by Charles Kirkland, Jr.
In the pantheon of biographical sports dramas, few years have delivered such a powerful one-two punch as the recent releases of The Smashing Machine and Christy. Both films chronicle the lives of combat sports pioneers who battled demons both inside and outside the ring, yet their approaches to storytelling, direction, and performance could not be more different. Benny Safdie’s The Smashing Machine, starring Dwayne Johnson as MMA legend Mark Kerr, and David Michôd’s Christy, featuring Sydney Sweeney as groundbreaking boxer Christy Martin, represent two distinct cinematic philosophies in approaching the fighter biopic, one steeped in gritty realism and psychological deterioration, the other in classical narrative triumph over adversity.
Benny Safdie, breaking away from his brother Josh for the first time since their acclaimed collaboration on Uncut Gems and Good Time, brings his signature anxiety-inducing aesthetic to The Smashing Machine. His approach is deliberately claustrophobic, favoring handheld cameras that prowl around Kerr like a predator circling wounded prey. Safdie’s film refuses to glamorize the sport of mixed martial arts; instead, it presents combat as a necessary evil, a means to an end for a man caught in the vice grip of addiction and self-destruction.
David Michôd, known for his darkly political films like Animal Kingdom and The King, brings a surprising tenderness to Christy. His camera movements are deliberate and composed, emphasizing Martin’s isolation in a male-dominated sport while simultaneously celebrating her triumphs. Where Safdie’s film feels like a descent into hell, Michôd’s work suggests a climb toward redemption, even as it refuses to sanitize the brutal domestic violence Martin endured.
The tonal differences extend to the films’ treatment of violence. Safdie presents fight sequences with brutal, almost documentary-like detachment. There’s no slow-motion heroism here, no swelling orchestral accompaniment, just the sickening thud of flesh on flesh and the labored breathing of exhausted warriors. Michôd, conversely, choreographs Martin’s boxing matches with beauty and brutality, never losing sight of the sport’s physical toll. His camera lingers on Sweeney’s face between rounds, capturing the micro expressions that reveal Martin’s tactical thinking and emotional state.
Perhaps no casting decision in recent memory has generated more skepticism than Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson as Mark Kerr. The former WWE champion, known for his charismatic action heroes and family-friendly comedies, seemed an odd choice to portray one of MMA’s most troubled figures. Yet Johnson’s performance in The Smashing Machine is a complete deconstruction of his carefully crafted public persona.
Johnson’s vocal work deserves particular praise. He abandons his characteristic booming delivery for a mumbled, almost incoherent slur when Kerr is at his lowest points. In scenes depicting Kerr’s relationship with his girlfriend Dawna (Emily Blunt, in a heartbreaking supporting role), Johnson conveys the self-loathing of a man who knows he’s destroying the one person who loves him. The physical performance is equally compelling. Johnson moves like a man whose body has betrayed him, all the power and grace of his athletic prime corroded by chemical dependence and accumulated damage.
If Johnson’s challenge was to shed his invincibility, Sydney Sweeney’s task in Christy was to convince audiences she could be a fighter. The actress, best known for her work in Euphoria and The White Lotus, underwent a remarkable physical transformation, training for over a year with professional boxing coaches to achieve the muscular definition and technical skill the role demanded. But Sweeney’s accomplishment transcends mere physical mimicry.
Her Christy Martin is a study in controlled fury, a woman who channels the rage from her abusive childhood and later her violent marriage into precision strikes and defensive mastery. Sweeney captures Martin’s Appalachian accent without falling into caricature, and she finds the vulnerability beneath Martin’s tough exterior. In early scenes depicting Martin’s struggles with her sexuality in the homophobic world of 1990s professional boxing, Sweeney’s eyes convey a lifetime of suppression and fear. When Martin finally begins to accept herself, Sweeney’s performance blossoms with a newfound confidence that’s electrifying to witness.
The film’s centerpiece, a harrowing sequence depicting the 2010 attack by Martin’s husband Jim (a chilling Ben Foster), showcases Sweeney’s range. The scene is almost unwatchable in its intensity, with Sweeney conveying Martin’s shock, terror, and ultimately her survival instinct. But it’s the aftermath that truly cements Sweeney’s achievement. As Martin recovers, both physically and psychologically, Sweeney charts a course from victim to survivor to advocate, never hitting false notes of easy redemption.
At their core, both films grapple with the American mythology of the fighter and the idea that violence can be redemptive, that suffering builds character, that individual triumph matters in a system designed to exploit. But they approach this mythology from opposing angles.
The Smashing Machine is fundamentally a tragedy, a film that suggests some damage cannot be undone. Safdie refuses the easy redemption arc, ending his film on an ambiguous note that acknowledges Kerr’s ongoing struggles. The film questions whether combat sports can ever be truly separated from the exploitation and physical destruction they require. It’s a damning indictment of a system that valorizes violence while abandoning those who provide the spectacle once they’re no longer profitable.
Christy offers a more hopeful, though not naive, perspective. Michôd’s film acknowledges the sexism, homophobia, and violence that Martin endured but suggests that these obstacles, however terrible, do not have the final word. Martin’s story is one of survival and eventually thriving, of reclaiming agency after it has been systematically denied. The film argues that visibility matters, that representation has power, and that breaking barriers, even in a brutal sport, creates opportunities for those who follow.
To declare one film superior to the other would be to miss the point. The Smashing Machine and Christy are companion pieces that approach similar subject matter from opposing directions, each illuminating truths the other cannot access. Safdie’s film is a requiem, a mourning song for damaged warriors and lost potential. Michôd’s film is an anthem, celebrating resilience and the possibility of life after survival.
Together, these films represent a high-water mark for the fighter biopic, pushing the genre beyond cliché into territory that’s psychologically complex, emotionally resonant, and cinematically achieved. They remind us why sports stories matter, not because of the victories and defeats in the ring, but because of what those battles reveal about the human capacity to endure, to destroy, to overcome, and to become.
