My day with Dwayne Johnson started with a fascinating demonstration: the evolution of his iconic punch. We chatted casually in his kitchen area; Johnson, clad in black jeans and a snug Willie Nelson t-shirt, was relaxed on his couch. Hawaiian music set a chill vibe. I confessed I wasn’t a huge wrestling buff, recalling only Razor Ramon from the 90s, a sneering villain who’d flick toothpicks at the crowd.
“I liked that guy too,” Johnson responded, which triggered a memory in my mind. I’d once read that early in his career, Johnson had meticulously studied and mimicked Razor Ramon’s signature punch.
“Wow!” Johnson exclaimed.
This little piece of trivia genuinely delighted him, prompting him to unleash that famous, blinding smile. It’s a charisma explosion so potent it feels like the very reason cinema, GIFs, and even in-person smiling were invented. Witnessing it firsthand is like watching the sun dip below the horizon of an untouched tropical beach, just as ten thousand baby sea turtles are hatching.
“Wow!” he repeated, still beaming.
With that dazzling smile, Johnson then recounted the origin of his legendary punch. Back in 1996, at the very beginning of his wrestling journey – long before he became “The Rock,” a global phenomenon who could command entire arenas with a raised eyebrow, hosted “Saturday Night Live” multiple times, got “smackdown” added to the dictionary, or was seriously considered for a presidential run – he was still a rookie named Flex Kavana (don’t ask). He finally got his big break: a tryout match for what was then the World Wrestling Federation. It went well, and backstage, he was showered with congratulations.
Then, Pat Patterson, a grizzled veteran and industry powerhouse, sauntered over. He was a man with a gravelly voice, a stern face, and a cigarette dangling from his hand.
“Good job,” Patterson grunted.
“Thank you,” Johnson replied.
“Your punches,” Patterson stated, the words hanging in a smoky silence.
“Yeah?” Johnson prompted.
Patterson unleashed a colorful stream of expletives.
“No good?” Johnson ventured.
“Horrible,” Patterson declared. Right then and there, he schooled Johnson in the nuanced art of theatrical combat. A truly great punch, he explained, is the bedrock of the entire spectacle. The intricate dance of fakery and reality, the soap opera drama and the raw street fight—all hinged on a punch that, despite everyone knowing it’s staged, still manages to convey genuine impact.
Johnson had shared this story before, but I interjected, “Can you show me the difference?”
He paused. “Show you?” he asked, “Like, right now?” And before I could respond, he sprang from the couch with astonishing speed and effortless strength, like a tree branch swaying in a powerful gust.
“Okay,” Johnson said, light on his feet, knees bent and ready. “So, what’s the difference?”
I scrambled out of my chair for a better look, and in an instant, Johnson teleported past the coffee table, appearing directly in front of me, squared up and ready to strike.
Suddenly, I had a front-row seat to Dwayne Johnson’s menacing presence, a perspective usually reserved for his on-screen adversaries. My gaze was fixed on his formidable fists: serious, knuckly “danger-cubes.” Above them, barely visible, loomed the smooth dome of his bald head, his heavy-lidded eyes fixed intently on my face.
“So,” Johnson began, his voice laced with the sound of imminent impact, “there are certain punches guys will throw.”
Like a speeding truck, his massive right hand rocketed towards my forehead—then abruptly froze. “Boom,” he declared. I couldn’t tell if it stopped two inches or two millimeters from my face, only that it hung there, perfectly still, as if disconnected. Then it retreated.
“Or sometimes,” Johnson continued, his fist whipping towards my cheek this time, “guys will throw like this: Boom.”
Again and again, his powerful knuckles feigned strikes at various points on my face: boom, boom, boom. He illustrated how a truly amateur wrestler would “oversell” a punch by leaping and stomping both feet—a transparent deception visible from even the furthest seats. (Johnson demonstrated, and the floor vibrated.) I remained motionless throughout, enveloped in a growing sense of calm. I knew, with absolute certainty, that he would never actually hit me. I could feel the intricate precision in his movements—a profound, full-body wisdom, fluency, and mastery. In that moment, I realized: this man was an artist.
On screen, whether in high-octane car chases or theatrical wrestling matches, Dwayne Johnson makes everything look effortless, almost superhuman. He’s a walking, talking cartoon. But this ease is a meticulously crafted illusion. Behind the scenes, Johnson is an intensely technical, obsessive, and studious individual who thrives on details. After Pat Patterson criticized his rudimentary punch, Johnson immersed himself in wrestling’s minor leagues, earning a mere $40 a night in obscure venues like barns, carnivals, flea markets, and parking lots. On his off-nights, he obsessively studied VHS tapes of wrestling’s finest punchers, particularly Razor Ramon, whose punch was in a league of its own. Johnson watched it repeatedly in slow motion, dissecting its every component, striving to embed its essence into his own movements.
