There is no film that I find more frustrating than one that intends to be great but ends up merely good. Movies that aim for the middle and slip are much easier to shrug your shoulders at. The Smashing Machine does not aim for the middle; its noble sights are set much higher than that. Sadly, it falls short of its lofty target.
The two most significant issues reveal themselves early. By starting at the end of Mark Kerr’s MMA peak, we are never shown why he was so important. Several characters tell us he is, but movies are supposed to show us, and this one doesn’t. That same timing issue impacts the relationship between Kerr (Dwayne Johnson) and his wife, Dawn (Emily Blunt). We never get a sense of how this toxic couple got together. They are so obviously terrible for each other, and there aren’t nearly enough grace notes or backstory to explain their match.
As the film bounces from failures in the ring to failures at home, both impacted deeply by opiate addiction, it is difficult not to think of films that covered the same territory and did it better. The two most obvious contrasts are Scorsese’s Raging Bull and Aronofsky’s The Wrestler. While it’s not fair to compare almost any film to those two classics, The Smashing Machine practically invites it through its similar themes and sports background.
Context is sorely missing in the telling of the story of Mark Kerr. In a film that runs 123 minutes, the repetitive pattern of the fight with the wife, the fight in the ring, and the protagonist’s drug use becomes redundant, and lacks the depth the film so clearly believes its subject has. That missing weight is felt throughout the film, and leaves Johnson and Blunt to carry all the weight of the underwritten screenplay by director Benny Safdie.
Good thing for Safdie that Johnson and Blunt are up for the lifting. Much has been made of Johnson’s first foray into “serious acting,” and it’s understandable. Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson has been getting by on charisma and charm for so long that it seemed as if he would never take the opportunity to stretch his range. It is to Johnson’s credit that he elicits sympathy so easily, playing a character who often is seen feeling sorry for himself, lacking in courage outside of the ring (and sometimes in it), and at times becoming so volatile during the couple’s arguments that he destroys portions of his own home with shocking ease. There is a sweetness at the heart of Kerr, showcased in Johnson’s performance, that makes him impossible not to root for. I would also note the wise calculation that Johnson has made by taking the lead role in The Smashing Game. Playing Mark Kerr requires a hulking physique, competence in the ring, and natural appeal. Johnson has all those qualities in spades and makes as much of them as the film will let him. I only wish it had given him more to work with.
Speaking of “more to work with,” Blunt is given even less. In the hands of many other actors, Dawn might have been nothing more than a stereotypical, selfish, hellcat wife. That Blunt is able to show us the insecurities that lurk behind Dawn’s eyes without much on the page explaining how she got that way is a testament to her skill set.
The odd aspect of The Smashing Game that bedeviled me is that there are no “bad” scenes in the film. There just aren’t any great ones in it either. Two scenes come close. The first involves Kerr and Johnson having their worst blowup, one that turns dangerous. Both Johnson and Blunt play it to the hilt, but the critical peak of despair in the scene lacks sufficient previous evidence to support Dawn’s dark decision. The sequence is set to Bruce Springsteen’s near-operatic classic “Jungleland,” and I got the bothersome feeling that the needle drop was carrying the script’s weight far too much.
The second near great scene involves the aftermath of Kerr’s final fight in the film, and the surprising reaction he has alone in the shower. But just as the moment was sinking in, Safdie makes the awkward choice to tack on a coda that involves the real Mark Kerr in the present day, shopping for groceries. In doing so, Safdie undercuts Johnson’s lovely wordless moment by saying, “And here’s the real guy!” While I understand the inclination to tie the narrative Kerr to the real one, a not uncommon device in biopics, the transition is poorly realized and anticlimactic.
The leads deliver, and Safdie certainly gave it his directing all in his first film without his brother, Josh. Unfortunately, the film’s aspirations fall short of its goals, landing in the painful position of being just “good enough,” and nothing more. The Smashing Machine is competent, well-acted, and sincere, but it never elevates. Not even when Bruce lets out his memorable wail at the end of “Jungleland.”
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