Does a joke get funnier the more times you say it? Does a piece of music get richer if you play it louder? Does food taste better if you chew it more? Does a painting become more beautiful if you paint harder? Lessons in moderation are all around, each protecting us from the consequences of having too much of a good or bad thing. Edgar Wright is an excessive filmmaker, always keeping his editing zippy, set pieces cued to a hip piece of music, and comedy at its most deadpan. His indulgences had been held in check by a creative partnership with stars Simon Pegg and Nick Frost, or at least harnessed towards their fullest potential in a worthwhile endeavor. Now, in The Running Man, they’ve been tangled into their most off-putting form, all in service of a story that’s been beaten to the punch many, many, many times before.

Set in the dystopian world of 2025 (hey, they got that right!), America is a vast land of the haves and have-nots. Ben Richards (Glen Powell) is one of the have-nots, forced to work in radiation-laced factories for less than minimum wage. But he’s the kind of poor you only find in the movies, which means that despite a dire physical and financial situation, he still has chiseled abs, pearly white teeth, and an expensive haircut. Those qualities, plus his hair-trigger temper, make him the perfect candidate for The Running Man, a game show where a contestant wins one billion dollars if they survive for thirty days while being hunted down. No one has ever won the game before, which practically means it's suicide. That’s already the situation Ben is in (his neighborhood is called “slumicide”), and his toddler desperately needs medicine for a fever. If you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place, you might as well get paid to suffer.

Granting credit where it's due, the story of The Running Man is based on the novel by Stephen King, first published under the pseudonym Richard Bachman in 1982. A few years later, it was adapted for the screen as an Arnold Schwarzenegger action vehicle. That predates all the other dystopian stories revolving around games like The Hunger Games, Ready Player One, and Battle Royale. But in modern movie form, it’s already been lapped by those properties, plus adjacent stories like Ready or Not, Self Reliance, and The Hunt. It’s bad to come late to the party; it’s worse to also not come with a gift in hand.

If Wright and co-writer Michael Bacall aren’t going to be first, they’re going to make damn sure they’re the loudest. You’d need more than two hands to count the number of speeches made about the 1% pushing their thumbs down on the little guy, and how the game, and, by extension, life, is rigged against all of us. Everything is a pre-packaged, corporate-sponsored meal to keep us in line for the slaughter, and we’re all too weak to do anything but swallow it whole.

Neverminding the retreading of these very timely themes, Wright might have had the audience raising their fists in solidarity if everything else about the film wasn’t so… lame. Fitting to his name, Ben Richards is a generic protagonist whose only sin is that he cares too much. His anger is righteous, and every supporting character’s sole occupation is to tell him how much of a hero he is for the commoners. That means a supporting cast of William H. Macy, Michael Cera, Lee Pace, and Emilia Jones is wasted. At least Colman Domingo brings a robust amount of charm to his duties as the game’s emcee, the lone supply of humor in this shockingly unfunny script.

It’s hard to judge if this is a success or a failure in the test of whether Glen Powell is a bona fide A-list leading man. On one hand, he’s saddled with a nothingburger character and a shallow story. On the other hand, he doesn’t do much to rise above those limitations, mostly meeting the project on its level. If you can’t decide if something is good or bad, then you’ve probably already answered the question.

Unfortunately for me (and us), it didn’t take long to decide that The Running Man is an extreme disappointment. It’s a fitting film for the time: grotesque, unapologetically brash, and always looking to send a message. A famous man once said that “I know writers who use subtext, and they are all cowards.” You know what’s also cowardly? Selling a prime steak, and then serving reheated hamburger.