Nearly three decades later, standing beside his coffee table, Johnson unveiled Razor Ramon’s perfected punch. “It was all this beautiful body push,” he explained. He then launched across the room, twisting his upper and lower body in a powerful torque, arms spread wide, surging forward fluidly and fast. His entire torso spun in a helicopter motion, his right hand whipping into a vicious punch, his left hand snapping down towards the floor. There was a crash, and the entire room vibrated.
Johnson was absolutely right. This was a completely different caliber of movement—devastating yet elegant. Gentle but deadly. I remarked that it resembled Tai Chi.
With evident delight, Johnson demonstrated that punch repeatedly, meticulously explaining each subtle trick and sleight of hand. The way his right fist subtly opens into a slap just as it connects with his opponent’s jaw, then quickly closes before the audience can notice. The way his left hand imperceptibly slams against his own left thigh, creating a sharp sound that tricks people into believing it was the impact of the punch.
Mastering this technique taught him a vital lesson: professional wrestling is, at its core, the art of dramatizing pain. It’s the theatrics of inflicting it, enduring it, and selling it to the crowd. Wrestlers gasp, wince, crawl, roll, clutch their backs, and slap the mat. None of this can be done half-heartedly. Pain, even simulated pain, is a fundamental, almost sacred element. You cannot disrespect it. To perform it convincingly, you must commit your entire being.
You don’t need an introduction to Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson; he is, quite simply, one of the most famous people on the planet. This is a man who once introduced the Super Bowl before kickoff—a level of celebrity most of us reserve for a visiting family member. When Johnson graces your screen, you know exactly what to expect: sharp wit, explosive action, thrilling chase scenes, and fantastical CGI creatures. He is cinematic sunshine incarnate, reliably delivering rays of positivity, entertainment, and classic popcorn fun.
However, Johnson’s latest film, “The Smashing Machine,” deviates sharply from this familiar formula. It’s neither a lighthearted romp nor a feel-good reboot. As its title starkly suggests, it’s an intense and brutal cinematic experience. Prepare for a lot of metaphorical and literal smashing: faces, knees, ears, doors, lamps, bottles, and even souls take a beating.
The film chronicles the life of Mark Kerr, famously known as “The Smashing Machine”—a name that, for most, holds a minuscule fraction of “The Rock’s” recognition. Yet, Kerr’s story is utterly captivating. In the late 1990s, during the nascent, controversial era of the Ultimate Fighting Championship (then dubbed “human cockfighting” by the Senate), Kerr achieved a brief but terrifying reign of dominance. His strength was so immense, his muscles appeared almost exponential, making him resemble a sentient stack of cantaloupes. His fights were electrifyingly brutal. Kerr would explosively target an opponent’s legs, take them to the ground, then relentlessly “jackhammer” their face with every hard part of his body—fists, knees, forehead—until the referee intervened. This brutal tactic was known as “ground and pound.” He once knocked out an opponent in a mere 19 seconds and forced another to surrender by grinding his chin into the man’s eye socket.
Kerr’s compelling narrative was first vividly captured in a 2002 documentary, also titled “The Smashing Machine,” which serves as the source material for Johnson’s film. Directed by John Hyams, the documentary masterfully interwove raw, intimate footage into a poignant existentialist portrait. It showcased Kerr’s dominance and the roar of adoring crowds, but also his profound suffering in the aftermath: wincing under a doctor’s touch, embroiled in arguments with his volatile girlfriend, Dawn, and weeping in a hospital bed following a painkiller overdose. Within fighting circles, it was an essential viewing, an instant cult classic. On one level, it served as a cautionary tale about the downfall of a seemingly invincible force. Yet, it delved deeper, articulating unspoken truths about violence, pain, and loneliness, particularly within the hyper-masculine world of combat sports.
Dwayne Johnson was among the documentary’s many admirers. Upon its release in 2002, his own career was already rocketing from wrestling superstardom to the highest echelons of Hollywood. But watching “The Smashing Machine” grounded him instantly. He felt as if he was witnessing an alternative trajectory of his own life. Not long before, when his pro wrestling career faced uncertainty, Johnson had briefly considered transitioning to mixed martial arts, even discussing the possibility with none other than Mark Kerr himself (they’d trained at the same Gold’s Gym for a period). Now, starkly captured on film, was “the road not taken.” As years passed and Johnson’s film career exploded with “Fast & Furious” sequels and “Jumanji” reboots, “The Rock” found himself unable to shake the image of “The Smashing Machine.”
What truly captivated him was Mark Kerr himself—the sensitive, beating heart beneath all that ferocity. Kerr was an irresistible paradox: a gentle soul who earned his living by physically overwhelming others. In the documentary, Kerr speaks with remarkable candor, depth, and length about his own suffering and that of others. He recounts his mother’s death, his descent into addiction, and his intensely codependent relationship. Kerr’s speaking voice is a sweet, almost childlike Midwestern cadence, like cupped hands gently cradling a baby bird. In this tender tone, he explains that he never truly desired to fight, nor did he enjoy inflicting harm. In fact, before his very first match, he was battling nausea (his trainer reportedly had to inform him that if he didn’t enter the ring, the Brazilian crowd would likely riot). In essence, Kerr embodies the archetype of a gentle giant—imagine the Incredible Hulk speaking with the compassionate voice of Mr. Rogers.
