My day with Dwayne Johnson started with an unexpected thrill: a private demonstration of his signature punch’s evolution. We were chatting casually in a room off his kitchen. Johnson, relaxed and barefoot, reclined on his couch in black jeans and a tight Willie Nelson T-shirt, his biceps straining the fabric. Soft Hawaiian tunes played in the background. I confessed I wasn’t much of a wrestling fan, my last memory being of the ’90s bad boy, Razor Ramon, known for his sneer and tossing toothpicks at the audience.
“I liked that guy too,” Johnson agreed, which immediately jogged a memory. I mentioned that I’d once read he actually studied and emulated Razor Ramon’s punch during his early wrestling days.
“Wow!” Johnson exclaimed, visibly delighted.
The tidbit clearly pleased him, and he flashed *that* famous smile—a radiant burst of charisma that feels like the very reason cinema, GIFs, and even smiling itself were created. It’s a smile so potent it evokes images of a tropical sunset over a pristine beach, where thousands of baby sea turtles are moments from hatching.
“Wow!” he repeated.
With that dazzling smile, Johnson launched into the story of his iconic punch. Long before he was “The Rock”— a global multimedia sensation who could electrify crowds with a simple eyebrow raise, hosted “Saturday Night Live” multiple times, had “smackdown” added to the dictionary, or was considered a serious presidential candidate—back in 1996, he was a fresh face named Flex Kavana (don’t ask). He landed a dream tryout match for the World Wrestling Federation. It went well, and everyone backstage offered congratulations.
Then, Pat Patterson, a gruff, experienced wrestling veteran and industry powerhouse, approached him. With his gravelly voice, imposing face, and a cigarette in hand, he was a formidable presence.
“Good job,” Patterson remarked.
“Thank you,” Johnson replied.
“Your punches,” Patterson continued, letting the statement hang in a puff of smoke.
“Yeah?” Johnson prompted.
Patterson then unleashed a torrent of expletives.
“No good?” Johnson asked.
“Horrible,” Patterson declared. He then gave Johnson an impromptu masterclass on the art of stage combat. He emphasized that a powerful punch is the fundamental building block of the entire performance. The intricate balance of pro wrestling—its blend of theatrics and raw physicality, soap opera drama and street brawl intensity—all hinges on a punch that, despite being feigned, must appear genuinely devastating.
Having heard Johnson recount this story before, I interjected, “Could you show me the difference?”
He paused. “Show you?” he queried, “Like, right now?” Before I could reply, he sprang from the couch, moving with surprising speed and effortless power, like a strong tree branch swaying in a gust of wind.
“Okay,” Johnson confirmed, lightly on his feet, knees bent, ready to demonstrate. “So, what’s the difference?”
I hastily got out of my chair to observe, and in a flash, Johnson seemed to teleport past the coffee table, materializing directly in front of me, squared up and ready to strike.
Suddenly, I had a unique perspective of Dwayne Johnson – the kind usually reserved for his on-screen adversaries like John Cena, Vin Diesel, or a CGI monster. My gaze was dominated by his formidable fists, solid cubes of muscle and bone. Far above, the smooth curve of his bald head was just visible, while his intense, heavy-lidded eyes were locked directly onto mine.
“So,” Johnson began, his voice echoing the coiled power of his fists, “there are certain ways guys will throw a punch.”
Then, like a speeding truck, his massive right hand shot towards my forehead – and stopped. “Boom,” he stated. Whether it was two inches or two millimeters from my face, it hovered there, frozen, as if suddenly disconnected. Then, it retreated.
“Or sometimes,” Johnson continued, and his fist darted towards my cheek this time. “Guys will throw like this: Boom.”
Repeatedly, Johnson’s powerful knuckles targeted various points on my face: boom, boom, boom. He demonstrated how a less skilled wrestler might exaggerate a punch, leaping and stomping – a trick easily spotted by anyone in the back rows. (Johnson did so, and the floor vibrated.) I remained completely still, feeling a growing calm with each simulated strike. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would never actually hit me. His movements revealed incredible precision, a full-body mastery and expertise. This man, I realized, was an artist.
