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Every so often, a film comes along that dares to deconstruct the myth of its own leading man. The Smashing Machine does precisely that. Directed with unsettling intimacy by Benny Safdie, this isn’t the story of a fighter learning to win, it’s the story of a man learning how to live with himself once the crowd stops cheering.

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Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, long synonymous with invincibility, delivers the most quietly devastating performance of his career. As Mark Kerr: a real-life MMA champion battling painkillers, ego, and emotional exhaustion, Johnson sheds his cinematic armor and stands bare. There’s no trace of the action-figure persona here; what we get instead is a man trembling under the weight of his own contradictions.

Safdie, known for his kinetic realism, takes an unexpectedly tender route this time. The film is shot on 16 mm, all grain and heartbeat, with handheld frames that almost seem to breathe. The visual texture feels uncomfortably close…the kind of closeness that catches you off-guard. The locker rooms, hotel corridors, and training rings all hum with the quiet melancholy of lives lived in motion but without direction.

The story follows Kerr at the height of his fame, yet at the lowest point of his self-worth. His relationship with his partner, Dawn (played by Emily Blunt, in an exquisite performance), becomes the fragile thread holding him together. Their scenes oscillate between tenderness and exhaustion: she loves him, but she’s also slowly drowning in the weight of his chaos. Blunt’s stillness is powerful; she doesn’t fight for the spotlight, she simply occupies it by being real.

What I found most moving was how the film treats pain…not as spectacle, but as texture. The bruises aren’t just on the body; they’re in the silences, the hesitations, the lies we tell to make survival look heroic. Safdie doesn’t romanticize addiction or self-destruction; he observes it, patiently, like someone tracing the outline of a fading scar.

Johnson’s performance is astonishing precisely because it feels unscripted. There’s a stillness in his eyes that feels earned. You sense the years of playing indestructible men catching up to him - and for once, he allows us to see what breaking looks like. There are moments where he doesn’t act at all, he just exists: sweaty, ashamed, addicted, yearning and it’s impossible to look away.

The film’s rhythm is unusual for a sports drama. It isn’t driven by tournaments or triumphs; it’s propelled by emotional decay. Even the fights are choreographed less like action sequences and more like metaphors for inner collapse. Every punch seems to echo something unspoken: pride, regret, fear, love.

Composer Nala Sinephro’s haunting score threads through the narrative with an eerie softness. The ambient jazz tones mirror Kerr’s disorientation, it’s not the music of victory, it’s the music of someone trying to find his pulse again.

By the final act, The Smashing Machine has become less about MMA and more about masculinity…or rather, the illusion of it. What happens when a man who has been built to conquer realizes he doesn’t know how to heal? Safdie doesn’t answer that; he just lets us watch the unraveling. And that, perhaps, is what makes the film linger.

It’s not flawless, there are stretches that feel indulgent, even meandering but that’s also part of its charm. Life rarely follows a clean arc, and neither does The Smashing Machine.

For Dwayne Johnson, this film is a creative and emotional rebirth. It’s a reminder that strength isn’t always about resilience, sometimes, it’s about release. Watching him surrender to the vulnerability of Mark Kerr is strangely cathartic; it feels like we’re witnessing a man meet his own humanity for the first time.

4 out of 5 stars. A haunting, bruised, and beautifully humane film - The Smashing Machine doesn’t just punch hard; it stays with you long after the final bell rings.