All these insights resonated deeply with “The Rock.” Johnson fully acknowledged the ridiculous fortune of his career, and you certainly don’t need to remind him of his luck; he’ll spend all day expressing gratitude to the ancestors, allies, and countless fans who made it all possible. Yet, despite his outward success, he had begun to feel slightly detached, perhaps even overwhelmed, by it. The relentless studio demands, the burgeoning side businesses, the endless meetings, the constant requests, the ever-present smile, the projected charisma—he was the same man, but his relationship with the world had profoundly changed. His immense fame made simple acts like going outside almost impossible. Again, he wasn’t complaining! But this presented an age-old Hollywood paradox: on a deep, human level, he felt unseen, unknown, and confined. A few years prior, Johnson frequently found himself questioning: “Am I truly pursuing what I desire, or merely fulfilling the expectations of those around me?”
It was at this juncture that he became genuinely obsessed with “The Smashing Machine.” Johnson harbored a dream: to take that iconic documentary, dramatize it, and share its story with the largest possible global audience. He wanted everyone to witness and appreciate the unexpected magic of Mark Kerr. Moreover, Johnson fantasized about portraying Kerr himself—to find a way to embody this flawed, muscle-bound saint, a man of sorrows who absorbed so much pain it nearly consumed him.
Johnson understood that “The Smashing Machine” would demand an entirely new kind of performance from him. It wouldn’t be his usual charm and lightness, but rather an authentic portrayal of profound pain, the kind of agony that can only be drawn from the deep reservoirs of one’s own life experiences. This role promised to unlock and allow him to express previously unrevealed aspects of himself, and he felt an urgent, desperate readiness to do so.
Arranging an interview with “The Rock” is akin to trying to schedule a casual coffee with royalty. Over months of persistent back-and-forth with Johnson’s representatives, I began to grasp the immense, almost geological pressure on his time—every moment seemingly crushed from all directions simultaneously. Large open slots on the calendar gradually dwindled until, by late summer, a date was finally set. “D.J. would love to host you at his farm in Georgia,” I read in an email. “He’d love to introduce you to his bull that he’s raised on the farm.” A detailed itinerary arrived, complete with instructions to text his assistants upon reaching the front gate.
So, I was genuinely surprised to arrive and find Johnson completely alone. He drove out on a four-wheeler to personally open the gate, then led me up the road to his house, communicating with a series of subtle hand gestures that made me feel as if we were an elite two-man squad infiltrating enemy territory.
We quickly settled into a room off his kitchen, and our conversation immediately dove into the history of Hawaii. I soon discovered that talking to Johnson is a truly immersive experience. He is willing to explore almost any topic and will effortlessly sweep you along with his enthusiasm. During our time together, I encountered only one conversational boundary: deep into the night, when I attempted to broach politics, Johnson simply raised his glass and clinked it against mine. “Sam, brother,” he said, “you’ve asked a lot of great questions today. What’s your next one?”
As a conversational partner, Johnson is almost comically curious. He would constantly pause his own responses to redirect questions back at me. He inquired about my childhood, my siblings, my writing process, my parents’ divorce, and even the passing of my father. (Did you know that would be the last time you saw him? Do you think he knew? What was his name? Do you miss him?) He was particularly fascinated by my mention of Tai Chi. (How does it connect to meditation? What kind of shoes do you wear? Has it truly transformed your life?)
When you answer, Johnson listens intently, with strenuous, almost athletic focus, as if he’s squatting the entire weight of your response with the bulging “quads of his soul.” As the conversation deepens and becomes truly revealing—when he genuinely feels what you’re conveying—you’ll hear profound, rumbling noises: a deep, seismic “MMMMMMMMMM” resonating from across the room. It sounds like a colossal creature stirring from slumber, a dragon perhaps, dreaming a very meaningful dream about you.
We were scheduled for a four-hour interview but ended up talking for over eight. Not only did I meet Johnson’s bull—and together we fed it caramel-flavored treats over a fence—but I also joined him at a steakhouse where, at one point, an entire 16th-birthday party attempted to break into our private back room. And the conversation didn’t stop there. The morning after our interview, Johnson began sending me voice memos and videos: new thoughts, stories, and further questions. In late August, when I dropped my son off at college, Johnson sent a Spotify link (Sawyer Brown’s 1991 song “The Walk”) accompanied by a message that read like a poignant haiku:
To listen to later
You and I both have taken “the walk”
Now it’s your son’s time
Hour after hour, text after text, the core subject Johnson and I consistently returned to was pain. This, indeed, is the true essence of “The Smashing Machine.” The film immerses the viewer in pain: the various ways we inflict it, absorb it, express it, and deny it. After watching the film, I found myself compulsively pondering this topic. I began asking everyone I encountered a simple question: “What’s the worst pain you’ve ever felt?” People responded with nightmarish tales of scorpion stings, bike crashes, bones surgically altered. Or profoundly moving accounts of childbirth, caring for parents with Alzheimer’s, the loss of beloved pets, and battling drug addiction. Everyone had a story. To my surprise, these conversations rarely felt depressing; instead, they were deep, intense, often humorous, energizing, and, paradoxically, quite uplifting.
