My day with Dwayne Johnson began with a fascinating demonstration: the evolution of his signature punch. We sat casually in a room near his kitchen, Johnson relaxed, barefoot on his couch, clad in black jeans and a Willie Nelson tee that barely contained his formidable biceps. Hawaiian tunes, courtesy of Don Ho Radio, gently filled the air. I confessed I wasn’t much of a wrestling aficionado, my last memorable experience being Razor Ramon from the ’90s – a snarling bad boy known for flicking toothpicks at the audience.
Listen to the article, enriched with insights from the reporter.
“I liked that guy too,” Johnson chuckled, which triggered a memory I’d stumbled upon in my research: an early career anecdote about him meticulously studying and adopting Razor Ramon’s unique punching style.
“Wow!” Johnson exclaimed.
The detail genuinely delighted him, and he unveiled *that* famous smile – a dazzling, radiant burst of charisma that feels like the very reason smiles, GIFs, and even movie screens were created. It’s the kind of smile that evokes images of a tropical sunset over a pristine beach, just as thousands of baby sea turtles begin their journey.
“Wow!” he repeated, his grin unwavering.
With that infectious smile, Johnson recounted the origin of his legendary punch. Long before he became “The Rock”—a global superstar capable of mesmerizing arenas with a single eyebrow raise, a five-time “Saturday Night Live” host, the man responsible for “smackdown” entering the dictionary, and People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive,” even a potential presidential candidate—Dwayne Johnson was just Flex Kavana, a wrestling rookie in 1996. (Yes, Flex Kavana). His big break came with a tryout for the World Wrestling Federation. It went well, and he received widespread praise backstage.
Then, Pat Patterson, a gruff, seasoned veteran and influential figure in the wrestling world, approached him. With a gravelly voice, a stern face, and a cigarette in hand, Patterson commanded attention.
“Good job,” Patterson remarked.
“Thank you,” Johnson replied.
“Your punches,” Patterson stated, the words hanging heavy in a haze of cigarette smoke, left ominously unexplained.
“Yeah?” Johnson prompted, sensing the impending critique.
Patterson responded with a torrent of expletives.
“No good?” Johnson asked, bracing himself.
“Horrible,” Patterson declared, then immediately launched into a master class on the art of staged combat. A powerful punch, he explained, is the fundamental building block of the entire spectacle. The intricate balance of pro wrestling – its blend of illusion and reality, soap opera drama and street fight intensity – all hinges on a punch that, despite being openly theatrical, convinces the audience of its brutal impact.
Having heard the story before, I couldn’t help but interject, “Could you actually show me the difference?”
He paused. “Show you?” he asked, a hint of surprise in his voice. “Right now?” Before I could reply, he sprang from the couch with astonishing speed and effortless power, like a mighty tree branch swaying in a gale.
“Okay,” Johnson agreed. He rose lightly, knees slightly bent, poised and ready, bouncing almost imperceptibly on his feet. “So, what’s the difference?”
As I scrambled from my chair, Johnson teleported past the coffee table, materializing directly in front of me, squared up and prepared to strike.
Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson in 1999.
I suddenly found myself with a unique perspective on Dwayne Johnson—a vantage point typically reserved for his on-screen adversaries like John Cena, Vin Diesel, or some formidable CGI beast. My immediate focus was on his massive, knuckly fists, which looked like serious danger-cubes. Above them, far in the distance, the smooth curve of his bald head loomed, while his heavy-lidded eyes remained intensely fixed on my face.
“So,” Johnson began, his voice firm and hands ready, “there are specific ways guys will throw a punch.”
Like a runaway truck, his enormous right hand shot towards my forehead—then stopped abruptly. “Boom,” he said. Whether it was two inches or two millimeters from my face, it hung there, perfectly still, as if disconnected, before retracting.
“Or sometimes,” Johnson demonstrated, his fist snapping towards my cheek, “guys will throw it like this: Boom.”
Again and again, Johnson sent his formidable knuckles hurtling toward various points on my face: *boom, boom, boom*. He then illustrated how a less skilled wrestler might exaggerate a punch, leaping and stomping both feet—a transparent act even from the back rows of an arena. (He mimicked it; the floor vibrated.) I remained utterly still, and with each mock strike, a profound sense of peace settled over me. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would not touch me. His movements revealed an incredible precision, a full-bodied wisdom, fluency, and mastery. It was in that moment I understood: this man was truly an artist.
Whether in high-octane car chases or theatrical wrestling matches, Dwayne Johnson makes everything appear effortless. He seems almost like a living cartoon character. Yet, this effortless facade is a carefully crafted illusion. Off-screen, he is incredibly technical, obsessive, and studious, deeply passionate about every detail. After Pat Patterson’s criticism of his punch, Johnson plunged into the minor leagues of wrestling, earning a mere $40 a night performing in makeshift venues: barns, carnivals, flea markets, and parking lots. During his rare off-nights, he obsessively studied VHS tapes of wrestling’s finest punchers, particularly Razor Ramon. That punch was in a league of its own. Johnson analyzed it frame by frame, dissecting its every component, striving to embed its rhythm and power into his own body.
