'The Smashing Machine': Dwayne Johnson Fuels a Counterintuitive Sports Drama
In his solo directorial debut, director Benny Safdie is not interested in the catharsis that sports films usually bring with them. He’s more intrigued by the physical and psychological toll it takes to be a professional fighter. Part showman, part brute, part lover, part father, part rival, part friend, part fallible human – Safdie’s film seems fixated on men sitting quietly, physically spent, after a rigorous workout or a fight. It seems to understand the dissonance of being cheered on by tens of thousands of people and then having to contend with the silence of the changing room — which stings more, if you have lost. Apart from physical bruises and the hurt, how does the brain adjust to the euphoric highs and crushing lows? The applause and the mournful sighs? It’s natural for fighters to develop dependencies, whatever keeps the rollercoaster going with the least amount of down-time, observes Safdie’s film.
Based on the life of wrestler-turned-MMA fighter Mark Kerr (Dwayne Johnson) between 1997-2000, The Smashing Machine examines the most chaotic time in Kerr’s life, when his career was pushed to the highest of highs, even as his life crumbled outside the ring. With the MMA inviting widespread criticism for normalising violence and being borderline outlawed on American TV, Kerr and his peers are forced to seek out other pastures in Japan’s Pride tournament. Having earned a feared nickname (which lends itself to the name of the film) – Kerr is forced to balance a rigorous workout regime, taxing jet-lag flying between US and Japan, along with a volatile romantic relationship with girlfriend, Dawn (Emily Blunt), and his increasing, debilitating reliance on pain medication (which coincided with the first wave of the opioid crisis).
From the very first scene here, it’s clear that Safdie wants to make non-obvious choices. Scoring workout scenes with jazz, having Kerr’s monk-like voiceover describing the kind of focus wrestlers have when the bell goes off – studying their opponent’s body language, being able to smell fear – Safdie’s film wants to be meditative. The 16mm film used to shoot Kerr in Japan, lends a documentary feel to the film, backed up by Safdie’s no-frills approach otherwise too. For the fight scenes, we never enter the ring. The fights aren’t meticulously choreographed. Even the domestic upheavals between Mark and Dawn have an improvisatory energy to them.
Safdie’s film reminded me of David O’Russell’s The Fighter (2010) – also based on someone trying to outgrow his working-class destiny, while being sucked in by a whirlpool of dysfunction – thanks to a crack-addict elder brother (Christian Bale) and an overbearing mother (Melissa Leo). Even Kerr has to navigate the stares he gets because of his intimidating physicality; a partner who adores him, but isn’t the most mindful individual to be around before a big fight; and having to endure the pain of a body blow or a referee not upholding the rules of the fight, day after day.
A still from
The Smashing Machine.
Despite his intimidating physicality, Kerr is brimming with underdog energy – fighting a system that sees him like a hamster on a wheel, trying to make the most of his limited days under the arch lights. This underdog energy is also hinted at through Kerr’s best friend, Mark Coleman (Ryan Bader) – who is seen raising a family, and tries to chart a comeback after being humbled in a few UFC bouts. It’s something Johnson probably harnesses into his performance – despite being one of the highest paid actors in Hollywood. He’s looking to be challenged as an actor – which bleeds into his performance as Kerr. Begging to be seen beyond the bulky torso, the veins popping from his biceps, he speaks softly, trying to compensate for the ginormous space he takes up in every room. It’s an excellent performance by Johnson – which can seem “vain”, “meta”, “Oscar bait” from the outside. But there are miraculous the things he achieves, by doing very little. There’s a sensational scene of marital strife between Mark and Dawn, when he refuses to engage when she acts out, instead going behind a closed door and calling his sponsor (after being fresh out of rehab). “Did you hear what I have to put up with?,” Kerr whimpers on the phone.
As Dawn, Blunt maintains a delicate balance of bringing her irrationalities to the fore, without dehumanising her. There’s an air of foreboding that Dawn carries through the film, unable to say the right thing, interrupting at the wrong time, full of great intentions – and yet being unable to breach through the walls of a man consumed by his work. Even while he sobs by burying his face into her body – like a child. I wish Safdie had given more material to Dawn, outside of her dynamic with Mark, which could have define her less perfunctorily.
The Smashing Machine is almost stubbornly counterintuitive, given how Safdie goes out of his way to drain the sexiness out of the sports drama. However, the end result, while individualistic, isn’t as affecting in the way I’d hoped. And that maybe by design. But in a confounding choice in the film’s last scene, Safdie chooses to show us the real-life Kerr waving at cameras, before he pulls out of the parking lot of a grocery store. It was a grave disservice to the illusion Johnson built over the film’s two-hour runtime with his actual blood, sweat and tears.
*The Smashing Machine is playing in theatres
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