Back in Johnson’s living room, after his dynamic punching exhibition and once we were comfortably reseated, I decided to pose my question: “What’s the worst pain you’ve ever felt?”
Johnson fell silent.
Ice clinked softly in his glass.
“Wow,” he finally said, his voice unusually soft, without the characteristic flash of his famous smile.
I had my theories about his answer. Throughout his career, Johnson has been remarkably open about his life’s struggles. As the Hawaiian music continued to drift through the room and he remained deep in thought, I mentally cataloged the landscape of Dwayne Johnson’s known pains. Several significant peaks came to mind: his tumultuous childhood, marked by constant relocations across states and countries, which made forming lasting friendships difficult. There were frequent fistfights and brushes with the law. 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, just before his freshman season, a brutal practice drill left his left shoulder shattered, requiring surgery, ending his season, and plunging him into a severe depression from which his football dreams never fully recovered.
The ensuing decades brought more agonies and disappointments: recurring battles with depression, a divorce from his first wife, and high-stakes projects that faltered. This doesn’t even account for his many years in professional wrestling—a theatrical arena of suffering where the “fake” pain often spilled into stark reality. During his spandex-clad career, Johnson endured knee tears, a snapped Achilles tendon, a lung so severely bruised that he coughed up blood, and once, was blasted across the ring by Stone Cold Steve Austin’s beer hose. In a single match against John Cena, he notoriously tore his quadriceps and adductor muscles completely off his pelvis, alongside numerous lacerations to his abdominal wall, necessitating emergency surgery.
Finally, after a prolonged silence, Johnson provided his answer.
“The worst pain I’ve ever felt,” he stated, pausing again. Then, he began to tell me a story about his father.
I need to pause here, briefly, to introduce you to the force of nature that was Rocky Johnson. It is genuinely impossible to grasp Dwayne Johnson without understanding his father. Rocky Johnson was less a mere parent and more an exaggerated, mythological origin story—a prequel where the writers went wildly, excessively over-the-top.
Let’s begin with his origins: Rocky Johnson was forged in pain. Born Wayde Bowles in Nova Scotia, his family had arrived generations prior, having escaped slavery in the American South. His own father died tragically just before Wayde’s 13th birthday, and within months of that loss, his mother expelled him from their home. (The story goes that her new boyfriend, in a drunken stupor, urinated all over their Christmas turkey, prompting Wayde to knock him out with a shovel.) Penniless and homeless, Dwayne’s father hitchhiked to Toronto, where he scraped by on odd jobs. He gravitated towards boxing, eventually becoming skilled enough to spar with legends like George Foreman and Muhammad Ali. This path ultimately led him to his true calling: professional wrestling. He adopted the ring name Rocky Johnson and later legally changed his name to match it. He was a pure embodiment of self-invention, a triumph of fantasy over harsh reality. Rocky Johnson hadn’t just survived; he had meticulously constructed an entirely new identity from nothing.
This new identity was a wrestler. Throughout the 1960s and ’70s, Johnson blazed a trail as a pioneering Black star, performing across North America and beyond. Pro wrestling in that era was far from glamorous. The schedule was grueling, and the pay was meager. The audience wasn’t yet national; it was fragmented into local “fiefdoms,” compelling wrestlers to move between them like circus performers, constantly delivering fresh acts to different crowds. This relentless circuit frequently brought Johnson through the American South, where Black wrestlers were still often compelled to enact demeaning stereotypes: speaking in exaggerated dialect, eating watermelon, and even allowing themselves to be whipped. Johnson vehemently refused all such indignities. In the ring, he steadfastly insisted on portraying the good guy—the “babyface.” He was disciplined, serious, a genuine athlete—one of the first professional wrestlers to cultivate a bodybuilder’s physique.
Dwayne frequently describes his relationship with his father as “complicated.” But that word barely scratches the surface. As a baby, then a toddler, then a teenager, Dwayne sat ringside, mesmerized, watching Rocky—built like a superhero—fling cartoonish wrestling villains around before adoring crowds. There’s WWE video footage of this: young Dwayne, wide-eyed, observing the man he idolized perform this elaborate theater of pain.
Outside the ring, Rocky had little leisure time. He rose early for gym sessions and endured long drives to reach his matches, a job that frequently kept him away for days or weeks. Around age 5, Dwayne began accompanying his father to workouts. He wasn’t permitted to touch any weights, instead sitting in a corner, watching Rocky meticulously pump up his famous muscles. As Dwayne grew a little older, Rocky would take him to a wrestling mat afterward to teach him some moves. These sessions, along with spontaneous fishing trips during long drives, constituted the primary way they spent time together.
