Matthew Percefull
I have a complicated relationship with combat sports. On one hand, I’ve always admired these athletes and the bravery it must take to enter a ring knowing you’ll be punched in the face. On the other hand, there’s something barbaric about the whole thing; watching two people try to incapacitate each other as a form of spectacle. I’m very interested in them from a psychological standpoint. What makes someone put themselves through continuous agony? Especially in 2026. With the knowledge of CTE and other long-lasting effects of repeated head trauma, why even risk something like that? Some might answer for the money, but only a small percentage of fighters even make a living wage. That motivation has to be internal.
Out of the hundreds of films about combat sports, they rarely focus on the internal anguish of their subjects. We never really see the loneliness or insecurities that usually go hand in hand with the lifestyle. Usually, they get the girl, win the championship, and live happily ever after. Rocky and Creed are great, but they do glorify boxing as something heroic and/or intrinsically American. In reality, despite its rich history and the skill required, it’s often something that broken men hide behind. Martin Scorsese’s Raging Bull and Benny Safdie’s The Smashing Machine depict this in two different sports and eras, but they come to a similar conclusion: masculinity is a performance.
Raging Bull and The Smashing Machine are in conversation with each other. It goes deeper than what’s on the screen. Both films were made by directors at a transitional period of their careers, as different as those transitional periods may be.
Martin Scorsese’s career seems bulletproof now, but as the ’70s came to a close, people were starting to question him. Rumblings of drug abuse and the critical panning of New York, New York put his future as a major Hollywood player in jeopardy. After a reported spiral and trip to the hospital, De Niro handed him a book. That book was an autobiography written by Jake LaMotta, the subject of Scorsese’s next film, Raging Bull. Having previously expressed disdain for boxing, Scorsese was deeply connected to the athlete’s life story. Raging Bull put confidence into audiences that Marty could still make something gritty after his musical attempt backfired. More importantly, it renewed Scorsese’s self-confidence. He used this boxer’s life to work out problems in his own. Benny Safdie did something similar with The Smashing Machine.
After the success of Uncut Gems, it seemed like the Safdie Brothers were poised for instant mainstream success. We never got that follow-up. Instead, we got a sudden break-up and the announcement of two solo features. Funnily enough, both films were period pieces about solo competitors in niche sports. Benny’s film, The Smashing Machine, is based on the 2002 documentary of the same name. The film centers on Mark Kerr, one of the pioneers of MMA in the 90s and 2000s. The film does closely follow the 2002 doc, but I disagree with critics that it’s a shot-for-shot remake. Benny Safdie approaches this in a deeply empathetic manner that ends up coming across as personal. It doesn’t have the visceral chaos of a Good Time or an Uncut Gems, but it has plenty of thoughts about masculinity and its role in modern sports.
Both films refuse the trappings of a traditional fighting film. They skip the frivolous montages, the heroic victories, or the villainous opponent in favor of the domestic lives of these fighters. Both The Smashing Machine and Raging Bull feature dazzling fight sequences. They depict two completely different men from extremely different eras that are suffering from the same affliction: intense insecurities. These insecurities are expressed in different ways both men are completely lost within themselves. They have no true identity.
Mark Kerr thought his identity was winning. There’s a scene in The Smashing Machine where he says as much. During a pre-fight interview, Kerr (Dwayne Johnson) is asked what he would do if he lost. Kerr laughs it off and says that losing doesn’t enter his mind. He’s not just unprepared to lose; he doesn’t even consider it a possibility. The laugh that comes with those words is the real tell, though. It isn’t the laugh of a cocky fighter—it wasn’t boisterous. The tone Mark uses as he laughs off this question is shaky and stammering, a tone we rarely see from the otherwise seemingly well-spoken fighter. When he finally does lose, he shuts down completely. He bawls and goes cold on his girlfriend. Fighting is the one aspect of life that Kerr feels in full control of. As crazy as it sounds, dominating opponents was therapeutic for him. The facade drops as soon as the fights are over (we see him checking on his opponents throughout the film), but for those brief minutes, he can live up to the masculinity that his size and stature imply.