On screen, whether in high-octane car chases or within the wrestling ring, Johnson makes everything appear effortless, almost like a living cartoon. Yet, this is all a carefully crafted illusion. Off-camera, he is meticulously technical, obsessive, and deeply studious, with an intense appreciation for detail. After Pat Patterson’s criticism of his punch, Johnson delved into the wrestling minor leagues, performing for meager fees in diverse venues from barns to flea markets. During his downtime, he meticulously studied VHS tapes of wrestling’s finest punchers, particularly Razor Ramon. That punch was in a league of its own. Johnson analyzed it repeatedly in slow motion, deconstructing every element, striving to embed its essence into his own physicality.
Nearly three decades later, standing by his coffee table, Johnson demonstrated Razor Ramon’s punch for me. “It was all about this beautiful body push,” he explained. He then launched himself across the room, twisting his torso, upper and lower body torqued in unison, arms spread wide. He surged forward, fluid and fast, his entire body rotating like a helicopter blade, his right hand delivering a ferocious punch while his left hand slapped sharply against his thigh, creating a resounding crash that shook the room.
Johnson was right; this was an entirely different class of movement. It was devastating yet graceful, gentle yet lethal. I remarked that it resembled tai chi.
Johnson, brimming with enthusiasm, demonstrated the punch repeatedly, detailing its subtle nuances and clever misdirections: how the right fist subtly transforms into a slap just before connecting with the opponent’s jaw, then instantly reforms before the audience can notice; and how the left hand discreetly slaps against the puncher’s own thigh, imperceptibly generating the sound that makes the crowd believe the punch landed with full force.
Mastering this technique imparted a vital lesson: Pro wrestling is, fundamentally, the art of dramatizing pain. It’s about the theatricality of inflicting, enduring, and conveying suffering. Wrestlers must gasp, wince, crawl, roll, clutch their bodies, and slap the mat with conviction. This cannot be performed half-heartedly. Pain, even simulated pain, is a primal, almost sacred element. It demands respect. To execute it authentically, one must commit their entire being.
We barely need an introduction to Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson; his fame is virtually unparalleled. This is a man who once introduced the Super Bowl on the field, a level of popularity most of us could only dream of. When he graces your screen, you know precisely what to expect: sharp wit, thrilling action, high-stakes chases, and impressive CGI creatures. He embodies pure cinematic joy, consistently delivering positivity, entertainment, and classic mainstream popcorn fun.
However, Johnson’s latest film, “The Smashing Machine,” breaks this mold entirely. It’s neither a lighthearted reboot nor a feel-good adventure. As the title hints, it’s a raw, bloody, and intense experience. Expect plenty of smashing: faces, knees, ears, doors, lamps, bottles, and even souls are brutally impacted.
The movie chronicles the life of Mark Kerr, famously known as “The Smashing Machine”—a name that, for most people, holds a fraction of the recognition of “The Rock.” Yet, Kerr is an incredibly compelling figure. In the late 1990s, when the Ultimate Fighting Championship was still in its nascent stages and being condemned in the Senate as “human cockfighting,” Kerr achieved a short but terrifying period of supremacy. His strength was so immense his muscles appeared exponential, like a walking stack of cantaloupes. His fights were electrifyingly brutal; Kerr would dive at an opponent’s legs, take them to the mat, then relentlessly pummel their face with every hard part of his body—fists, knees, forehead—until the referee intervened. This style became 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 their eye socket.
Kerr’s powerful story first captivated audiences in the 2002 documentary, also titled “The Smashing Machine,” which serves as the inspiration for Johnson’s film. Directed by John Hyams, the documentary masterfully blended raw, intimate footage into a poignant, existential portrayal. It showcased Kerr’s dominance in the ring and his glory before roaring crowds, but also his profound suffering afterward: flinching from a doctor’s touch, tense arguments with his unpredictable girlfriend, Dawn, and tears in a hospital bed following a painkiller overdose. For fighting enthusiasts, it was essential viewing—an instant cult classic. Beyond being a cautionary tale of a seemingly unstoppable force, Kerr’s narrative explored themes of violence, pain, and loneliness often left unsaid, especially within the intensely masculine fighting community.