Johnson’s mother, Ata Maivia, also hailed from a wrestling family. Her mother, Lia, was a powerful promoter, and her father was the revered Samoan wrestler High Chief Peter Maivia. She understood the demanding lifestyle of professional wrestling. However, her marriage to Rocky was tumultuous; their arguments were explosive, and they sometimes lived apart.
It was a bewildering upbringing, a constant blend of reality and theatrical fiction. To fully grasp it, one must understand the classic wrestling concept known as “living the gimmick.” Rocky Johnson was its master. His son recalled wondering, as a child, why his father always owned flashy cars—Lincolns, Cadillacs—yet drove them home to motels, trailer parks, and dingy basement apartments. That was “living the gimmick.” For Rocky, illusion was a survival mechanism. He possessed an uncanny ability to talk his way both into and out of any predicament. Johnson shared that his father never truly learned to write, forming letters slowly and painstakingly in basic shapes. Yet, his signature was impeccable: elegant and flowing, like that of a king. Even his physique was partly an act. His father boasted a massive upper body, Johnson noted, capable of bench pressing over 500 pounds, but he completely neglected his legs. “Open up ‘skipped leg day’ in the dictionary,” Johnson joked, “and there’s my dad with a big smile.”
“The worst pain I’ve ever felt,” Johnson recounted, pausing significantly. “The worst pain I’ve ever felt was when we were evicted from Hawaii and I was sent to Nashville to live with my dad.”
This traumatic event occurred when he was 15. Dwayne and his mother resided in a small Honolulu apartment, while Rocky was away wrestling in Tennessee. The marriage was so volatile that, in some ways, his parents’ separation offered a measure of relief. Johnson clarifies that his father was never physically abusive, but their arguments were colossal and left deep emotional scars. Objects were sometimes thrown, and unspeakable words were exchanged. From the age of 13 onward, Johnson considered himself the primary male figure in his mother’s life, adept at listening, helping, 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 frozen, staring at the notice, before collapsing into tears. Recounting the story, Johnson himself welled up. “It broke my heart,” he confided. “It broke my heart to see my mom like that.”
Once Ata composed herself, she called Rocky. She explained that she needed to finalize things in Hawaii and wanted to send Dwayne to Nashville in the interim. Meanwhile, she would ship their car to the mainland and then drive across the country with all their possessions, hoping they could finally live together as a family.
“No problem,” Rocky assured her. “I’ve got an apartment.”
But Rocky, true to form, was “living the gimmick.” When Dwayne arrived in Nashville, his father was conspicuously absent. Instead, he was met by a man named Bob. Bob drove Dwayne to a cheap motel, knocked on a door, and introduced him to a man named Bruno, explaining that this would be Dwayne’s new home.
That brutal rejection struck Dwayne like a flying drop-kick, adding a fresh layer of pain to the initial trauma of the eviction. He immediately understood the situation: his father was almost certainly living with another woman. This new pain carried chilling implications: his mother was en route, completely unaware, meaning even more heartache was approaching. “My heart aches when I think about that,” he said. “The pain my mom was enduring during that drive. Imagining: ‘What is my life now?’ That entire time.”
And Ata remained completely oblivious. She embarked on this solitary cross-country journey in an utterly impractical vehicle: a two-door red Ford Thunderbird. Rocky had purchased it just before his career took a nosedive, and now it was overflowing with their few remaining possessions, roaring from San Francisco towards Nashville, eventually pulling into the parking lot of that dismal motel.
Ata had been led to believe she was driving to her husband’s apartment. Instead, she was greeted by Bruno (who, incidentally, became a wonderful, lifelong friend of Dwayne’s; Dwayne recently bought him a truck. But that’s beside the point). Dwayne was also there, as was Rocky, inexplicably driving a car with Illinois license plates.
Johnson recalls that his mother, too, grasped the entire truth instantly. “That was it,” he said. “Within five minutes, it all just… ” His voice trailed off. “It wasn’t even an explosion,” he clarified. “It was just—a collapse.”
His father immediately began spinning transparent lies. His mother grew eerily silent. Later, as Rocky continued to talk in bewildering circles, his son walked over and whispered, “You should give her a hug.” But the hug did nothing to mend the broken trust. That nightmare day continued its downward spiral, culminating in a terrifying moment when Ata stepped out of Rocky’s car and walked directly into freeway traffic. Cars swerved and blared their horns. Dwayne frantically pulled her back. The expression on her face, he confided, was unlike anything he had ever witnessed. She was completely lost, he said.
Remarkably, Johnson’s parents remained together, though they would finally divorce many years later, in 2006.
