The Smashing Machine

The first thing I noticed wasn't the muscles or the tattoos—it was the eyes. For the better part of two decades, we’ve been sold a version of Dwayne Johnson that is less a human being and more a highly curated, perpetually smiling corporation. But in the opening moments of The Smashing Machine, those famous brown eyes are glassy, retreating into a brow heavy with prosthetic scar tissue. He looks tired. Not "just finished a workout" tired, but "I’ve been carrying a mountain on my back for thirty years" tired. It’s the most jarring thing I’ve seen in a cinema this year.

I watched this in a half-empty theater on a Tuesday afternoon, sipping on a Blue Raspberry ICEE that turned my tongue a shade of neon that definitely didn't exist in the gritty, beige-and-blood-soaked world of 1990s mixed martial arts. That contrast—my sugary comfort versus Mark Kerr’s crushing reality—is exactly where this film lives.

The Rock Becomes a Man

Let’s address the elephant in the Octagon: Dwayne Johnson can actually act. We’ve seen flashes of it before, but under the direction of Benny Safdie, he strips away the "People’s Champ" charisma like a layer of dead skin. He plays Mark Kerr, the collegiate wrestling powerhouse who dominated the early, lawless days of the UFC and PRIDE. But Safdie isn't interested in a highlight reel. He’s interested in the guy sweating through withdrawal in a Japanese hotel room.

There’s a specific kind of vulnerability Johnson brings here that feels almost apologetic for his last ten years of invincible superhero roles. When he’s onscreen with Emily Blunt, who plays his girlfriend Dawn Staples, the chemistry isn't the sparkling banter of Jungle Cruise. It’s heavy, desperate, and often uncomfortable. Emily Blunt does a lot of the heavy lifting emotionally, playing a woman trying to love a man who is actively dissolving into a puddle of Vicodin and ego. She’s the anchor in a movie that otherwise feels like it’s constantly spinning out of control.

Safdie’s Gritty, Sweaty Lens

If you’ve seen Uncut Gems, you know Benny Safdie doesn't do "relaxed." He specializes in a certain brand of cinematic anxiety that makes you want to check your own pulse. In The Smashing Machine, he captures the "No Holds Barred" era of fighting with a tactile, nauseating realism. You can practically smell the stale sweat and the mat cleaner.

The casting of real fighters like Ryan Bader (playing Mark Coleman) and the legendary Bas Rutten (playing himself) adds a layer of authenticity that keeps the film from feeling like a Hollywood dress-up party. Ryan Bader, in particular, is surprisingly naturalistic, capturing the weird, fraternal bond of two men who make a living by trying to turn each other’s brains into alphabet soup.

I’ll be honest: the fight choreography makes every recent Marvel movie look like a choreographed nap at a retirement home. There’s no CGI-assisted weightlessness here. When Kerr slams an opponent, you feel the floorboards groan. It’s brutal, but it’s never celebratory. Safdie treats the violence as a workplace hazard—a grueling, soul-sucking necessity that funds Kerr’s escalating addiction.

A Relic of the "Wild West"

What makes The Smashing Machine feel so relevant in 2025 is how it looks back at the birth of a multi-billion dollar industry through the lens of the bodies it broke to get there. We live in an era of hyper-sanitized, corporate-sponsored sports. This film takes us back to when "The Smashing Machine" was a terrifyingly accurate nickname and the rules were basically "don't fish-hook the guy's mouth."

It’s a historical drama, but it feels like a cautionary tale for the present. The film explores the opioid crisis before it was a national headline, showing how a man built to be "The Unstoppable Force" becomes the most fragile person in the room. The budget was $50 million—a huge swing for A24—and while it didn't set the box office on fire, it feels like the kind of movie that will be whispered about for years. It’s a "prestige" film that isn't afraid to get its fingernails dirty.

The movie isn't perfect; the pacing in the second act drags as we loop through the cycle of addiction and recovery a few too many times. But the sheer commitment from the cast keeps it afloat. Seeing Dwayne Johnson lose a fight—emotionally and physically—is the kind of subversion of celebrity culture that we desperately need more of.

The Smashing Machine is a bruising, necessary reminder that behind every "legend" is a human being who is likely held together by athletic tape and bad decisions. It’s the best work of Dwayne Johnson’s career, and a testament to Benny Safdie’s ability to find the humanity in the middle of a frantic, violent mess. It’s not an easy watch, but it’s an essential one for anyone who thinks they know what a "tough guy" looks like. Don't go in expecting a victory lap; go in expecting a reckoning.