Dwayne Johnson was among the documentary’s captivated viewers. In 2002, when it premiered, his career was already skyrocketing from wrestling fame to the pinnacle of Hollywood. Yet, “The Smashing Machine” brought him crashing back to reality. He saw an uncanny reflection of an alternative life path; not long before, during a lull in his pro wrestling career, Johnson had seriously contemplated a switch to mixed martial arts—even discussing it with Mark Kerr himself (they’d trained at the same gym). Now, the film presented the stark reality of “the road not taken.” As Johnson’s film career soared, with a succession of “Fast & Furious” sequels (5, 6, 7, 8, X) and a “Jumanji” reboot and its follow-up, “Jumanji,” “The Rock” remained haunted by the story of “The Smashing Machine.”
What truly captivated Johnson was Mark Kerr himself—the gentle soul beating beneath the violent exterior. Kerr was an intriguing paradox: a sensitive individual who made a living by devastating opponents. In the documentary, he speaks candidly and deeply about his own suffering and the suffering of others. He recounts his mother’s death, his battle with addiction, and a turbulent, codependent relationship. Kerr’s voice is soft, a comforting Midwestern lilt, like cupped hands cradling a baby bird. With this tender tone, he reveals he never genuinely wanted to fight or hurt anyone; in fact, before his very first match, he was on the verge of vomiting (his trainer reportedly had to warn him that the Brazilian crowd might riot if he didn’t appear). Essentially, Kerr embodies the archetype of a gentle giant—imagine the Incredible Hulk speaking with the compassionate wisdom of Mr. Rogers.
This deep dive into Kerr’s story struck a chord with “The Rock.” Johnson readily acknowledged his own incredibly fortunate career, consistently expressing immense gratitude to everyone who contributed to his success. Yet, he admitted to feeling somewhat overwhelmed by it all. The relentless studio demands, the numerous side ventures, the endless meetings, the constant requests, the perpetual smile, the unwavering charisma—while he remained the same person, his relationship with the world had dramatically altered. His immense fame meant he could barely step outside without being recognized. He wasn’t complaining, but he faced an age-old Hollywood paradox: on a profound human level, he felt unseen, unknown, and confined. A few years prior, Johnson began frequently questioning: Am I truly pursuing my own desires, or merely fulfilling the expectations of those around me?
It was at this juncture that his fascination with “The Smashing Machine” became a profound obsession. Johnson envisioned transforming the acclaimed documentary into a dramatic feature, reaching the widest global audience. He yearned for everyone to witness the extraordinary essence of Mark Kerr. He even dreamt of portraying Kerr himself—to encapsulate this flawed, immensely powerful figure, this tortured soul who absorbed so much pain it almost consumed him.
Johnson recognized that “The Smashing Machine” demanded an entirely new kind of acting from him. It wouldn’t rely on his familiar charm and lightheartedness, but rather on raw, genuine pain—the kind that can only be drawn from the deepest wells of one’s personal experience. This role offered him the opportunity to channel and express previously unacknowledged aspects of himself, and he felt an urgent readiness to embrace it.
Arranging an interview with “The Rock” felt like scheduling coffee with royalty. Months of negotiations with his team revealed the immense, geological pressure on his schedule, with every moment seemingly crushed from all directions. Calendar openings dwindled until, by late summer, a date was set. “D.J. would love to host you at his farm in Georgia,” I was informed. “He’d love to introduce you to his bull that he’s raised.” A meticulous itinerary arrived, complete with instructions to text his assistants upon reaching the front gate.
Upon my arrival, I was surprised to find Johnson entirely alone. He drove out on a four-wheeler and personally opened the gate. Then, with a series of subtle hand gestures that made me feel like part of an elite two-man squad on a covert mission, he guided me up the road toward his house.
We quickly settled into a room near his kitchen and soon found ourselves immersed in a discussion about Hawaiian history. Conversing with Johnson, I discovered, is an intensely immersive experience. He’s open to exploring any topic, and he effortlessly brings you along. During our time, I encountered only one barrier: late in the evening, when I attempted to discuss politics, Johnson raised his glass and clinked it against mine. “Sam, brother, you’ve asked a lot of great questions today,” he said with a knowing smile. “What’s your next one?”
As a conversationalist, Johnson possesses an almost comical level of curiosity. He frequently paused his own responses to redirect questions back to me. He inquired about my childhood, my siblings, my writing, my parents’ divorce, and the death 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 captivated by my mention of tai chi. (“How is that related to meditation? What kind of shoes do you wear? Has it changed your life?”)