Dwayne Johnson, meanwhile, diligently set about the monumental task of becoming “Dwayne Johnson.” There were still inevitable setbacks along the way. When his football career culminated in utter humiliation (he was cut from a practice squad in the Canadian Football League), he found himself moving back in with his parents, spending countless aimless days depression-cleaning their Florida apartment. Then he announced a bold new life plan: he wanted to become a professional wrestler.
Rocky, as one might expect, despised this notion. It’s difficult to ascertain whether his opposition stemmed from a protective instinct (wrestling was a notoriously difficult life) or pure selfishness (wrestling was his difficult life). Regardless, it ignited an apocalyptic argument, and amidst the screaming, crying, and crashing, Dwayne’s father uttered a sentence that would echo in his mind for the rest of his life: “What do you think you possibly have to offer?”
The answer, it turned out, was: quite a lot, actually. A truly colossal amount, thank you very much. By virtually every metric—revenue generated, memorable catchphrases coined, mainstream crossover success achieved, even the iconic eyebrow raise—one could argue that Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson offered more than anyone else in the entire storied history of wrestling.
After a rocky start where the WWF attempted to brand him as a generic “babyface” named Rocky Maivia (a blend of his father’s and grandfather’s names)—enduring showers of boos and chants of “Rocky sucks,” contemplating whether wrestling was a grave mistake after all, and suffering a knee injury—Johnson underwent a rebirth almost overnight. He emerged as “The Rock”: an arrogant villain who famously referred to himself in the third person and mercilessly trash-talked everyone. With his distinctive long sideburns and thrilling finishing moves like the Rock Bottom and the People’s Elbow, The Rock could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with other major stars of the late 1990s, including Stone Cold Steve Austin, Triple H, and Mankind—a wildly popular era still fondly remembered as the Attitude Era.
The Rock’s true superpower was his unparalleled crowd interaction. His connection with the audience was revolutionary, elevating wrestling itself to a mere backdrop for his electrifying skits, speeches, and singalongs. His catchphrases, like “If you can smell what the Rock is cookin’,” became so universally popular that crowds would finish them for him. He was a ratings juggernaut.
Johnson seamlessly leveraged this momentum into a highly successful Hollywood career. In 2001, his brief cameo in “The Mummy Returns” resonated so strongly with test audiences that, even before the film’s release, the studio greenlit his own spinoff, “The Scorpion King.” He swiftly cemented his status as one of the industry’s most bankable stars. When “The Fast and the Furious” franchise began to lose its steam, The Rock was brought in to reignite its fire.
As one can imagine, Rocky Johnson’s reaction to his son’s meteoric success was exquisitely complex—a potent cocktail of pride, intense jealousy, a sense of ownership, and lingering resentment. Dwayne Johnson revealed that his father always kept a subtle joke in his arsenal, a verbal jab designed to keep his son in check. Whenever he overheard someone praising Dwayne—whether for his wrestling, movies, or business acumen—Rocky would interject.
“I taught him everything he knows,” he would assert, then, after a perfectly timed pause to ensure he had everyone’s undivided attention, he’d add: “But I didn’t teach him everything I know.”
Johnson still visibly winces slightly when he recalls this.
For the first time in his illustrious film career, Johnson has been compelled to tap into this profound well of personal pain. “The Smashing Machine” is emotionally brutal—a cinematic slugfest where Johnson’s most frequent and formidable sparring partner is Emily Blunt, the acclaimed English actor portraying Mark Kerr’s girlfriend, Dawn. In reality, Blunt and Johnson share a deep friendship, having first met in 2018 while co-starring in “Jungle Cruise”—a $200 million, CGI-heavy, family-friendly action-adventure based on the classic Disneyland ride. Blunt arrived on set expecting the larger-than-life action hero, “The Rock”: audacious, invincible, and perpetually grinning.
Instead, she encountered a different man. Johnson was introverted, thoughtful, and genuinely curious. He and Blunt immediately connected, soon talking for hours and forging a bond so deep they publicly refer to each other as best friends. “I mean, he’s really a magical person,” Blunt told me.
Yet, this very magic was also a source of frustration for her, as so little of Johnson’s authentic self was allowed to surface in his professional work. Blunt clearly perceived that much of Johnson’s public persona was a carefully constructed performance, a character he had invented to survive. And it seemed that this persona had, over time, completely consumed his entire career.
Johnson had heard this critique before, and he always had a stock response: “Sure,” he’d say, “some actors tear their guts out in their films, and I respect it. But not me. I’ll work through my private stuff in private. I just want to give people a good show. The audience comes first.”
“I’ve given him [expletive] for years about this ‘audience first’ stuff,” Blunt confessed to me. In her view, true service to an audience meant offering one’s complete self—the magnificent, joyful, yet painful chaos of being a human navigating a difficult world. ” This is audience first!” she would passionately tell Johnson.
