“Bodybuilders can’t have scars.”
That is one hell of a line. It cuts deep and tells you everything you need to know about Magazine Dreams. Directed by Elijah Bynum, this is a bruising character study about a man who has turned his body into armor, only to discover that muscle cannot protect him from the world or from himself.
Killian Maddox is an aspiring bodybuilder obsessed with greatness. He trains with monastic intensity, writes fan letters to a bodybuilding icon named Brad, and dreams of magazine covers that will finally validate his existence. Doctors warn him about the permanent damage he is inflicting on himself. He does not care. Nothing deters him from the fiercely protected dream of superstardom. That dream is all he has.
At the center of it all is Jonathan Majors, who absolutely knocks it out of the park. His performance is nothing short of transformative. Killian is a paradox, a mountain of muscle with the fragility of a wounded kid. In one moment, his wide eyes radiate with a childlike yearning to be seen. In the next, they flash with anger, his rage leaving you deeply uncomfortable. Majors switches between these extremes with terrifying ease. He vanishes into the role so completely that it becomes difficult to look away, even when the film dares you to.
Killian’s insecurities, his mental health struggles, his obsession with bodybuilding, and his fixation on Brad all function like a ticking bomb. The audience is constantly on edge, bracing for the next outburst, the next humiliation, the next spiral. Magazine Dreams joins the canon of films fixated on lonely, obsessed, rage filled men. The echoes of Taxi Driver are unmistakable, and the film even includes a pointed homage to that mirror scene. Majors’ Maddox often feels like a reincarnation of Travis Bickle dropped into a world that resembles Whiplash, where self destruction is reframed as discipline and suffering is mistaken for greatness.
There is also a hint of Stan in Killian’s desperate letters to his idol, that unreciprocated fandom curdling into something darker. Yet despite these familiar reference points, the film tackles its subject in a way that feels raw and specific. The bodybuilding world becomes both spectacle and prison. The gym is sanctuary and battlefield. His physique is both masterpiece and cage.
From a craft perspective, Bynum demonstrates striking control for a relatively young filmmaker. The film feels lived in and textured. The lighting and color palette are meticulously shaped, with recurring flashes of red that reinforce the simmering anger beneath the surface. The score leans into melancholy strings that swell with tragic inevitability. There is a constant sense that something inside Killian is about to rupture.
And yet, for all its strengths, I still need to mull over certain aspects of the second half. The narrative can feel scattershot, touching on toxic masculinity, celebrity worship, steroid abuse, gun culture, mental health, and the violent pursuit of fame. You name it and it likely appears in some form. At times, it feels like the film is juggling more themes than it can fully process. The beats are familiar, and you can sense where certain arcs are heading long before they arrive.
But here is the thing. Majors’ ferocious commitment turns what could have been derivative into something undeniably compelling. He does so much heavy lifting that you almost forget to question the structure. His performance elicits sympathy in one scene and fear in the next. You feel sorry for Killian as he unravels, even as you recoil from his choices. It is a staggering piece of acting, one that anchors every frame.
The film largely follows the trajectory you might expect from this genre until it edges away from pure nihilism. Without spoiling anything, there is a suggestion that even the most damaged individuals are not beyond the possibility of connection. It does not offer easy answers, but it does resist the temptation to drown entirely in despair.
There is an undeniable intensity to the experience. It is a full on two hours of anguish and longing. Killian wants so badly to matter in a world that barely registers his presence. His loneliness is not quiet. It hums beneath every interaction, every failed attempt at intimacy, every flexed muscle in front of a mirror.
Thanks to Magazine Dreams, I found myself craving Creed 3 immediately afterward, just to watch Majors channel that physical intensity into something less corrosive. That is how commanding he is here. Whatever you think of the film as a whole, the performance alone makes it worth serious consideration.
Magazine Dreams is not an easy watch. It is brutal, uncomfortable, and at times exhausting. But it is also a haunting exploration of what happens when the pursuit of perfection becomes indistinguishable from self annihilation. Majors builds Killian like a monument, then slowly reveals the cracks. And in those cracks, you see the scar that bodybuilders are never supposed to have.
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