individual with no choices, compelled to battle for his life (and family) against a corrupt regime, exploitative media, and a brutal capitalist system that turns destitute individuals into targets for a television program that turns their murders into entertainment. However, when Edgar Wright, recognized for merging horror and comedy with Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, and The World’s End, read this book, he seemingly concluded that what was lacking in The Running Man was slapstick humor and non-stop jokes, mixed with quirky product placements.

This isn’t to suggest that a dystopian film can’t succeed as a comedy. Consider Zombieland, Sorry to Bother You, The Lobster, or Tank Girl (but not Electric State). Still, the very foundation of The Running Man novel, which significantly influences this film, is so grim and intense that casting a dashing film star, Glen Powell, to portray silly and sexy while also being politically provocative is ludicrous. (Perhaps this is why the Schwarzenegger adaptation deviated significantly from the book’s narrative, opting for a bolder, even cartoonish, interpretation of dramatic dystopia.) The criticisms Wright’s film awkwardly attempts to make fall flat, as the comedy continually undermines the brutality of this specific dystopia. The end result is a flashy movie that seeks to balance violence and complacency simultaneously.

The Running Man remains more faithful to King’s book than the Schwarzenegger adaptation.

Glen Powell, radiating an athletic yet not overly muscular type of masculinity, offers a more relatable “running man,” presenting a stark difference from the 1987 action film with Arnold Schwarzenegger. That adaptation utilized only a fragment of King’s novel to craft an extravagant narrative well-suited for the hyper-masculinity of its larger-than-life action star, who portrayed a wrongfully accused hero-cop surrounded by aggressive, burly, and eccentric hunters named Fireball, Dynamo, and Buzzsaw.

In Wright’s more loyal adaptation, Powell embodies more of an everyman. Far from an almost superhuman character, his Ben Richards is a blue-collar laborer who has been dismissed from job after job for advocating for his fellow employees. Blacklisted due to his “commie” sympathies (Ben supports unions), he turns to The Network for financial support for his wife, Sheila (Jayme Lawson), and their ill infant, Cathy.

Directed by Dan Killian (Josh Brolin imitating Dennis Quaid’s chin-forward expressions in The Substance), The Network operates as a game show channel that hurls the desperate into a variety of brutal contests that promise humiliation, injury, and death in exchange for cash rewards. Richards aspires for a less lethal show (like Speed the Wheel), but finds himself cast in The Running Man. To return to his family, he’ll have to comply with Killian’s twisted rules, enduring 30 days being pursued by paid “goons” (who have replaced police) and a celebrity hunter named Evan McCone (a masked Lee Pace). To complicate matters further, fans of the show can tip off his whereabouts and receive payment for leads resulting in his on-screen execution.

Readers of the book may appreciate that Wright, who co-wrote The Running Man with his Scott Pilgrim vs. the World collaborator Michael Bacall, remains fairly close to King’s plot points for much of the runtime. However, wherever Wright opts for comedy, he deviates sharply from King’s tone and intentions, yielding to audiences’ basest desires for violent, mindless cinematic display.

The Running Man softens its blows through slapstick.

Let’s discuss the violence. There’s a significant amount of it, ranging from gunshot wounds to traps and explosions. Yet Wright is cautious about who will suffer harm onscreen. Anonymous “runners” from the titular TV program will serve as comedic cannon fodder in a silly montage to establish the show’s premise and inescapability. A swarm of goons will be fed into the violent spectacle grinder. But when it comes to characters the audience might care about — whether heroes to root for or villains to despise — Wright pulls back, with few exceptions.

Crucial plot developments involving important character deaths don’t resonate deeply because Wright either cuts away from the fatal blow or downplays the violence that such a deadly conclusion would entail (especially in a film where life is cheap and gore is celebrated). Regarding deaths of good characters, this hesitance regarding onscreen violence may be interpreted as a desire not to dampen the fun of this action-comedy by prompting us to truly consider the real horrors of such violence. But why hold back on the film’s primary antagonists? Why tone down those impacts?

Instead of the kind of violence that would genuinely make The Running Man’s R-rating feel appropriate, Wright provides a milder provocation: cursing. There