Well, It’s No 'Rocky': My Review of 'The Smashing Machine'

By Natalie McCarty

Image Credit of Vanity Fair

For a film centered on men being pulverized, The Smashing Machine never quite delivers the blow it promises. It’s a prestige biopic that too often mistakes exertion for emotion, sweat for soul.

Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson gives one of his most nuanced performances in recent years. In its first half, he’s magnetic—stripped down, raw, and unexpectedly tender. For a moment, it feels as though Johnson is finally stepping into a new era of artistry. Unfortunately, the film itself prevents him from finishing strong, through no fault of his own.

Image Courtesy of A24

Emily Blunt, whose presence typically elevates any production, struggles to find footing here. Her performance, though capable, is subdued by a story lost in its own poor editing and uncertain direction. Even at its best, The Smashing Machine never rises above mediocrity.

Visually, the film is arresting. Each frame is meticulously crafted, the cinematography gleaming with precision, yet this visual splendor only amplifies the emptiness beneath. The audience waits for the knockout moment—the climactic fight, the unforgettable line, the “Yo, Adrian” of its own legacy—but instead, the film quietly concedes. It quits on itself.

Image Courtesy of A24

In the end, The Smashing Machine is a film of immaculate surface and limited substance: gorgeously shot, but ultimately hollow. It’s an expertly crafted middleweight that never quite goes the distance.

Well, it’s no Rocky, but it certainly knows how to look good missing the punch.