The mixed-martial-arts fighter Ronda Rousey’s January 23rd appearance on “Saturday Night Live” was her chance to reëmerge after losing to Holly Holm, last November. PHOTOGRAPH BY DANA EDELSON / NBC

Last September, Beyoncé introduced new interstitial material to her live show during Made in America, Jay Z’s annual festival in Philadelphia. After she finished “7/11,” the stage went dark, and a recorded monologue (not by Beyoncé) played over the sound system, each word flashing in giant text on a towering screen. “I have this one term for the kind of woman that my mother raised me not to be,” the voice said. “And I call it a do-nothin’ bitch . . . the kind of chick who just tries to be pretty and taken care of by somebody else.” The speech, in its chilling, disembodied form, continued, “There’s not a single muscle in my body that wasn’t developed for a purpose. Because I’m not a do-nothin’ bitch.” As the monologue finished, the first notes of the song “Diva” sounded.

For some in the audience, this was probably a first-time introduction to Ronda Rousey, the (undefeated, at the time) women’s-mixed-martial-arts fighter responsible for the “do-nothin’ bitch” monologue, which was taken from an Ultimate Fighting Championship video blog posted before a bout with a Brazilian fighter named Bethe Correia. By this point, Rousey had already been embraced by Hollywood. She’d been offered small roles in movies and appeared on talk shows, achieving a mainstream crossover rare for an athlete, particularly from a niche sport like M.M.A. (When Kelefa Sanneh profiled Rousey, in July, 2014, he wrote, “Although the U.F.C. packs arenas all over the world, it still isn’t quite mainstream, which means it is only an occasional presence on ‘SportsCenter’ or sports radio.”)

But Beyoncé’s decision to feature Rousey so prominently still felt like a coronation, or at least a powerful new symbol of Rousey’s resonance. And who better than Beyoncé, patron saint of sound-bite feminism, to add Rousey to the collective vision board of female empowerment? In October, the Times ran a profile of Rousey with the headline “Ronda Rousey’s Next Fight: Body Image in Hollywood,” filled with fiery quotes denouncing conventional standards of beauty: “I swear to god, if anyone calls me fat one more time in my life, I’m going to kill them,” she told the reporter. Rousey’s rise felt like a gift to an entertainment industry newly fascinated by quotable, camera-friendly symbols of feminine power.

When she suffered her destabilizing loss to Holly Holm, in November, Rousey’s cultural currency was peaking. Her November_ _Self cover, which had arrived on newsstands just days before the loss, bore the unfortunate and untimely coverline “UNDEFEATED.” After her defeat, Rousey stayed quiet, save for a somber Instagram post and an interview with ESPN The Magazine. Some speculated that Rousey’s rising profile was to blame for the loss, that her attention was divided unfavorably between her training and her new obligations as a public face.

Rousey’s hosting of “Saturday Night Live” this weekend signified a few things. One, that she was ready to reëmerge on a substantial platform. Two, that she was not so worried about criticisms of her Hollywood crossover—and its potentially deleterious effects on her fighting career—that she wouldn’t take a week to participate in something like “S.N.L.” And, three, that she could seek some redemption outside the ring. Rousey wouldn’t have the opportunity to beat the crap out of an opponent on “S.N.L.,” but she would potentially get the chance to make herself whole (if not to the M.M.A. world, at least in front of her casual fans) through humor. She could address her big loss with the help of world-class comedy writers, and reconcile the M.M.A. fighter Rousey with the nascent entertainer Rousey.

Anyone looking for Rousey’s infectious firepower on Saturday night was probably disappointed. During the broadcast, she seemed as though she were being brought along for a ride that was beyond her control. The opening was less a monologue than a scenario constructed to help Rousey avoid having to give a real monologue: it was presented in the form of fighting rounds, with Kenan Thompson acting as Rousey’s coach and Colin Jost and Beck Bennett playing announcers between rounds. There were Winter Storm Jonas jokes and deliberate layups (“Who here loves cake?”) and a cameo by Kate McKinnon as Justin Bieber. Rousey did take a moment to acknowledge her loss to Holm, but it felt rushed and perfunctory: “It’s the first time I’m talking to my fans since I lost to Holly Holm, in November, which, by the way, was a fight Holly deserved to win,” she blurted out awkwardly. (She has a tendency to muddle her words.) “I wanted to take a minute to sincerely congratulate her.”

Elsewhere during the show, Rousey was more of a symbolic presence than a vital one. In the show’s weakest sketch, she played a shy high-school student who was a target of mean-girl cruelty, avenging herself by punching and slapping Vanessa Bayer. She played a contestant on “The Bachelor,” a high-school teacher accused of fooling around with one of her male students, a woman being hit on by a trio of men at a bar, and a woman trying to invite a pair of bumbling male co-workers to a party at her house. Throughout the show, Rousey was presented as a plainspoken and statuesque figure who intimidates everyone in her wake, whether she tries to or not. This made her seem powerless.

This was the opposite effect of the one produced by Beyoncé’s hat tip to Rousey. That performance presented the fighter in her most potent state: unfiltered, unrehearsed, delivering the sort of invigorated diatribe that made listeners understand why she’s such a daunting opponent. “S.N.L.,” on the other hand, showed how that energy is difficult to harness outside an athletic context. The story of Rousey as a defeated athlete can be reduced to simple terms: a great fighter loses a fight. She’ll fight again, and probably win again, too. But the story of Rousey as a feminist icon and cultural presence is a little trickier.