It’s not a revelation, exactly, but it’s on the way. To say otherwise would seem (to this critic, at least) coddling, as if one were patting that gargantuanly lumpish back for exhibiting a dram of genuine human emotion, and not just scowling into the horizon or bulldozing his way through an action set piece chock-full of Michael Bay-style pyrotechnics.
I’m, of course, referring to Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s leading man performance in this year’s The Smashing Machine, a biopic based on the career of pioneering MMA fighter Mark Kerr (which director Benny Safdie adapted from John Hyams’s 2002 documentary The Smashing Machine: The Life and Times of Extreme Fighter Mark Kerr). There’s no doubt that this is a significant shift for Johnson, and it is not unwelcome for a major star like him to choose such a project (which he also produced) as his next vehicle; and my criticisms should not dissuade a viewer from acknowledging Johnson’s wisely understated approach to the role.
It is an approach, however, that would not rightly be characterized as singularly “transformative”—and not just due to the fact that the prosthetics do quite a bit of the heavy lifting when it comes to said transformation. Simply put, Johnson does not fully disappear into the role in a way that some of the accolades would suggest. Part of this is because of his own limited abilities as an actor, and another (perhaps one more to blame) is because of the limitations of his material, which is ultimately too by-the-numbers when it matters, i.e. when the opportunity to showcase real subtlety is most crucial.
This also happens to be the principal weakness of The Smashing Machine, a sports movie that continually flirts with unconventionality but never takes itself beyond the limits of what both its audience—many of whom have been enticed to the theater solely by The Rock’s star power, and are thus unused to even A24’s mediated brand of arthouse—and its acting talent—a good number of whom are non-professionals, as per Safdie’s MO—can handle.
Much of this stems from the decision to prioritize the unstable relationship between Kerr and his partner Dawn (Emily Blunt), who is fiercely loyal to Kerr but also a clear enabler of his painkiller addiction, and with a self-destructive streak, to boot. Despite Blunt giving it her all as an unhinged, all-American bimbo, and Johnson the old college try as a soft-spoken Hulk, the Argumentative Couple Scene(s) schtick is old hat by now, and the movie stales as a result whenever the two rehash all-too-predictable disagreements.
Even when there is something visually compelling going on, the writing cannot fully come to the rescue: Recall the argument right before Dawn shatters a Japanese bowl Kerr purchased for her during a bout in Tokyo, when he disappears into his office to chat with his AA sponsor while Dawn seethes—it’s a nice way to show how he has “blurred” in her perception after locating an alternative source of dependence, which unmoors her. But the clichéd context of the scene overwhelms even this neat move.
It is also hard to deny that the Dawn character is somewhat short-shrifted; made into a co-dependent harpy whose existence is reduced to a mere obstacle on Kerr’s path to glory and well-being. Blunt is very good, and there are a couple good visual metaphors to beef up her character (the office glass, but also recall the carnival Gravitron, and how it is a commentary on her desire to be a part of some thrilling moment sans its potential dangers) but not much else beyond that.
Instead, the film would have been better served by focusing more on the world of professional MMA, since the filmmaking technique(s) used in these portions are quite engaging, and the vast majority of filmgoers are less familiar with its details than they are with the hysterics of domestic melodrama. The very opening, where Kerr is introduced during a professional contest in Brazil, is shown in VHS, lending period-accuracy to the proceedings; how the many fights are shot and choreographed and sound designed are quite faithful to the brutal technicality of the sport. When Safdie brings viewers “behind the ring” to see what fighters go through in terms of seeking out medication and dealing with financials, it reminds one almost of Darren Aronofsky’s The Wrestler, which is another film about a man whose passion is subjecting his body to extraordinary levels of pain in the name of performance.
As mentioned before, in order to preserve the movie’s cinema verité feel, Safdie cast non-professional actors for some of the ancillary roles, most notably Ryan Bader (a retired MMA fighter, playing Mark Coleman, Kerr’s friend and competitor) and Bas Rutten (ex-fighter but most known for his reputation as a trainer and commentator, playing himself). Bader is quite serviceable but Rutten outshines, and one can clearly see how comfortable he is on camera, owing to his years of media work. Another standout is current boxing undisputed world heavyweight champion Oleksandr Usyk, who does not have much to do but still brings a lively energy to the screen as Ukrainian fighter Igor Vovchanchyn.
Perhaps the only other major plaudit one can give The Smashing Machine is how good it looks. With cinematographer Maceo Bishop, Safdie shot the film on both 16mm and 65mm in order to capture both the gritty, down-to-earth aspects of Kerr’s life outside of the ring as well as the glittering high-definition quality of gladiatorial combat as worldwide entertainment. Both formats look absolutely beautiful, and the camera is operated deftly: Note how it never gets inside the ring with the fighters, opting to stand alongside the audience/trainers, peering through the long frames created by the ring’s roped borders. This distance emphasizes the (quite literally) larger-than-life natures of these performers, as well as the safety the distance ensures: this is no gentlemanly contest, viewer—it’s a cage fight. Enter at your own peril.
Lastly, it is interesting on a purely historical level to be shown these ins-and-outs of the sport’s infancy, given that it—mainly through the outlet of Dana White’s Ultimate Fighting Championship—is now an uber-popular global phenomenon. Although the fighting days of Mark Kerr occurred not very long ago, in the grand scheme, the world of professional MMA is a very different beast in 2025, sponsored/backed by both major corporations and full-on governmental administrations. Fighters like Connor McGregor and Ronda Rousey and Alex “Poatan” Pereira are household names, and certain matchups are liable to occupy national attention, not just the interests of a few enthusiasts. It would do one well to remember Kerr’s career, and those of athletes like him, in order to be reminded that there is a price to success, and there would be no contemporary glory without prior sacrifices, bloodied and all.
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More from Ezekiel Yu: ¡Viva la Exageración! – Reviewing Paul Thomas Anderson’s “One Battle After Another” (2025), Refusal’s Art: On Yasujiro Ozu’s “Late Spring” (1949), The Fog People: On David Wellington’s “Long Day’s Journey into Night” (1996)