Nearly three decades later, by his coffee table, Johnson unveiled Razor Ramon’s punch for me. “It was all about this beautiful body push,” he explained, then launched himself across the room. He twisted, his upper and lower body torqued in unison, arms spread wide, surging forward with fluid speed. His entire torso spun like a helicopter, his right hand whipping into a seemingly vicious punch as his left hand snapped down towards the floor. A crashing sound followed, and the entire room vibrated.
Johnson was absolutely right. This movement was entirely distinct, a different species altogether. It was devastating yet elegant. Gentle but deadly. I commented that it resembled tai chi.
With evident joy, Johnson demonstrated the punch repeatedly, detailing its subtle nuances and intricate sleights of hand: how the right fist subtly opens into a slap upon impact with an opponent’s jaw, then quickly closes before the audience can notice; and how the left hand discreetly slaps against the puncher’s own thigh, creating a convincing sound that people mistake for the punch itself.
This immersive learning experience imparted a crucial lesson: Professional wrestling, at its heart, is the art of dramatizing pain. It’s about the theatrics of delivering, enduring, and selling discomfort. Wrestlers must gasp, wince, crawl, roll, clutch their backs, and slap the floor with conviction. None of this can be done half-heartedly. Pain, even when simulated, is a fundamental, almost sacred element that demands respect. To execute it convincingly, one must commit their entire being.
There’s no need to introduce Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson; he’s achieved a level of fame few can fathom. This is a man who once introduced the Super Bowl—a casual gesture for him, akin to how most of us might introduce a visiting relative. His on-screen presence is a guarantee: expect sharp wit, intense action, thrilling chases, and fantastical CGI creatures. He’s cinematic pure joy, consistently delivering positivity, entertainment, and classic mainstream fun.
However, Johnson’s latest film, “The Smashing Machine,” breaks entirely from this mold. Far from a feel-good romp or a lighthearted reboot, the movie lives up to its name, delving into intense and brutal territory. It’s a relentless cascade of smashing: faces, knees, ears, doors, lamps, bottles, and even souls are relentlessly battered.
The film chronicles the life of Mark Kerr, famously known as ‘The Smashing Machine’—a name that, for most, holds a fraction of the recognition commanded by ‘The Rock.’ Yet, Kerr is a captivating figure. In the late 1990s, during the nascent, controversial days of the Ultimate Fighting Championship—then labeled ‘human cockfighting’ by the Senate—Kerr carved out a brief, terrifying reign. His strength was exponential, his physique resembling a sentient pile of cantaloupes. His fights were electrifyingly brutal: Kerr would relentlessly attack an opponent’s legs, take them to the ground, then relentlessly ‘jackhammer’ their face with his hardest body parts—fists, knees, forehead—until the referee intervened. This technique, dubbed ‘ground and pound,’ saw him knock out one fighter in 19 seconds and force another to submit by grinding his chin into their eye socket.
Kerr’s gripping saga was first brought to life in the 2002 documentary, also titled “The Smashing Machine,” which serves as the core inspiration for Johnson’s movie. Director John Hyams crafted a poignant, existentialist portrait by interweaving raw, intimate footage. The documentary captures Kerr’s dominance in the ring and the adulation of massive crowds, but also his profound post-fight suffering: flinching from a doctor’s touch, volatile arguments with his girlfriend, Dawn, and tears in a hospital bed after a painkiller overdose. It quickly became a cult classic in fighting circles, a must-watch. Beyond being a cautionary tale of a seemingly invincible warrior’s decline, Kerr’s story bravely vocalized the often-unspoken truths about violence, pain, and loneliness, particularly within the hypermasculine realm of combat sports.
Dwayne Johnson himself was a fan of the documentary. Upon its release in 2002, his career was rapidly soaring from wrestling superstardom to the pinnacle of Hollywood. Yet, watching “The Smashing Machine” immediately grounded him, as if he were witnessing an alternate reality of his own life. Not long before, when Johnson’s pro wrestling career was uncertain, Johnson had actually contemplated a move to mixed martial arts and had even discussed it with Mark Kerr himself (they’d trained at the same Gold’s Gym). Now, the film vividly presented the path he hadn’t taken. As his film career blossomed with increasingly numerous “Fast & Furious” sequels (5, 6, 7, 8, X) and “Jumanji” reboots and their follow-ups, “The Rock” found himself continuously drawn back to the story of the Smashing Machine.
