The Smashing Machine.

We could spend hours overanalyzing it, but the truth is that The Smashing Machine, despite being part of A24, a company that, with time, has openly admitted its strategy of crossing over into a more casual market, carries an added layer of morbid curiosity. From the much-discussed split of the Safdie brothers, now pursuing individual projects, to the fact that this film is being sold as Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s first outstanding performance, there’s baggage attached before the opening credits even roll. This is Johnson’s return to, or at least attempt at, a role that asks him to be more than an action star or an invincible figure, the persona he has embodied in nearly all of his previous films.

The film follows MMA fighter Mark Kerr during the turbulent early years of the sport, when regulations were unclear and fighters were left vulnerable to both physical and psychological damage. Kerr struggles with addiction, a toxic relationship with his partner Dawn, and the relentless mental games of competition and self-destruction.

Initially, I was intrigued. Especially after seeing projects this year like Better Man, where the creative approach carefully distances itself from victimhood, I hoped Benny Safdie might pursue something similar, perhaps even tapping into an angle closer to professional wrestling, something Johnson knows intimately, like what The Iron Claw did two years ago. That film captured the balance between loss, victory, and the addictive adrenaline of performance in contact sports, culminating in both triumph and tragedy. Unfortunately, despite particular ambitions and themes that rise above the average biopic, The Smashing Machine ultimately falls into the most formulaic version of the genre: rise, fall, redemption. Nothing more.

And I can’t entirely separate my critique of the film from the larger narrative around Johnson himself. Much like Top Gun: Maverick gained depth through its meta-story about Tom Cruise and Maverick proving their relevance, this film seems to ask us to see Johnson’s vulnerability on-screen as a revelation. But instead of elevating the project, it cheapens it. Yes, we see him cry multiple times. Yes, he delivers lines about fragility and pain. However, considering the context of his career, the contracts that ensure he never appears weak on screen, the recent ego-driven WWE run, and the manufactured image of invincibility, it all feels artificial. Like Brendan Fraser in The Whale, Johnson is trying to pivot into respectability. The difference is that here, it feels overproduced, almost cynically calculated.

Safdie does shine in the scenes between Johnson and Emily Blunt. Their chemistry is real, their toxic dynamic brimming with tension, and these moments recall the director’s earlier, more intimate work. There’s genuine electricity there, and in those fragments, the film’s finale lands with a particular resonance: Johnson’s defeat as Kerr, and his failure to remain indestructible, connects interestingly with Johnson the public persona. That’s where the film works.

But beyond that, the “Dwayne Johnson revelation” narrative feels prefabricated. Venice buzz, awards talk, A24 packaging, everything seems engineered to present this as a breakthrough. And yet, compared to more daring, less conventional biopics, this doesn’t move the conversation forward. Instead, it reinforces the most generic tendencies of the genre, as if all the progress we’ve made toward more complex, less conventional portraits could collapse simply because a megastar finally attempts something different.

I don’t want to be cruel to the film. It has strong intentions, and Johnson clearly makes an effort. However, for me, The Smashing Machine feels forgettable and ultimately inconsequential.