When you reply, Johnson listens with intense focus, almost physically straining, as if his very soul is squatting the weight of your words with bulging spiritual quads. As the conversation deepens and becomes more revealing, when he truly feels what you’re saying, you’ll hear deep, resonant rumblings emanating from across the room—a profound, seismic “MMMMMMMMMM.” It’s like a colossal creature stirring from slumber, dreaming a particularly significant dream about you.
Our planned four-hour chat extended to over eight. Beyond meeting Johnson’s bull (which we fed caramel snacks through a fence), I joined him at a steakhouse, where a 16th-birthday party tried to crash our private back room. The conversation didn’t stop there. Starting the morning after our interview, Johnson began sending me voice memos and videos: thoughts, stories, and more questions. When I dropped my son off at college in late August, he sent a Spotify link (Sawyer Brown’s 1991 song “The Walk”) with a poignant message that read like a soulful haiku:
To listen to later
You and I both have taken “the walk”
Now it’s your son’s time
Throughout our hours of conversation and subsequent texts, one theme consistently emerged: pain. It is the core subject of “The Smashing Machine,” a film that immerses the audience in the multifaceted nature of suffering—how we inflict it, absorb it, articulate it, and suppress it. After watching, I became preoccupied with this topic, asking everyone I met a simple question: “What’s the worst pain you’ve ever felt?” Responses ranged from horrifying tales of scorpion stings, bike crashes, and severed bones, to deeply moving accounts of childbirth, caring for parents with Alzheimer’s, grieving pets, and battling drug addiction. Everyone had a story. Surprisingly, these conversations were seldom depressing; instead, they were profound, intense, humorous, invigorating, and often, paradoxically, uplifting.
Back in Johnson’s living room, after his intricate punching display, once we were seated again, 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 clinking of ice in his glass.
“Wow,” he murmured, his voice soft, the famous smile absent this time.
I had my own theories about his answer. Throughout his career, Johnson has been quite transparent about his life. As Hawaiian music filled the room and he pondered, I mentally cataloged what I already knew about the depths of Dwayne Johnson’s pain. Several significant challenges stood out. His childhood was marked by constant relocation—Texas, Georgia, Oregon, California, North Carolina, Connecticut, Florida, Hawaii, New Zealand, Pennsylvania, Tennessee—leading to difficulties in forming lasting friendships, and even some skirmishes and minor legal troubles. In high school, he excelled as a football star, earning a full scholarship to the University of Miami and seemingly headed for an NFL career. However, just before his freshman season, a brutal practice drill left his left shoulder shattered. This injury not only necessitated surgery and ended his season but also plunged him into a severe depression, from which his football aspirations never fully recovered.
The subsequent decades brought further struggles and setbacks: recurring battles with depression, a divorce from his first wife, and ambitious projects that didn’t pan out. And that’s without mentioning his extensive career in pro wrestling—a performative display of suffering where the pain frequently spilled into reality. In his spandex-clad days, Johnson endured a torn knee, a snapped Achilles tendon, a lung so severely bruised he coughed blood, and being doused by Stone Cold Steve Austin’s beer hose. During one particularly brutal match against John Cena, he completely tore his quadriceps and adductor muscles from his pelvis, and suffered multiple lacerations to his abdominal wall, necessitating emergency surgery.
Finally, after an extended silence, Johnson revealed his answer.
“The worst pain I’ve ever felt,” he began, pausing once more. Then, he shared a story about his father.
Let’s take a brief detour to understand the legend that was Rocky Johnson, a figure so integral that it’s impossible to grasp Dwayne Johnson without him. Rocky Johnson wasn’t just a father; he was a larger-than-life mythological origin story—a prequel where the narrative pushed every boundary.