What truly captivated Johnson was Mark Kerr himself—the tender heart beating within all that brutal violence. Kerr presented an irresistible paradox: a sensitive soul who made his living by physically dominating others. In the documentary, Kerr speaks with remarkable candor and depth about suffering, both his own and others’. He shares his experiences with his mother’s death, his struggles with addiction, and his intensely codependent relationship. Kerr’s voice is gently Midwestern, reminiscent of cupped hands cradling a baby bird. In this soft tone, he reveals he never truly desired to fight or enjoyed hurting people, even confessing to battling nausea before his very first match. (His trainer had to inform him that if he didn’t enter the ring, the Brazilian crowd would likely riot). Essentially, Kerr embodies the archetype of the gentle giant, akin to the Incredible Hulk speaking with the compassionate voice of Mr. Rogers.
Dwayne Johnson transforms into Mark Kerr for “The Smashing Machine.”
This profound narrative deeply resonated with ‘The Rock’. Johnson was acutely aware of his incredible good fortune—a fact he consistently acknowledges, radiating gratitude towards all who contributed to his success. Yet, he realized his overwhelming success was beginning to sweep him away. The relentless studio demands, his burgeoning side ventures, endless meetings and requests, his ever-present smile, and undeniable charisma—all of it created a new dynamic. While he remained the same person, his relationship with the world had fundamentally shifted. His fame had become so immense that simply going outside was a challenge. And though he wasn’t complaining, he found himself grappling with a classic Hollywood dilemma: On a deeply personal level, he felt unseen, unknown, and confined. In recent years, a recurring question haunted him: Am I truly pursuing my own desires, or merely fulfilling the expectations of those around me?
This internal struggle ignited a genuine obsession with “The Smashing Machine.” Johnson envisioned adapting the raw, classic documentary into a dramatic feature, reaching the widest possible audience. His goal was for everyone to witness and appreciate the extraordinary essence of Mark Kerr. Johnson even harbored a fantasy of portraying Kerr himself—to embody this complex, muscular figure, a man of profound sorrow who consumed so much pain that it almost destroyed him.
Johnson understood that “The Smashing Machine” demanded an entirely new kind of performance from him. It wouldn’t rely on his customary charm and lightness, but rather on raw, authentic pain—the kind of suffering one can only tap into from the deepest wells of their own life experiences. This role offered Johnson an opportunity to articulate unspoken facets of himself, and he felt an urgent, desperate readiness to embrace it.
Arranging an interview with The Rock felt like orchestrating a royal audience. Months of negotiation with his team revealed a geological pressure on his schedule, every second seemingly compressed from all angles. Broad calendar availability slowly dwindled until, by late summer, a date was set. “D.J. would love to host you at his Georgia farm,” the message read, “and introduce you to his bull.” I received a precise itinerary, complete with instructions to text his assistants upon arrival at the main gate.
To my surprise, when I arrived, Johnson was completely alone. He personally drove out on a four-wheeler to open the gate, then gestured me up the road toward his home with a series of subtle hand signals, creating the distinct impression of an elite two-man squad infiltrating enemy lines.
We quickly settled into a room off his kitchen, and our conversation immediately dove into the history of Hawaii. I soon realized that talking to Johnson is an immersive experience; he’s prepared to explore any topic and effortlessly brings you along. My only hurdle came late in the evening when I attempted to steer the discussion toward politics. Johnson simply raised his glass, clinking it against mine. “Sam, brother, you’ve asked a lot of great questions today,” he said. “What’s your next one?”
Johnson proves to be an almost comically inquisitive conversationalist. He frequently interrupted his own responses to redirect questions back to me, probing into my childhood, siblings, writing, my parents’ divorce, and even my father’s death. (Did I know it would be our last encounter? Did he know? What was his name? Do I still miss him?) He showed particular fascination when I mentioned tai chi. (How does it connect to meditation? What footwear is involved? Has it transformed my life?)
When you speak, Johnson listens with remarkable intensity—strenuously, almost athletically, as if his soul’s bulging quads are squatting the weight of your words. As the conversation deepens and he truly feels what you’re saying, a profound, rumbling sound will emanate from him: a deep, seismic “MMMMMMMMMM” echoing across the room. It’s like a colossal creature stirring from slumber, having a remarkably profound dream about you.
Our scheduled four-hour conversation stretched into more than eight. Beyond meeting and feeding his bull caramel-flavored treats over a fence, I joined Johnson at a steakhouse, where a 16th-birthday party famously attempted to crash our private back room. The dialogue didn’t stop there. In the days following our interview, I received voice memos and videos from Johnson—further thoughts, stories, and questions. When I took my son to college in late August, Johnson sent a Spotify link to Sawyer Brown’s 1991 song “The Walk,” accompanied by a message that felt like a soulful haiku:
To listen to later
You and I both have taken “the walk”
Now it’s your son’s time
Through countless hours of conversation and messages, Johnson and I continually circled back to the theme of pain. This is the authentic core of “The Smashing Machine” — a film that immerses its audience in the very essence of suffering: how we inflict it, absorb it, articulate it, and deny it. After viewing the movie, I found myself preoccupied with the subject, posing a simple question to everyone I met: What’s the worst pain you’ve ever experienced? Responses ranged from horrifying tales of scorpion stings, bike crashes, and gruesome injuries to deeply moving accounts of childbirth, caring for parents with Alzheimer’s, losing beloved pets, or battling drug addiction. Everyone had a story. Surprisingly, these conversations were rarely bleak; instead, they were profound, intense, humorous, invigorating, and often, paradoxically, uplifting.