By this very definition, with “The Smashing Machine,” Johnson has unequivocally prioritized his audience. The film was written and directed by Benny Safdie, known (alongside his brother, Josh) for crafting edgy, experimental projects that blur the lines between fiction and reality. Safdie’s films often feature intriguing stunt casting: “Good Time” stars Robert Pattinson, the English “Twilight” heartthrob, as a grimy New York bank robber; “Uncut Gems” features Adam Sandler as a high-stakes gambling addict. But Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson represents an entirely different mountain of muscle. Johnson collaborating on a film with Benny Safdie is akin to Taylor Swift recording an album with Björk.
Safdie’s take on “The Smashing Machine” faithfully recreates entire scenes from the original 2002 documentary, but dramatized and expanded with peculiar, added flourishes. It incorporates dialogue and moments no documentary crew could have possibly captured. The final product feels less like a conventional sports biopic and more like gazing through a kaleidoscope while ten sweaty men take turns punching you directly in the heart. The film is a wild, visceral collage of tones and performances. It features claustrophobic fight sequences punctuated by cheesy ringside commentary. There are extended, tender moments between men whose cauliflower ears are so pronounced they resemble characters from “The BFG.” A Japanese journalist in fingerless gloves appears, seemingly plucked from a David Lynch film. And there’s enough jazz percussion to effectively ruin every open-mic night across America.
When Johnson initially approached him, Safdie was unfamiliar with Mark Kerr’s story. However, he quickly became captivated. Kerr, Safdie told me, struck him as “one of the most cinematic characters you could possibly have.” He likened Kerr to a super-jacked version of George Bailey from “It’s a Wonderful Life”: a fundamentally decent man who endures terrible torment, ultimately reaching a new comprehension of his own existence. Safdie envisioned Kerr as a conduit for radical empathy, asking himself, “What are the situations we could put him in to help the world to understand itself better?”
The film’s undeniable centerpiece is Johnson’s transformative performance, which demanded that he literally become Mark Kerr. As always, Johnson approached this challenge with extreme dedication. He had to meticulously reshape his already formidable body. Johnson is famously massive, but his sheer bulk in this role is almost unbelievable; each of his thighs arguably deserves its own separate credit in the film’s closing sequence. Crucially, he also altered his entire movement style. Kerr, Johnson explained, carried his weight high, concentrated in his shoulders. Johnson learned to emulate this posture, walking with a slight forward lean, as if he had been italicized. In one particular scene, Johnson was being filmed from behind, and Safdie observed him subtly shifting angles, “performing in reverse.” Safdie recounted, “I was like: This is amazing. The guy is acting with the muscles of his back.”
Then, there’s Kerr’s voice—that distinctly Midwestern, “golly-gee” lullaby. Johnson worked extensively with a voice coach, who taught him to speak gently, softly, almost from the bottom of his chin. (Johnson’s natural speaking voice resonates with a deep rumble from the ground up.) He practiced this new vocal delivery relentlessly until he could effortlessly switch between his own voice and Kerr’s, even sending Safdie voice memos while in character. “And I was like: Oh, this is going to work,” Safdie confirmed.
But perhaps the most striking transformation is Johnson’s face. It is, after all, one of the most recognizable and valuable “properties” on the planet. Yet here, it is profoundly defamiliarized, leaving you constantly questioning whose gaze you’re meeting. Johnson revealed this required hours in the makeup chair each day, involving no fewer than 21 different prosthetics—the masterful work of Oscar-winning makeup artist Kazu Hiro. Early in the process, Safdie consciously decided he didn’t want Johnson to look exactly like Kerr; instead, he aimed for that famous face to subtly shine through, creating an unsettling yet compelling combination. The film ultimately leaves viewers suspended in an uncanny valley between Dwayne Johnson and Mark Kerr, between winning and losing, between violence and healing.
However, the most arduous aspect of Johnson’s transformation was emotional. Just before filming began, Blunt directly asked him if he was scared.
“I’m good,” he replied.
“That’s not what I asked,” she challenged.
In that pivotal moment, Johnson confessed to me, he realized he was terrified. This film held an almost dangerous significance for him. He had fantasized about this project for so many years, and now, standing on set, about to make it a reality, the fears surfaced: What if he couldn’t pull it off? What if he wasn’t truly that kind of actor? What if he embarrassed himself, or, worse yet, embarrassed Kerr—a man he had grown to admire and love?
“I felt that he was maybe going underground a little bit,” Blunt shared with me. “And I just got the sense that maybe he was scared. Because I was scared. And I think maybe D.J. has avoided naming that. Because he had to be so resilient, from such a young age—the hero, the spine to keep everybody upright.”
Johnson concurs. “I didn’t identify it,” he admitted. “I didn’t know. I didn’t label it.” As soon as he finally acknowledged and named that fear, he began to see it everywhere, even hidden behind his long-standing mantra about his film career: audience first. “I was just scared to do it,” he revealed. “That’s the truth.” He had always genuinely believed he was serving his audience. Now, he realized he had simply been “living the gimmick.”
I asked Johnson if he remembered his last conversation with his father.
“I do,” he replied. “Yeah.” Another prolonged silence. “And it hurts.”
