The Smashing Machine is a film that repeatedly clawed its way toward becoming the movie I wanted to see, especially given the compelling real-life story and the actors involved. Yet, I consistently found myself pushed away by its narrative choices, which prevented me from fully appreciating what it brought to the table.
I wouldn’t say that I necessarily “disliked” it, but terms like “like” and “dislike” feel too simplistic here. It’s more accurate to say I was left feeling… okay. The experience was a mixture of profound admiration and profound frustration.
Let’s start with the undeniable highlight: Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. He demonstrates a dramatic range here that his fans—and frankly, the general audience—have been craving since the dawn of his film career. Finally, he sheds the skin of the big, strong, funny, or cocky guy to deliver something raw and vulnerable. Dwayne reaches deep in his portrayal of MMA legend Mark Kerr, tapping into an emotional reservoir we’ve never truly seen from him before. With his own background in the WWE, taking on this role must have been a profound honor, and that respect for the subject matter reads clearly on screen. He embodies Kerr completely. For the first time, we can see the “acting” in his acting career truly shine. Johnson brings a serious, damaged, yet fundamentally straightforward demeanor to Kerr that is a world away from his usual persona. The longing in his searching eyes during moments of vulnerability and the palpable defeat in his posture during emotional scenes open new doors for him as an artist—doors I suspect even he didn’t know were there.
However, with all this praise comes a significant downside. The ghost of his typical on-screen character comes to bite him in the ass in a few intense scenes. As much as I wanted to be fully absorbed, I found it difficult to take him seriously in these moments. It wasn’t that he was “trying too hard,” but rather that the delivery occasionally felt forced and inauthentic. This was most apparent in his character’s interactions with others, which sometimes carried a semi-condescending tone, reminiscent of someone being polite merely to control a conversation rather than to connect genuinely. Now, let me be clear: I am not judging Mark Kerr the man, nor Dwayne Johnson the person. I am strictly critiquing the character as he was portrayed, and at times, this portrayal suggested a layer of manipulation beneath the surface, whether intentional or not.
Emily Blunt, meanwhile, was saddled with a rather strange and thankless role. It would be an insult to call her character, Dawn Staples, a “trophy wife,” but the script gives her so little substantive material that it inadvertently reduces her to that archetype. Her lines are often lackluster, and she seems to be working with a “I didn’t have much to work with” setup. Her portrayal of Dawn edges into semi-ditsy and clueless territory, which does the real woman a disservice. Yet, Blunt’s immense talent shines through where the dialogue fails. The subtlety in her movements when she feels utterly defeated, her desperate pandering to her husband’s pride and ego, and her restless need to be more than just “his woman”—to be included in his life—are all communicated beautifully through her performance. I saw these not as signs of instability, but as expressed cries for help, conversation, and acknowledgement. Her bitter outbursts felt like the direct result of being systematically left out. Ultimately, I feel a pang of sympathy for how Dawn was presented, as the film often invalidates her very valid emotional breakdowns by framing them as mere hysteria, rather than the desperate pleas of a woman trying to hold her partner and her life together.
The film’s conclusion delivered a masterstroke of meta-commentary that personally caught me off guard. The final scene in the grocery store initially left me confused; I watched a man help bag his groceries with weathered dignity, but a talkative politeness I should have recognized, but at first, I had no narrative context for who he was or why I was watching this. I sat there in a state of disconnect, thinking, “What is this supposed to mean?” Then the text appeared, explaining how modern athletes achieve fame and fortune at a pace that eclipses the pioneers of the sport.
In that moment, I was struck by a profound and uncanny realization: I was the problem the text was describing. The film’s entire journey had been about Mark Kerr, and yet, when he was right in front of my face in his post-fame life, I didn’t recognize him. The commentary wasn’t just a historical footnote—it was a mirror held up to me, the uninformed viewer, who embodies the very cultural amnesia the film laments. The “giddy whiplash” wasn’t just from connecting the dots of his story; it was the startling self-awareness of realizing this moment was talking about people like me, and I only grasped it in its final, brilliant moment. It was a fantastic, poignant ending—one that, for all its power, unfortunately arrived after a muddled journey.
Overall, I liked the film, but I struggled with much of it. While it showcased strengths I didn’t think were possible—primarily through the committed acting—the entirety of the script failed, in my opinion, to create a fair or balanced narrative. It’s a film of magnificent pieces that, frustratingly, never quite form a satisfying whole.