Back in Johnson’s living room, after his dynamic punching exhibition, and once we had resettled into our chairs, I decided to pose my question. “What’s the worst pain you’ve ever felt?” I asked.
Johnson fell silent.
The only sound was the faint clink of ice in his glass.
“Wow,” he responded, his voice uncharacteristically soft, his famous smile absent.
I had several theories about his answer. Throughout his career, Johnson has been remarkably candid about his life. As Hawaiian music played softly, and he remained deep in thought, I mentally traversed the landscape of Dwayne Johnson’s known pains. Several significant hardships stood out: a nomadic childhood that saw his family constantly relocating across numerous states and even countries, making it difficult to forge lasting friendships. This period included run-ins with the law and fistfights. In high school, he excelled as a football star, earning a full scholarship to the University of Miami, seemingly destined for an NFL career. However, a practice drill before his freshman season resulted in a devastating left shoulder injury, requiring surgery and ending his season. This setback plunged him into severe depression, and his NFL aspirations never fully materialized.
The ensuing decades brought more anguish and setbacks: further battles with depression, a divorce from his first wife, and the failure of high-profile projects. And this doesn’t even account for his extensive career in professional wrestling—a performance of suffering where the agony often became all too real. During his time in the ring, clad in spandex, Johnson endured a torn knee, a ruptured Achilles, a lung bruised so severely he coughed blood, and was once doused with beer from Stone Cold Steve Austin’s fire hose. In one particularly brutal match against John Cena, he simultaneously tore his quadriceps and adductor muscles completely off his pelvis, alongside multiple lacerations to his abdominal wall, leading to emergency surgery.
Finally, after a profound silence, Johnson offered his answer.
“The worst pain I’ve ever felt,” he began, pausing once more, before recounting a deeply personal story about his father.
Let’s pause briefly to introduce the remarkable figure of Rocky Johnson. Dwayne Johnson cannot be fully understood without acknowledging his father, who was less a parent and more an exaggerated mythological origin story—a prequel where the narrative escalated far beyond belief.
Rocky Johnson’s life began steeped in hardship. Born Wayde Bowles in Nova Scotia—a name almost an anagram of “Dwayne”—to a family who had fled slavery generations prior, he faced immense adversity early on. His father died just before his 13th birthday, and within months of that profound loss, his mother expelled him from their home. (The story goes that her new boyfriend, in a drunken stupor, urinated on their Christmas turkey, prompting Wayde to knock him out with a shovel.) Penniless and homeless, Dwayne’s father hitchhiked to Toronto, surviving on odd jobs. He discovered boxing, eventually sparring with legends like George Foreman and Muhammad Ali. This path ultimately led him to his true calling: professional wrestling. Adopting the ring name Rocky Johnson, he legally changed his name to match, embodying pure self-invention—a triumph of fantasy over harsh reality. Rocky Johnson not only endured but forged an entirely new identity from nothing.
This reinvented self dedicated his life to wrestling. Throughout the 1960s and ’70s, Johnson emerged as a trailblazing Black star, performing across North America and beyond. Back then, professional wrestling was far from glamorous: schedules were grueling, pay was minimal, and audiences were fragmented into regional ‘fiefdoms.’ Wrestlers moved like circus performers, delivering fresh acts to different crowds. Johnson’s circuit frequently led him to the American South, where Black wrestlers were often coerced into demeaning stereotypes—speaking in exaggerated dialects, eating watermelon, or enduring public lashings. Johnson defiantly refused these roles, insisting on portraying the ‘babyface’—the good guy—in the ring. He was disciplined, serious, and a genuine athlete, notable for being one of the first pro wrestlers to boast a bodybuilder’s physique.
Dwayne frequently characterizes his relationship with his father as “complicated,” yet this term barely scratches the surface. From infancy through his teenage years, Dwayne sat captivated at ringside, watching Rocky—a superhero-like figure—toss theatrical wrestling villains around to adoring crowds. Existing WWE video footage captures young, wide-eyed Dwayne, observing the man he idolized perform this elaborate spectacle of pain.
A young Dwayne Johnson observes his father, Rocky Johnson (in blue), wrestle in 1984.
