THE SMASHING MACHINE. In this millennia-bridging era, combat sports are such a ubiquitous element of culture that it almost requires a more active effort to ignore them than to engage. Like garish wallpaper in an over-stuffed room, professional fighting can be fascinating, distracting and off-putting (often all at once) and remains part of all our lives, like it or not. A quarter-century ago, though, brawling as a profession was a relatively new enterprise, still overshadowed by boxing in the collective (commercial) consciousness. The newly formed Ultimate Fighting Championship, before its meteoric rise and monetization, was a multi-modal Thunderdome intent on determining which fighting discipline was the most effective. Almost concurrently with the Japanese Pride Fighting Championship (also spawned from Brazilian vale-tudo), the UFC began as a no-holds-barred, no weight-class contest, with victory determined by submission or knockout. It was, true to its name, the ultimate knock-down, drag-out competition, wherein former wrestling champions (like Mark Kerr, whom we’ll get to in a minute) might face off against karate experts, jujitsu practitioners, gigantic barroom skull-crushers or, more likely, all of the above.
The Smashing Machine, written and directed by Benny Safdie and based on the 2002 documentary of the same name, takes us back to that moment, simultaneously interrogating the business of hand-to-hand combat at the turn of the century and the inner life of one of its most celebrated, perhaps most troubled stars. Rising to prominence at the beginning of an era, one in which J.G. Ballard presciently foretold selectively applied psychopathy and hideous violence might become viable outlets for ennui, Kerr was a dominant force in the ring from the moment of his debut. And, based at least on Safdie’s portrait and Dwayne Johnson’s embodiment, also a gentle, thoughtful soul whose physical gifts and predispositions did not preclude him from sensitivity and caring. In a telling early moment in the film, his concern for his defeated opponent’s well-being clearly outweighs his own satisfaction in victory. And it is in the intersection of viciousness and vulnerability, competitiveness and compassion, that Safdie’s narrative finds its center. It’s a tricky position to defend, and I suspect the ambiguity and lack of sweeping story arcs might deter some, but in its insistence on psychological realism, normalization and refusal to sensationalize, the movie does something distinctive and worthwhile.
Benny is, of course, half (with Josh) of arguably the most exciting American sibling filmmaking duo to arrive in the last 50 years. The two halves temporarily, consciously uncoupled, with Benny having undertaken the delicious weirdness of the limited series The Curse (2023) with co-conspirator in discomfort Nathan Fielder. Josh, meanwhile, has an awards contender in the pipeline with the Timothée Chalamet-starring Marty Supreme set to bow at Christmas of this year. As a duo, the Safdies have redefined the cinema of anxiety and given prickly, lysergic new life to New York City as a backdrop. And while their work possesses elements of the avant garde, these two bros are also ’90s kids and Fans of Movies; there are reasons for them to work with Adam Sandler, Happy Gilmore (1996) certainly not least among them. The Safdies are students of the form, but they also admire practitioners of popcorn cinema and guide them to elevated, transformative, potentially unforgettable performances. One of which is obviously at the center of The Smashing Machine, a movie that feels related but also apart from the brothers’ collaborative efforts.
The predominant talk surrounding the movie is about Johnson’s performance (largely a tribute to makeup artist non-pareil Kazu Hiro), almost to the detriment of the picture itself. That’s to be forgiven, though, because the former Rock is, in this moment, arriving at the sort of work we fans have wished for since he began acting; I guess he finally got that letter (“To the Dogs,” April 19, 2018). The physical and prosthetic transformation is truly remarkable, but Johnson’s ability to trust himself (and Safdie) to become a vulnerable young man, wracked by pain and addiction, attempting to navigate a devastating, completely normal toxic romantic relationship, is really the thing. Because that performance, like the movie itself, rests heavily on the normalization of extraordinary things: Kerr is a preternaturally competent fighter and an international celebrity, but he’s also a sweet boy whose girlfriend (a similarly visionary Emily Blunt) is as quick to say she hates him as loves him. Their emotions are huge and tiny, entire universes of experience that, unexplored, are as mundane and awful as any of ours.
The Smashing Machine is probably a work of hero worship, but it is so deeply grounded in humanity and film-art that it feels entirely different than any fighting movie I’ve ever seen, more Raging Bull (1980)and Bloodsport (1988) and Foxcatcher (2014) than it is Rocky (1976). R. 123M. BROADWAY, MINOR.
John J. Bennett (he/him) is a movie nerd who loves a good car chase.
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For showtimes, call Broadway Cinema (707) 443-3456, Minor Theatre (707) 822-3456.
This article appears in ‘What Else Can We Do?’.