Jake LaMotta thought his identity was fighting. Winning and losing never really factored much into it. Sure, no boxer goes in the ring wanting to lose, but he was used to losing. LaMotta (Robert De Niro) had been a loser until he found boxing. When we’re introduced to him in Raging Bull, he’s in a loveless marriage, has a strange relationship with his brother, and lives in a world that is rapidly changing around him. Punching another guy in the face (and getting punched back) is the reprieve for this. Where Kerr attempts to avoid loss, LaMotta welcomes it. He takes flurries of punches directly to the head, almost as if he’s wishing they’ll knock him out. At the end of the film, when he’s been arrested and reduced to a man in a cell, he has no idea what to do. He still tries to fight his way out, punching the wall until he eventually devolves into a puddle of tears.
Kerr and LaMotta are two sides of the same coin. They appear as opposites, but at the end of the day, they land in the same spot. Kerr is making up for his natural softness. He’s the type of guy who smiles at sunsets, has a sensitive stomach, makes small talk with the elderly, and asks if the guy he just beat to a pulp is okay. He feels uncomfortable about being in the body of a smashing machine, so he must fight. LaMotta has been reduced to a violent man by his upbringing, reduced to a raging bull, so he’s fulfilling that role. He may have had potential to be more, but he never saw it that way. He was living for honor and recognition that would never come because he ignored what was there: his family.
Self-sabotage is what drives these narratives. These men act as if they’re alone, but they do have people in their corners. Neither man can fathom the thought that someone might actually love them and not just the costume they’re forced to wear. In Raging Bull, LaMotta acts this out through screaming matches, violence, and threats, while Kerr’s strategy in The Smashing Machine is to be emotionally vacant. They’re doing the same thing, though: wallowing in their own self-pity and insecurities instead of just accepting the support.
Neither support system is perfect, but they make efforts that are consistently misunderstood or ignored by the protagonists. In The Smashing Machine, Dawn (Emily Blunt) is not a great spouse. She’s manipulative, selfish, and is often seen as a distraction by Mark’s friends and trainers. He begs and urges her to come support him, just to ignore her while she’s there. At the same time, she often brings their fights with her. They are not good for each other in the slightest; they’re also addicted to each other. When they fight, as angry as they are with each other, it also excites them. There’s a moment during a heated argument when Kerr throws and shatters a bowl he bought earlier in the film. Dawn flinches, but she also smiles. “Holy shit,” she says, chuckling. That scene is the thesis of their whole relationship. They don’t just bring out the worst in each other; they’re attracted to the worst parts of each other.
LaMotta’s relationship failed from the jump. It was fueled by impulsive lust, and when that left, jealousy took the wheel. His entire infatuation with Vicky (Cathy Moriarty) comes from thinking she looked good in a swimsuit. It doesn’t really go deeper than that for him. When the joy of touching her wore off, the thought that other men may be able to do it too invaded his brain. His unfounded paranoia comes out when she innocently compliments his upcoming opponent, but it really peaks when he accuses his own brother of sleeping with his wife. Several people are beaten and maimed for just being in the vicinity of Vicky. This rage eventually victimizes Vicky himself, the person it was supposed to be protecting in the first place. Raging Bull does a great job at showing how venomous insecurity can be, even to those who appear ‘tough’.
Mark Kerr has two different personalities. The Mark around his MMA buddies, and the Mark around Dawn. He attempts to mix them but is met with confusion and shifts back. Around his peers, specifically fellow pioneer Mark Copeland (Ryan Bader), he’s lively. Always smiling and cracking jokes, even when discussing their potential matchup. He also mirrors Copeland’s mannerisms. When Dawn comes around, he closes up and waits for his turn to speak. When he does talk, it’s stilted and short.
The only two people LaMotta ever shows even a lick of respect for are his in-ring opponents (most of the time) and his brother Joey. Jake admires and respects his brother, who is far from a good influence. He threatens his son with violence and is just more subtle about his possessiveness over his spouse. Jake thinks that this is what masculinity looks like. He doesn’t just emulate Joey’s behavior; he attempts to one-up it. Jake lives his life to prove his manhood, which is impossible. You can’t win a race when the finish line is always moving.
Both The Smashing Machine and Raging Bull peel back the layers of combat sports to show the broken men who participate in them. Men who feel like they have to fight their way through life alone. They come from a place of empathy, not judgment, because these films aren’t just about their subjects; they’re about their directors. That personal touch is what makes these films stand out over your standard sports biopic. These were stories that needed to be told. The quest for masculinity hasn’t really changed. A generation of Jake LaMotta’s raised a generation of Mark Kerr’s.