Outside the ring, Rocky had little leisure time. His days began early with gym sessions, followed by long drives to matches, often keeping him away for days or weeks. Around age five, Dwayne began accompanying his father to workouts, where he’d sit in the corner, observing Rocky meticulously sculpt his famed muscles, one by one, forbidden to touch any weights. As Dwayne grew, Rocky would take him to the wrestling mat to teach him moves. These, along with spontaneous fishing trips during their travels, formed the core of their shared time.
Johnson’s mother, Ata Maivia, also hailed from a wrestling dynasty. Her mother, Lia, was a formidable promoter, and her father, High Chief Peter Maivia, was a revered Samoan wrestler. Ata understood the demanding lifestyle, yet her marriage to Rocky was tumultuous, marked by explosive arguments and periods of separation.
Growing up in such a blurred reality, a constant blend of fact and fiction, was disorienting. To truly grasp it, one must understand the wrestling concept of “living the gimmick,” a practice Rocky Johnson perfected. Dwayne recalls puzzling over why his father, despite always owning flashy cars like Lincolns and Cadillacs, would drive them back to motels, trailer parks, or dismal basement apartments. That was his gimmick. For Rocky, illusion was a crucial survival tool; he could charmingly talk his way out of—and back into—any predicament. Johnson shared that his father never truly learned to write, laboriously drawing rudimentary letters. Yet, his signature was impeccable: elegant and regal. Even his imposing physique was partly for show. While his upper body was immense, capable of bench-pressing over 500 pounds, he famously neglected his legs. “If you look up ‘skipped leg day’ in the dictionary,” Johnson told me, “you’ll find my dad, smiling.”
“The worst pain I’ve ever felt,” Johnson repeated, pausing again. “The absolute worst was being evicted from Hawaii and sent to Nashville to live with my dad.”
Dwayne was 15 at the time. He and his mother resided in a modest Honolulu apartment, while Rocky was wrestling in Tennessee. Their tumultuous marriage made their separation somewhat of a relief; though his father was not physically abusive, Johnson recounts the fights as massive and deeply scarring, filled with hurled objects and unspeakable words. From age 13, Dwayne assumed the role of the primary man in his mother’s life, adept at listening, assisting, and anticipating her needs.
One day in Honolulu, returning from the grocery store, they found an eviction notice taped to their apartment door. Johnson vividly recalls his mother standing there, paralyzed, before collapsing into tears. As he recounted the story, Johnson himself became emotional. “It broke my heart,” he confided, “to see my mom like that.”
Once Ata composed herself, she called Rocky. She explained that she wanted to send Dwayne to Nashville while she finalized things in Hawaii, and she would then ship their car to the mainland, drive out with their belongings, and attempt to reunite as a family.
“No problem,” Rocky assured her. “I’ve got an apartment.”
However, Rocky, ever the master of living the gimmick, wasn’t there when Dwayne landed in Nashville. Instead, a man named Bob met him, driving Dwayne to a run-down motel. There, Bob knocked on a door, introducing him to a man named Bruno, and declared, “This is where you’ll be living.”
That rejection struck Dwayne like a devastating drop-kick, layering new agony onto the initial pain of eviction. He instantly grasped the truth: his father was almost certainly living with another woman. This realization carried profound implications: his mother was en route, bringing with her even greater suffering. “My heart aches when I recall that,” he confessed. “The anguish my mom endured on that drive. Thinking: What is my life now? That entire period.”
Ata, still oblivious, embarked on this solo cross-country journey in an utterly impractical two-door red Ford Thunderbird. Rocky had purchased the car just before his career plummeted, and now it was crammed with all their possessions, roaring from San Francisco to Nashville, finally pulling into the dismal motel parking lot.
Ata believed she was driving to her husband’s apartment. Instead, she was met by Bruno (who, incidentally, became a lifelong friend of Dwayne’s; Dwayne even bought him a truck recently—but that’s beside the point). Dwayne was also there, as was Rocky, inexplicably driving a car with Illinois plates.
Johnson recounted that his mother, too, instantly understood everything. “That was it,” he recalled, his voice trailing off. “Within five minutes, it all just… ” He continued, “It wasn’t even an explosion. It was simply—a collapse.”
His father began fabricating transparent lies, and his mother became ominously silent. Later, when Rocky’s evasiveness persisted, Dwayne approached and whispered, “You should give her a hug.” But the embrace offered no solace. That horrific day continued its descent, culminating in a terrifying moment when Ata exited Rocky’s car and walked directly into oncoming freeway traffic. Cars swerved and blared their horns. Dwayne pulled her to safety. The expression on her face, he told me, was unlike anything he had ever witnessed. She was completely lost, he said.
Remarkably, Johnson’s parents remained together, though they would eventually divorce many years later, in 2006.
Meanwhile, Dwayne Johnson began his path to becoming the icon we know today. The journey wasn’t without its challenges. His football career ended in utter humiliation when he was cut from a Canadian Football League practice squad, forcing him back home with his parents. He spent many days listlessly scrubbing their Florida apartment, battling depression. Then, he declared a new ambition: he wanted to become a professional wrestler.
