The Most Dangerous Genre | The New Yorker
Schwarzenegger’s version of “The Running Man” is one of my favorite films. There’s a deep 1980s cheesiness here, but not an easy morality. Most of the characters are trying to make their way through an authoritarian regime in one piece and have no propulsive interest in changing the world for the better until they are effectively assured that it won’t have a material impact on their lives. Richards won’t kill a bunch of starving children, sure, but he doesn’t become a Runner because he wants to overthrow the regime or because he desperately needs money. (When his fellow escapees try to recruit him into the resistance, he says no, because his only goal is survival.) In this tale, Richards serves as a revenge sacrifice for the authoritarian government, that is, until he goes into full Arnold mode and begins eliminating the people who are stalking him, referred to in this film as “Stalkers.”
The film was a vehicle for Schwarzenegger’s stardom — he was coming off a string of films that included the “Conan,” “The Terminator” and “Predator” films, which made him a unique figure at the box office — and Glaser gets the most out of him. Immediately after the helicopter scene, Schwarzenegger walks through a forced labor metal factory carrying an I-beam; his grapefruit-sized biceps burst from the sleeves of a tattered thermal top. He’s an action figure as an actor, which made him the perfect Running Man.
But it’s the casting of Richard Dawson that makes the film tick. Dawson, the slightly lecherous host of the game show “Family Feud” from 1976 to 1985 and again from 1994 to 1995, was best known for kissing every female contestant on the show. Dawson is a born carnival barker; I was surprised to learn he was English, because the only voice I ever heard come out of him sounded like a proto-megachurch pastor. In the film, Dawson plays Damon Killian, the host of the “Running Man” competition, and Dawson basically treats him like he’s doing a bonus episode of “Family Feud.” Killian lusts after Richards as a potential candidate like he’s two Martinis deep and eyeing a steak. When told he can’t have Richards on the show – military prisoners aren’t allowed to participate – Killian phones to plead for an exception, his bejeweled little finger delicately lifted from the receiver. “Give me the Department of Justice, Entertainment Division,” he said. “No, wait for it. Operator, find me the President’s agent.”
The original “Running Man” is a schlocky satire, ridiculing the nice old ladies and salarymen who can so easily turn into bloodthirsty fanatics. When a stalker corners one of Richards’ classmates, the film cuts to a bar, where a young man shouts, “Kill that son of a bitch!” The new version functions more as a commentary on the modern surveillance state, in which anyone with a phone is a potential informant. Powell, who has been on his own action star career in recent years, certainly brings more pathos to the character than his predecessor. But Wright’s remarks – and especially his cultural critiques – can be a bit obvious and boring. Take the example of the fictional reality TV show “The Americanos” which airs on the same channel as the game show “The Running Man”. It’s a clear send-up of “Keeping Up With the Kardashians,” but it’s too close to the source material to be interesting as a piece of the dystopian world Wright is trying to construct. Absurdity can be a more effective weapon than simple criticism; just look at the fake TV shows in Paul Verhoeven’s “RoboCop” or Mike Judge’s “Idiocracy.” There is a difference between satire and pure replication.
Recently, we have seen the concept of the game show of death breaking the lockdown and entering the real world. Earlier this year in New York, people could pay forty dollars to participate in the Squid Game Experience, a brand activation where fans could don a numbered jersey and play Red Light Green Light with a giant doll. There was no prize money, and there was also no risk; even if you lose the first game, you can move on to the next one. A deadly game show had become the premise for a downtown escape room. Still, I was surprised by the number of people willing to reenact, however gently, the events of a game show where failure means death. I’m not a superstitious person, but when I started seeing ads for Squid Game Experience on the walls of subway stations over the summer, it struck me as spiritually profane, like an inauspicious symbol.
In 2021, YouTube mega-influencer Jimmy Donaldson, known as MrBeast, also made a real-life version of “Squid Game,” which became his most-viewed full-length video to date, with nearly a billion views. He recreated many of the show’s challenges, but, instead of executing the losers, he had the contestants carry harmless firecrackers under their uniforms that exploded when they were disqualified. Donaldson’s adaptation managed to turn the satire on its head, turning what was a bleak story about what it means to be hopeless in a society with very little hope of improvement into hollow, earnest entertainment.
