story over thought

Benny Safdie and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson might initially seem like an unexpected pairing, but anyone familiar with how Hollywood works will recognize the mutual benefit. Prior to announcing this collab, an adaptation of John Hyam’s 2002 documentary on MMA legend Mark Kerr, the Safdie brothers found enormous success casting Adam Sandler against type in Uncut Gems, arguably one of the best films of the decade. Meanwhile, Johnson has spent years avoiding films that required an evolution of his meat-and-potatoes good guy brand, a decision that has been largely financially successful but also artistically stagnant. Ultimately, Safdie’s somewhat languid Smashing Machine may not be as gripping as The Rock’s performance, but it’s every bit as thoughtful.

One of the most widespread misconceptions about MMA is that it’s a sport full of meatheads who are hostile in and out of the cage. What’s most interesting about The Smashing Machine, and The Rock’s portrayal of Kerr, and likely Kerr himself, is that two people seem to coexist within the same enormous body. In the octagon, Kerr’s style consists of taking his opponent down and raining heavy shots, a distinctly brutal method of mixing the martial arts (though the sequences themselves feel repetitive and somewhat uncinematic).

Outside the cage, however, the fighter is remarkably well spoken, thoughtful, and quiet, like many professional MMA fighters. He is polite to fellow fighters and office staff alike, and he patiently navigates the language barrier between his Japanese fans and bosses (Kerr says “arigato” six times, and yes, I counted). My favorite scene is Kerr sitting in a doctor’s office, covered in bruises, explaining to a woman and child why he fights. He signs an autograph as she voices her complaints about how barbaric the whole thing is. “No fighting,” Kerr warns the boy. Safdie’s verité style works perfectly in scenes like these, and shooting on 16mm evokes that sweaty, slightly hazy early 2000s feel authentically.

But is Kerr’s kindness a result of success, or in spite of it? When he loses his first fight halfway through the movie, his first response is to sit down and cry. Afterwards, he spirals further into a painkiller addiction that sours his relationship with partner Dawn Staples (Emily Blunt), a loving but elusive and ambiguous element in Mark’s life. While both issues existed before the loss (later overturned to a no-contest), Kerr’s undefeated record seemed to overshadow them. Athletes in general have long confused success with identity, and when it’s the hammer’s turn to be the nail, sometimes that identity is shattered. Combat sports are also perhaps the best vehicle to explore this, since losing often involves devastating, life-altering injury, as well as emasculation in the public eye. The whole thing also works as a mirror to the Rock’s own carefully crafted career, no doubt the inspiration for taking on the role.

Our protagonist threatens to lash out in his personal life, at one point destroying a door in a scene that brings Rampage Jackson’s stint on The Ultimate Fighter to mind. In another, he threatens Staples over an innocuous mistake involving a house plant, and she leaves him shortly thereafter. To Safdie’s great credit, Mark’s troubled relationship with Dawn is portrayed with the complexity of a real-life relationship, possibly at the expense of more sensational drama. Staples wants to be let into Kerr’s world completely, yet when he shares his true desires, she resents them. None of the sections following Kerr’s career are as remotely interesting as those exploring his personal relationships, and in a film this slow, many of them drag.

The truth, for better or worse, is that Kerr’s story is fairly unremarkable. He isn’t the sociopath of Raging Bull; he’s a competitor who simply wants to win. The experimental jazz of the soundtrack reflects a mind where a confused cocktail of violence and addiction swirl, and yet Kerr never fully turns into the abusive brute we might expect. Safdie compensates for this lack of narrative tension by constantly subverting expectations. Kerr unconsciously sabotages his body with opiates to prove he’s in control, but he actually realizes this and gets clean, reuniting with Staples and rededicating himself to fighting. When he returns to training, he studies all disciplines to expand his game. He seeks out his fans and basks in their appreciation. The film even teases a climactic showdown between him and longtime friend/training partner Mark Coleman (a truly fantastic Ryan Bader) for a Pride championship.

But MMA careers rarely have happy endings. Kerr unceremoniously loses the tournament semifinal, and Staples tries to kill herself after a particularly vicious argument. She even tries to goad him into hitting her. At the end of the movie, our protagonist seems to become comfortable with loss. As he nurses his wounds post-loss in the shower, he smiles, seemingly at ease for the first time in the story. The real-life Mark would go on to marry Dawn but later divorce. He would also fight 13 more times but lose 10 of the bouts.

By no means a crowd pleaser, The Smashing Machine succeeds as a brutally honest love letter to a sport that rarely gives any to its competitors. In the film’s opening scene, Kerr watches a downed opponent being tended to by the ref and wonders how that feels; he does the same at the end as Coleman lifts the belt. It’s a cycle we see again and again. Most fighters, even champions, only fleetingly receive appropriate recognition, compensation, or satisfaction, and the natural conclusion of a career is to prop up someone else’s brief ascent. The film’s final shot shows the actual Mark Kerr shopping at a grocery store, undetectable to the modern fight fan. Having The Rock (re)tell his story probably won’t change that – but maybe that’s okay. 10-6-25