Unsurprisingly, Rocky despised the idea. It’s unclear whether he was being protective, knowing the brutal reality of wrestling, or simply selfish, guarding his territory. Regardless, it ignited an explosive argument, and amidst the shouting, tears, and turmoil, Dwayne’s father uttered a cutting remark that would echo through his son’s life: “What do you think you possibly have to offer?”
The answer, it turned out, was: quite a lot, indeed. A colossal amount, to be precise. By virtually any metric—revenue, iconic catchphrases, mainstream crossover appeal, or even a single eyebrow raise—Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson arguably offered more than anyone else in the entire storied history of professional wrestling.
After a rocky beginning where the WWF attempted to market him as a generic ‘babyface’ named Rocky Maivia (a blend of his father’s and grandfather’s names)—enduring boos and chants of “Rocky sucks,” and even a knee injury that led him to question his wrestling path—Johnson underwent a dramatic rebirth. Almost overnight, he transformed into ‘The Rock’: an arrogant villain who famously referred to himself in the third person and unleashed scathing verbal attacks on everyone. With his distinctive long sideburns and iconic finishing moves like the Rock Bottom and the People’s Elbow, he stood toe-to-toe with the biggest stars (Stone Cold Steve Austin, Triple H, Mankind) of the late 1990s, a wildly popular period known as the Attitude Era.
The Rock’s true superpower lay in his unparalleled crowd engagement. His connection with the audience was nothing short of revolutionary, effectively making the wrestling itself secondary to his captivating skits, impassioned speeches, and communal singalongs. His catchphrases, like “If you can smell what the Rock is cookin’,” became so ingrained that the audience would complete them for him. He was, quite simply, a ratings juggernaut.
Johnson seamlessly transitioned this momentum into a thriving Hollywood career. His brief cameo in 2001’s “The Mummy Returns” proved so popular with test audiences that, even before the film’s release, the studio greenlit his own spinoff, “The Scorpion King.” He rapidly ascended to become one of the industry’s most bankable stars. Later, when “The Fast and the Furious” franchise began to lose its luster, “The Rock” was brought in to reignite its spark.
As one might expect, Rocky Johnson’s reaction to his son’s explosive success was a complex tapestry of emotions: a blend of pride, jealousy, a sense of ownership, and deep-seated resentment. Dwayne Johnson recounted how his father always kept a particular joke ready to humble him. Whenever Rocky overheard a compliment directed at his son—whether for his wrestling, movie roles, or business ventures—he would interject immediately.
“I taught him everything he knows,” Rocky would declare, and then, pausing until he had everyone’s full attention, he would add, “But I didn’t teach him everything I know.”
Johnson still noticeably winces when he recounts this.
For the first time in his acting career, Johnson has been pushed to tap into the depths of his personal pain. “The Smashing Machine” is emotionally raw and brutal, a cinematic slugfest where Johnson’s primary sparring partner is English actor Emily Blunt, who portrays Mark Kerr’s girlfriend, Dawn. In real life, Blunt and Johnson share a deep friendship, having first met in 2018 while co-starring in “Jungle Cruise”—a $200 million, CGI-laden, family-friendly action-adventure based on the Disneyland ride. Blunt arrived on set expecting the larger-than-life ‘Rock’ persona: audacious, invincible, and perpetually grinning.
Instead, she discovered a different man: introverted and intensely curious. Johnson and Blunt immediately connected, spending hours in deep conversation. Their bond became so profound that they publicly refer to each other as best friends. “He’s truly a magical person,” Blunt shared with me.
Yet, that very magic also fueled her frustration; so little of his authentic self seemed to translate into his acting roles. Blunt recognized that much of Johnson’s public persona was a carefully constructed performance, a character created for survival, which appeared to have entirely consumed his career path.
Dwayne Johnson in some of his iconic roles: “The Mummy Returns” (2001), “Jumanji: The Next Level” (2019), and “Jungle Cruise” (2021).
Johnson had encountered this criticism previously and always had a ready response. He would acknowledge that some actors pour their soul into their roles, and he respected that. But for himself, he preferred to process personal struggles in private, aiming solely to deliver an entertaining show to his audience, believing their experience came first.
“I’ve given him hell for years about this ‘audience first’ mentality,” Blunt confessed. To her, truly serving an audience meant presenting one’s complete self—the vast, joyful, messy, and painful reality of human existence. She would often tell Johnson, “This is putting the audience first!”
By this new definition, with “The Smashing Machine,” Johnson has indeed prioritized the audience. The film is helmed by Benny Safdie, known (alongside his brother, Josh) for raw, experimental projects blurring the lines of fiction and reality. Safdie’s works often feature unconventional casting—Robert Pattinson as a gritty New York bank robber in “Good Time,” or Adam Sandler as a frantic gambling addict in “Uncut Gems.” But casting Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson is an entirely different caliber. Johnson collaborating with Benny Safdie is akin to Taylor Swift recording an album with Björk.
