The Smashing Machine: Dwayne Johnson’s Brutal, Beautiful Descent into the Octagon
In the pantheon of sports biopics, where underdogs rise and champions fall amid swelling orchestral scores and slow-motion glory shots, The Smashing Machine arrives like a haymaker to the gut. Directed by Benny Safdie—making his solo feature debut after years of kinetic collaboration with his brother Josh on films like Good Time and Uncut Gems—this gritty portrait of UFC pioneer Mark Kerr doesn’t just tell a story of triumph and tragedy. It grapples with them, bloody knuckles and all, in a way that feels raw, unflinching, and profoundly human. Premiering to a 15-minute standing ovation at the Venice Film Festival before its wide theatrical release today, the film earns its bruises, even if it occasionally stumbles in the clinch.
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At its core, The Smashing Machine is a biography-drama-sports hybrid that traces Kerr’s meteoric rise in the late-1990s MMA scene and the personal demons that shadowed his dominance. Dwayne Johnson stars as the hulking fighter nicknamed “The Smashing Machine,” a moniker earned through his relentless, mechanical destruction of opponents in the ring. But Kerr’s real battles unfold outside the octagon: a spiraling addiction to painkillers, the pressure of identity tied to physical prowess, and the quiet erosion of his marriage to trainer Dawn Staples (a compassionate Emily Blunt). Spoiler-free, the narrative unfolds like a fighter’s tape—layered, tense, and occasionally unraveling under its own weight—exploring themes of vulnerability, redemption, and the cost of invincibility.
What elevates this from standard biopic fare is Safdie’s commitment to anti-spectacle. Forget the triumphant montages; this is a film that lingers on the mundane horrors of withdrawal, the awkward silences in therapy sessions, and the photorealistic thud of flesh on canvas. Safdie, drawing from his signature chaotic energy, crafts a world that’s texturally rich: the dim glow of fluorescent-lit gyms, the acrid sweat of post-fight locker rooms, and the hazy blur of opioid-fueled haze. It’s a technical knockout in visuals alone, with cinematography that captures the era’s underground MMA vibe without romanticizing it.
And then there’s Johnson. Oh, The Rock. Long typecast as the quip-cracking hero, he sheds layers—literally and figuratively—for a performance that’s career-redefining. Here, he’s not larger-than-life; he’s a man cracking under it, his massive frame a prison for quiet despair. Johnson’s Kerr is a volcano of suppressed rage and tenderness, eyes darting like a cornered animal during confrontations with Blunt’s weary but fierce Dawn. Their chemistry simmers with heartbreaking authenticity, turning domestic scenes into the film’s emotional octagon. Critics are already buzzing about Oscar nods, and it’s easy to see why: this is Johnson going the distance, proving he’s got dramatic chops to match his charisma.
Blunt, meanwhile, anchors the film’s heart as Dawn, the woman who loves Kerr through his storms but pays the toll in exhaustion and resentment. Her role demands subtlety amid the spectacle, and she delivers with a balance of compassion and steel that makes every glance a gut punch. Supporting turns, including a cameo-heavy nod to real MMA figures, add historical texture without overwhelming the intimacy.
Yet for all its punches, The Smashing Machine doesn’t always connect cleanly. The script, co-written by Safdie, hews so faithfully to Kerr’s life that it occasionally feels formulaic—rising action gives way to predictable falls, and the melodrama of addiction arcs can border on the maudlin. As one reviewer notes, it works hard to dodge biopic clichés but sometimes lands in a narrative no-man’s-land, exhausting in its realism without always rewarding the effort. The audience score lags behind critics at present, perhaps reflecting that divide: this isn’t a crowd-pleaser for those craving Rocky-style uplift. It’s more akin to The Wrestler, a film that leaves you aching in the best way.
Clocking in at a lean runtime that keeps the pace bruising but never bloated, The Smashing Machine lands as a 72% fresh on the Tomatometer—a solid jab that acknowledges its transformative highs and uneven swings. In a year packed with blockbusters, Safdie’s debut reminds us that the most smashing stories aren’t about glory, but the unglamorous grind to reclaim it. If you’re ready to feel the weight of every blow, step into the ring. This one’s a contender worth watching.
Rating: 8/10
**Recommendation: For fans of character-driven dramas like The Fighter or Million Dollar Baby. Approach with an open heart—and maybe some ibuprofen for the emotional hangover.
