On paper, this looks like surefire awards bait. A beloved star transforms for a redemption saga inside the blue-collar world of mixed martial arts. Benny Safdie has all the ingredients, yet he cooks them in a cool, meditative way that feels closer to a jam session than a victory lap. Nala Sinephro’s ambient free-jazz score sets the pulse, then cedes the floor to one of the year’s most eclectic needle drops, from Bruce Springsteen to Timi Yuro to Little Suzy to The Alan Parsons Project. The movie often stays a step ahead of you, which can be disorienting, but I found the drift purposeful and strangely hypnotic.
Dwayne Johnson surprised me in the best possible way. Beneath Kazu Hiro’s remarkable prosthetics, he vanishes into Mark Kerr so completely that the opening, framed as 1997 São Paulo fight footage, could pass for the real thing. In the cage he is a force of nature, but outside it he carries himself with thoughtful restraint, able to articulate why domination feels like transcendence without ever losing sight of the cost. The performance is muscular and delicate at once, a balance I did not expect from Johnson and one that he maintains scene after scene.
Kerr is introduced as a mountain of a man with an unexpectedly soft center, a gentle giant who will happily squeeze into a cramped middle seat if that is what the moment requires. The sport around him is in its rough and rowdy adolescence. A press conference in Japan coolly announces that biting, eye gouges and headbutts are now off limits, a reminder that the Ultimate Fighting Championship was still defining itself. Kerr barely notices. He has been chipping opiates for who knows how long, and the habit is starting to glare in the eyes of his partner, Dawn, played with wit and volatility by Emily Blunt. She parties, she loves, she worries, and when Kerr overdoses she recognizes the cliff’s edge. The film teases an opioid crisis tract, then swerves. What Safdie is really after is the narcotic of ego and the way competition can become a belief system. Think of it as a Buddhist Raging Bull, less three-act march, more vérité collage about waking up inside your own life.
Authenticity is the house style. Mixed martial artist Ryan Bader makes a terrific screen debut as Kerr’s friend Mark Coleman, bringing an easy rapport that feels lived-in. Bas Rutten shows up as Kerr’s trainer. The air is thick with sweat and bravado, yet Blunt keeps pace with Johnson, flipping the supportive spouse cliché into something spikier and more human. Dawn is not a simple antidote to Mark’s demons. She has her own cravings, her own reflexes, her own breaking points.
The runtime is a generous 156 minutes, but it rarely drags. If anything, the canvas could have stretched into a limited series and still felt full of possibility. Safdie is after a sensation rather than a summary. He lets moments breathe, trusts silences, and refuses to flatten a complicated man into a clean arc. The effect is quietly haunting. Johnson seems to do everything by doing very little, letting micro-expressions and a tired posture do the talking. It is the kind of acting that rewards patience, and it left me genuinely impressed.
In the end, The Smashing Machine is that rare biopic that is light on biography and heavy on being. It hums with music, movement and vulnerability. It resists easy verdicts. Most of all, it showcases a side of Dwayne Johnson that feels new, precise and deeply felt, which is exactly why I walked out pleasantly surprised.