Safdie’s rendition of “The Smashing Machine” meticulously reconstructs scenes from the original 2002 documentary, but with added dramatic flair and unexpected nuances. It introduces dialogue and situations that no documentary crew could have captured. The resulting film feels less like a typical sports biopic and more like experiencing a kaleidoscope while ten sweaty men take turns punching you in the heart. It’s a vivid montage of contrasting tones and performances: claustrophobic fight scenes juxtaposed with cheesy ringside commentary, prolonged tender exchanges between men whose severely cauliflower ears make them resemble the BFG, and a Japanese journalist in fingerless gloves who seems to have stepped out of a David Lynch film. The jazz percussion score is so pervasive it could single-handedly doom every open-mic night in the country.
Initially unfamiliar with Mark Kerr’s story when Johnson approached him, Safdie quickly became engrossed. Kerr, he explained, struck him as “one of the most cinematic characters imaginable.” He likened Kerr to a hyper-muscular George Bailey from “It’s a Wonderful Life”: a good-hearted man who endures immense torment to achieve a profound new understanding of his life. Safdie envisioned Kerr as a conduit for radical empathy, asking himself, “What scenarios could we place him in to help the world better understand itself?”
The film’s centerpiece is unequivocally Johnson’s performance, which demanded that he fully become Mark Kerr. As always, Johnson approached this challenge with utmost seriousness. He meticulously reshaped his already formidable physique into an entirely new form; his bulk in this role is astounding, to the point where each thigh might warrant its own credit. Furthermore, he fundamentally altered his movement. Kerr, Johnson explained, carried his weight high, concentrated in his shoulders. Johnson adopted this stance, even learning to walk with a slight forward lean, as if italicized. In one particular scene, filmed from behind, Safdie observed Johnson subtly shifting his angles, performing in reverse. “I was amazed,” Safdie recounted, “the guy was acting with the muscles of his back.”
Crucially, there’s Kerr’s unique voice—a distinctive Midwestern, almost childlike lullaby. Johnson collaborated with a voice coach, learning to speak with a gentle, soft tone emanating from deep within his chin (a stark contrast to Johnson’s natural rumbling voice). He practiced tirelessly, effortlessly switching between his own voice and Kerr’s, even sending Safdie voice memos in character. “And I realized: Oh, this is absolutely going to work,” Safdie commented.
However, Johnson’s facial transformation is the most striking aspect. His face, arguably one of the most recognizable on Earth, is here rendered unfamiliar, leaving you constantly questioning who you’re truly seeing. Johnson revealed that this involved daily, grueling hours in the makeup chair, utilizing 21 distinct prosthetics—all the masterful work of Oscar-winning artist Kazu Hiro. Early in production, Safdie deliberately chose not to make Johnson look exactly like Kerr, instead aiming for Johnson’s iconic features to subtly emerge, creating an unsettling blend. The film places the viewer in an uncanny valley, caught between Dwayne Johnson and Mark Kerr, triumph and defeat, violence and healing.
Yet, the most arduous aspect of Johnson’s transformation was emotional. Just before filming commenced, Blunt candidly asked him if he was afraid.
“I’m good,” he confidently replied.
“That’s not what I asked you,” she countered directly.
Johnson admitted to me that, in that very instant, he recognized his terror. This film carried immense, almost dangerous, significance for him. He had harbored this fantasy for years, and now, standing on set, about to bring it to life, he was consumed by doubt. What if he failed? What if he wasn’t truly capable of this kind of acting? What if he disgraced himself—or, even worse, disgraced Kerr, a man he had grown to admire and love?
“I sensed he might be retreating a bit,” Blunt shared. “I just felt he was scared, because I certainly was. I believe D.J. had perhaps avoided acknowledging that fear, having had to be so incredibly resilient from a young age—the steadfast hero, the backbone keeping everyone else strong.”
Johnson concurred. “I didn’t identify it,” he told me. “I didn’t know. I didn’t label it.” But once he acknowledged it, he saw fear everywhere, even lurking behind his long-held mantra: audience first. “I was just scared to do it,” he confessed. “That’s the honest truth.” He had always believed he was serving his audience, but now he understood he was merely perpetuating a persona.
I asked Johnson if he could recall his last conversation with his father.
“I do,” he affirmed, after another prolonged silence. “And it still hurts.”
Their final conversation was a colossal argument—the most explosive since that epic showdown 25 years prior, when Johnson first declared his ambition to become a wrestler.
The conflict centered around a book. His father had recently released his autobiography, “Soulman: The Rocky Johnson Story.” It was 2019, and Dwayne had achieved unparalleled fame. Beyond sharing his life story, Rocky was also clearly seeking financial gain. Johnson stated he was generally fine with this, but he also mentally prepared himself, because he knew his father’s tendencies.
