Words by JANE CROWTHER
Have we ever seen Dwayne Johnson cry on-screen? Having made a career as a comedy and action ace, Johnson gets uncharacteristically vulnerable in his first dramatic indie role, the moments where he breaks and sobs as far away from his cultivated ‘Rock’ persona as the face prosthetics genius Kazu Hiro gives him to play real-life UFC champ, Mark Kerr. It’s a welcome gear change; beefed up and raw, without a raised eyebrow in sight, it could be the role that takes him all the way to Oscar night.
Written and directed by Benny Safdie, the film follows free-style wrestler Kerr during three tumultuous years when his involvement in the sport was pioneering and shaping the UFC behemoth we know today, and when his personal life was a challenge. We meet him in 1997 as an undefeated fighter with an addiction to painkillers, and a relationship with his girlfriend, Dawn (Emily Blunt) as punishing as anything in the ring. From the off, Safdie and Johnson zone in on Kerr as a gentle giant; he’s a beast when the bell rings but also asks after injured opponents, talks sweetly to kids and grannies, asks for the window shade on flights to be opened so he can appreciate the sunset and likes to prune cacti. Rage is reserved for interactions with Dawn, who knows how to push his buttons to the point of ripping doors off hinges. Though the love between them is clear – beautifully played within the real-life friendship and familiarity of Blunt and Johnson – neither the drugs or the romance are productive. That’s evident to Kerr’s bestie, Mark Coleman (MMA fighter, Ryan Bader) who trains his friend and is another sweet man in a cage-fighter body. As Kerr negotiates his first loss, the rules and pay of the UFC, rehab and police run-ins, he learns how personal experience informs the sport and the teaching moment in not being invincible.
It’s the classic arc of a sports movie and one we’ve seen many times before – with Safdie even popping a Rocky beanie hat on Johnson and giving him steps to run up during a training montage – but the wins are not necessarily about reinventing the wheel. The pleasure here is in watching Johnson disappear inside another person, impressively unrecognisable in a wig and prosthetic nose/brows, his heart on his sweaty sleeve. Blunt is equally delightful as the perma-tanned Dawn, bringing a brightness to the brittle as a woman who wants neither the drug-dulled sweetheart who collapses nor the snippy, sober killjoy she gets after rehab. Safdie also chooses to bring the real-life Kerr into proceedings, giving him his due in a third reel segment that tracks him as he cheerfully does his grocery shop, a curiously moving moment. A standard biopic then, but one that awards bodies will likely reward. Voters love transformation from a performer and Johnson provides that not only in his physically immense muscle mass but also in his decisive reinvention as an actor. That the story mirrors elements of his own hard-scrabble background and fist-bought success can only add to the narrative.
Words by JANE CROWTHER
Photographs courtesy of A24
The Smashing Machine premiered at the 82nd Venice Film Festival and is in cinemas now
