The Smashing Machine – Film Review

Benny Safdie’s The Smashing Machine is not a triumphant sports movie in the traditional sense—it’s an unfiltered, nerve-jangling character study about the cost of physical greatness and the fragility of the men who achieve it. Adapted from the 2002 HBO documentary The Smashing Machine: The Life and Times of Extreme Fighter Mark Kerr, Safdie’s film is both intimate and punishing, documenting Kerr’s tumultuous years as one of the pioneering figures of mixed martial arts. What sets it apart from standard biopics is its refusal to glorify the fighter’s rise and fall; instead, it finds tragedy in the quiet, self-inflicted destruction that fame and physical dominance often hide.

Dwayne Johnson, long associated with superheroic roles and franchise charisma, delivers what can only be described as the best performance of his career. His portrayal of Mark Kerr is raw, broken, and deeply vulnerable—a man of monstrous physical strength and heartbreaking emotional weakness. With Safdie’s unrelenting direction guiding him, Johnson sheds his cinematic invincibility to embody a man who wins fights but loses everything else. The result is a film that, while occasionally disjointed in pacing, feels deeply alive, full of bruises and heartache that don’t fade after the final bell.

From its opening moments—an interview where Kerr explains his philosophy of pain and endurance—The Smashing Machine establishes a tone of quiet melancholy beneath the surface bravado. Safdie uses this moment to set up a dual narrative: the public legend of a fighter versus the private collapse of a man. What follows is a chronicle of Kerr’s late-1990s heyday, a time when MMA was brutal, unregulated, and teetering between fringe spectacle and mainstream legitimacy.

Safdie’s direction captures this world with immersive authenticity. The film pulses with tension and sweat. Fight scenes aren’t choreographed as cinematic spectacles but as messy, desperate clashes of survival—short, painful, and often ugly. Yet, Safdie reserves most of his emotional punches for the moments between bouts: the lonely hotel rooms, the medical procedures, the addiction spirals, and the quietly collapsing relationships.

Emily Blunt’s Dawn Staples is both a source of love and destruction in Kerr’s life, and Blunt brings depth to a role that might have easily fallen into cliché. Her portrayal of Dawn isn’t the archetypal “worried girlfriend” but a person equally damaged, trying to love a man whose profession is literally built on pain. Their scenes together oscillate between tenderness and volatility, often in the same breath. The emotional claustrophobia of their relationship becomes one of the film’s most compelling threads.

For audiences accustomed to Johnson’s action-hero charm, The Smashing Machine will be a revelation. Gone are the knowing smiles, the wisecracks, and the confidence that define his blockbuster persona. Here, Johnson is gaunt, hollow-eyed, and emotionally exposed. His Kerr speaks softly, his movements slower, his posture weighed down not by muscle but by exhaustion. He transforms into a man imprisoned by his own body—a body that’s both his livelihood and his curse.

Safdie and Johnson make a fascinating duo. Safdie’s filmmaking style—chaotic, vérité, and unsparing—pushes Johnson far outside his comfort zone, forcing him to embrace the naturalistic rhythm of human suffering. Johnson doesn’t perform heroism; he dissolves into the banality of struggle. His portrayal of addiction, regret, and isolation feels so specific that it’s easy to forget you’re watching one of the most famous movie stars on the planet.

This commitment pays off in moments of haunting vulnerability. A silent breakdown in a locker room, a relapse hidden behind stoic pride, a desperate laugh in the face of failure—Johnson nails the emotional contradictions of a man who can physically conquer anyone but himself. It’s a performance that redefines what he’s capable of, and it stands as a career-defining achievement.

Safdie’s filmmaking instincts remain as intense as ever. Known for his work with brother Josh on Good Time and Uncut Gems, Benny’s solo directorial voice is just as kinetic, though more introspective here. He constructs The Smashing Machine as a mosaic of chaos and quiet—the adrenaline rush of combat intercut with the suffocating stillness of emotional decay.

The editing, handled by Safdie himself, mirrors the rhythm of addiction and competition: fast, restless, and often uncomfortable. The sound design amplifies every grunt, punch, and heartbeat, making the audience feel the physical toll of fighting and the psychological numbness that follows. Yet amidst the harshness, Safdie allows for moments of unexpected tenderness. Scenes of Kerr laughing awkwardly with teammates or gently caring for Dawn evoke a fragile humanity that keeps the film from drowning in despair.

Safdie’s approach also honors the MMA world without romanticizing it. The inclusion of real fighters like Bas Rutten (playing himself) and Ryan Bader as Mark Coleman adds authenticity and camaraderie. Their performances feel organic, their interactions with Johnson crackling with genuine familiarity. Safdie portrays this subculture as one defined by loyalty and self-destruction in equal measure—a brotherhood bound by pain.

Beneath the film’s physical violence lies a psychological one: the erosion of identity. Kerr’s story becomes a reflection of what happens when a man’s worth is tied entirely to his physical strength. The film quietly asks what remains when that strength begins to fade. Safdie doesn’t offer easy answers, but he fills the frame with moments that suggest both tragedy and redemption—small gestures of compassion amidst chaos.

Emily Blunt’s performance captures the other side of this equation. Dawn’s love for Mark is genuine but corrosive, a partnership built on codependency and fleeting highs. Blunt balances fragility with fury, making Dawn an unforgettable presence. Her chemistry with Johnson feels lived-in, textured with years of unspoken resentment and passion.

As the film transitions to its reflective final act, Safdie slows down, trading the intensity of the fights for an elegiac tone. The conclusion doesn’t offer victory or defeat—it offers peace, however fragile. It’s a rare moment of stillness in a film defined by movement and impact.

The Smashing Machine isn’t an easy film to watch, but it’s an impossible one to forget. Benny Safdie’s direction balances chaos with compassion, crafting a brutal yet deeply human story about the cost of greatness. While its pacing can feel uneven—lingering too long on certain stretches of self-destruction—the emotional resonance is undeniable. It’s a film that aches with authenticity, one that prioritizes truth over triumph.

Dwayne Johnson delivers the performance of his life, shedding every trace of Hollywood polish to become a man lost in his own myth. Emily Blunt provides a heartbreaking counterbalance, grounding the film’s tragedy in emotional realism. Together, under Safdie’s uncompromising vision, they transform The Smashing Machine into a portrait of strength undone by its own pursuit.

The Smashing Machine may not pack the inspirational punch of a traditional sports drama, but that’s precisely its strength—it’s about what happens when the crowd stops cheering, and the fighter is left alone with the sound of his own breathing. It’s a haunting, humane, and brutally honest look at a man who learned the hardest truth of all: sometimes the toughest opponent is the person staring back in the mirror.