As expected, the book was replete with shocking revelations. Dwayne Johnson’s initial discovery was a foreword purportedly written by him—except it wasn’t. The words were entirely fabricated. The remainder of the autobiography proved equally imaginative. “Growing up with my dad,” Johnson confided, “I know the real story behind all these events. And they’re simply not in this book. If the truth is blue, this narrative is a fiery red.”
Johnson could have forgiven most of it; he was accustomed to his father’s embellishments. However, he then stumbled upon a series of quotes, falsely attributed to him, proclaiming his immense debt to his father for all his success—not just in wrestling, but his TV shows, movies, and everything else.
Johnson was engulfed by shock, hurt, and anger. He reflected on his decades of hard work and the countless individuals who had supported him. Yet, here was Rocky, audacious enough to speak in Dwayne’s voice, arrogantly claiming all his son’s achievements as his own.
“It just completely crossed the line,” Johnson stated, adding, “It boils down to his need for attention and sheer narcissism.”
Mid-story, he rose to refill his tequila glass.
He called his father, and they erupted into another fight. As usual, Rocky vehemently denied any fault. Johnson became so enraged that he handed the phone to his mother. Shortly thereafter, he succeeded in having the autobiography removed from circulation.
That phone call marked their final interaction.
The news of Rocky’s death reached Johnson in Georgia, on the very first day of filming his new movie, “Red Notice.” He had just arrived on set, soaking in the buzz of activity and crew movements, when his phone rang—an unusual occurrence, as he typically prefers voice memos. He answered, and the conversation was brief: his father had passed away in Florida.
After hanging up, Johnson remained in his truck, absorbing the news for what felt like an eternity. He was paralyzed, unsure whether to rush home to his family or fly to his mother. Then, a familiar voice echoed in his mind—his father’s mantra, a phrase Rocky had uttered countless times after injuries, arguments, or even news of death: “Show must go on.” Dwayne Johnson, choosing resilience, exited his truck and went to work.
At Rocky Johnson’s funeral, the wrestling world converged: Hulk Hogan, The Wild Samoans, The Bushwhackers, Triple H, and more. They shared touching stories and kind words. “It’s wild, but my old man was an incredible friend,” Johnson confided. “A complicated husband, a complicated dad. But an awesome friend to everyone else.”
“Was he a better friend to you than he was a father?” I inquired.
Johnson paused thoughtfully. “No,” he replied, his voice tinged with sadness. “He wasn’t my friend either. No, sadly. No one has ever asked me that before. But no. I wish he had been. I truly wish. I think my mom was my friend.”
Despite everything, Johnson repeatedly emphasized throughout our lengthy discussion that his father possessed many admirable qualities, which he now perceives with greater clarity since his passing.
“I believe my dad’s capacity to love was severely limited,” Johnson mused. “He was abandoned at 13. Imagine that profound pain. And that’s the man who raised me. That was my father.”
Rocky Johnson instilled in his son the values of hard work, survival, and the craft of wrestling. By counterexample, he also inadvertently taught him the profound importance of humility, gentleness, introspection, and gratitude.
Perhaps Rocky Johnson’s most enduring presence in his son’s life is through his words—the mottos, credos, and sayings that constantly echo in Dwayne’s mind. “Don’t eat to please the tongue—eat to nourish the body,” Rocky would often preach (a lesson Dwayne absorbed at age five). “They can’t feel your pain, they only see it.” (This was Rocky’s foundational teaching on “selling” in the wrestling ring—the art of ensuring the audience fully perceives your suffering.)
In a powerful scene from “The Smashing Machine,” Dwayne Johnson, portraying Mark Kerr, is in an SUV, smooth-talking a nurse on his phone to obtain more drugs. Despite Johnson’s massive physique nearly filling the vehicle, his voice is notably pleasant and light. He requests liquid opiates, explaining that the pills are “a little hard on my tummy.” The conversation concludes with a flurry of cheerful small talk— “I’m feelin’ really good, I appreciate it”— culminating in Kerr’s chipper declaration: “A day without pain is like a day without sunshine.”
Benny Safdie, present in the car during filming, was struck by the “sunshine” line—it wasn’t in the script. “It was just so perfect,” Safdie shared, “Because you don’t immediately grasp its meaning. But it’s profoundly significant.”
A day without pain is like a day without sunshine. Safdie pondered its meaning: Does it imply a constant state of suffering? But then, sunshine is good. So, is the character suggesting a desire for pain?
“It’s a truly loaded, intricate phrase,” he noted. “And he delivers it with a smile.”
The moment filming paused, Safdie asked Johnson about the origin of the line.
Johnson, reverting to his natural voice, revealed that the line was a saying from his father.
Audio production by Adrienne Hurst.