Their final exchange was a monumental fight—the most explosive since that devastating argument 25 years prior, when Johnson first declared his ambition to become a wrestler.
This particular confrontation revolved around a book. His father had just released his autobiography, “Soulman: The Rocky Johnson Story.” It was 2019, and Dwayne was by then immeasurably famous. Beyond simply sharing his life story, Rocky was also attempting to capitalize on his son’s success. Johnson stated he was fine with his father profiting, but he also braced himself, knowing his father’s tendencies.
Predictably, the book was replete with surprises. The first thing Dwayne Johnson discovered was that he himself was credited with writing the foreword. Except he hadn’t. Not a single word was his. The remainder of the book proved equally “creative.” “Growing up with my dad,” Johnson told me, “I know the truth to all these stories. And they’re not in this book. If the truth is blue, this story is red.”
Johnson could overlook most of it; he was accustomed to his father’s embellishments. But then he encountered a series of quotes, falsely attributed to him, about the immense debt he owed his father for all his success—not just in wrestling, but in TV shows, movies, everything.
Johnson was shocked, deeply hurt, and furious. He thought about his decades of tireless work and the countless individuals who had supported and collaborated with him. And here was Rocky, audacious enough to pretend to speak in Dwayne’s voice, claiming all that achievement as his own.
“It just completely crossed the line,” Johnson asserted. “It goes back to the attention, and the narcissism.”
Mid-story, he rose to pour himself another glass of tequila.
He confronted his father via phone. They fought intensely. As was his pattern, Rocky denied any wrongdoing. Johnson grew so enraged that he finally handed the phone to his mother. Shortly thereafter, he managed to have the autobiography withdrawn from stores.
That proved to be the final conversation he ever had with his father.
When Johnson received the news of Rocky’s death, he was in Georgia, on the first day of filming a new movie, “Red Notice.” He had just arrived on set, feeling the electric energy of a first day—activity buzzing everywhere, the crew meticulously setting up—when his phone rang. Johnson rarely answers calls, preferring voice memos, but he picked up this time. The conversation was brief. His father had passed away in Florida.
After hanging up, Johnson sat in his truck, processing the news for what felt like an eternity. He was unsure what to do. Should he rush home to his family? Fly to his mother? But then, he heard his father’s voice in his head—one of Rocky’s enduring mantras, a phrase repeated countless times, regardless of injury, argument, or even the news of a death: “Show must go on.” So, Dwayne Johnson emerged from his truck and went to work.
At Rocky Johnson’s funeral, a who’s-who of wrestling legends gathered: Hulk Hogan, the Wild Samoans, the Bushwhackers, Triple H. They shared a trove of wonderful stories and kind words. “Wildly enough, my old man was just this amazing friend,” Johnson told me. “Complicated husband. Complicated dad. But an awesome friend to everyone else.”
“Was he a better friend to you than he was a dad?” I asked.
Johnson paused thoughtfully. “No,” he said. “He wasn’t my friend either. No, sadly. No one’s ever asked me that. But no. I wish. I wish. I think that my mom was my friend.”
Yet, throughout our extensive conversation, Johnson repeatedly emphasized the many positive aspects of his father, acknowledging them with greater clarity now that he was gone.
“I think my dad’s capacity to love was very limited,” Johnson reflected. “He was kicked out when he was 13. Imagine that pain. And that’s the man who raised me. That was my dad.”
Rocky Johnson instilled in his son the values of hard work, resilience, 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 resides in his words—the small mottos, credos, and sayings that continuously echo in Dwayne’s mind. “Don’t eat to please the tongue—eat to nourish the body,” Rocky would advise (a lesson Dwayne learned at age 5). “They can’t feel your pain, they can only see it” (Rocky’s instruction on “selling” in the wrestling ring, ensuring the audience fully grasped his simulated suffering).
There’s a poignant scene in “The Smashing Machine” where Dwayne Johnson, embodying Mark Kerr, is driving and sweet-talking a nurse on his cellphone to procure drugs. Despite Johnson’s imposing physique—which nearly fills the entire SUV—his voice is remarkably pleasant and light. He needs liquid opiates, he explains to the nurse, because 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 Johnson’s bright assertion: “A day without pain is like a day without sunshine.”
Benny Safdie, who was present in the car during that scene, found himself astonished by the “sunshine line.” It wasn’t in the script. “It was just so perfect,” Safdie told me. “Because you don’t necessarily know what it means. But it’s so meaningful.”
A day without pain is like a day without sunshine. Does it imply perpetual pain? Safdie pondered. Yet, sunshine is inherently good. So, does it mean you desire to experience pain?
“It’s a really loaded, complicated phrase,” he observed. “And he says it with a smile.”
As soon as the cameras ceased rolling, Safdie immediately asked Johnson about the origin of the line.
Johnson, reverting to his natural voice, revealed that it came from his dad.
Sam Anderson is a staff writer for The New York Times Magazine.