Rocky Johnson’s life began steeped in hardship. Born Wayde Bowles in Nova Scotia to a family who had escaped slavery generations prior, his father died just before Wayde’s 13th birthday. Within months, his mother expelled him from their home (the story claims her new boyfriend drunkenly urinated on their Christmas turkey, leading Wayde to knock him out with a shovel). Penniless and homeless, Dwayne’s father hitchhiked to Toronto, surviving on odd jobs. He turned to boxing, eventually sparring with legends like George Foreman and Muhammad Ali, before finding his true calling in pro wrestling. He adopted the ring name Rocky Johnson, later making it his legal name—a testament to pure self-invention, a triumph of fantasy over harsh reality. Rocky Johnson not only survived; he meticulously forged a new identity from nothing.
His new identity centered around wrestling. During the 1960s and ’70s, Johnson was a trailblazer—a pioneering Black wrestling star who performed across North America and internationally. Back then, professional wrestling was far from glamorous; the schedule was grueling, and pay was low. Audiences were localized into regional territories, so wrestlers constantly moved between them like traveling performers, bringing fresh acts to different crowds. This circuit led Johnson frequently into the American South, where Black wrestlers were often pressured to perform demeaning stereotypes: speaking in exaggerated dialect, eating watermelon, or even allowing themselves to be whipped. Johnson steadfastly refused these roles. In the ring, he insisted on portraying the heroic “babyface.” He was disciplined, serious, a genuine athlete—among the first pro wrestlers to boast a bodybuilder’s physique.
Dwayne often characterizes his relationship with his father as “complicated,” but that term barely scratches the surface. From infancy through his teenage years, Dwayne sat ringside, mesmerized, watching Rocky—a superhero-like figure—toss theatrical wrestling villains around to the cheers of adoring crowds. WWE video footage exists, showing a young, wide-eyed Dwayne observing the man he idolized orchestrate these dramatic displays of pain.
Outside the ring, Rocky had little free 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 started joining his father’s workouts. Forbidden to touch weights, he would sit quietly in a corner, watching Rocky meticulously pump up his renowned muscles. As Dwayne grew older, Rocky would take him to a wrestling mat to teach him moves. These sessions, alongside spontaneous fishing breaks during their extensive road trips, constituted the majority of their shared time.
Dwayne’s mother, Ata Maivia, also hailed from a wrestling dynasty; her mother, Lia, was a formidable promoter, and her father was the esteemed Samoan wrestler High Chief Peter Maivia. Ata understood the unique lifestyle, yet her marriage to Rocky was turbulent. Their arguments were often explosive, and they occasionally lived separately.
Growing up was a disorienting mix of reality and illusion. To grasp this, one must understand the classic wrestling concept of “living the gimmick.” Rocky Johnson was a master of it. His son recalls being puzzled as a child by why his father drove luxurious cars—Lincolns, Cadillacs—but returned to motels, trailer parks, and shabby basement apartments. That was “living the gimmick.” For Rocky, illusion was a survival tool; he could charmingly navigate in and out of any predicament. Johnson shared that his father never truly learned to write, forming letters slowly and laboriously, yet his signature was impeccably elegant, fit for a king. Even his impressive physique was partly a facade. His father possessed a massive upper body, capable of bench pressing over 500 pounds, but notoriously neglected his legs. “Open up ‘skipped leg day’ in the dictionary,” Johnson joked, “and you’ll see my dad’s smiling face.”
“The worst pain I’ve ever felt,” Johnson recounted, pausing for emphasis, “was when we were evicted from Hawaii, and I was sent to Nashville to live with my dad.”
He was 15 when this occurred. Dwayne and his mother resided in a modest Honolulu apartment, while Rocky was wrestling in Tennessee. Their tumultuous marriage often made their separation a relief. Johnson clarified that his father wasn’t physically abusive, but their arguments were devastatingly huge and left lasting scars. Objects flew, and unspeakable words were exchanged. From the age of 13, Johnson saw himself as the primary male figure in his mother’s life, adept at listening, helping, and anticipating her needs.
One day in Honolulu, they returned from the grocery store to discover an eviction notice taped to their apartment door. Johnson vividly recalls his mother standing motionless, staring at it, before dissolving into tears. As he recounted the story, Johnson himself teared up. “It hurt my heart,” he confided, “It truly hurt my heart to see my mom in such distress.”
After composing herself, Ata called Rocky. She explained that she wanted to send Dwayne to Nashville while she finalized things in Hawaii. Her plan was to ship their car to the mainland and then drive across with their remaining possessions, hoping they could reunite 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, who drove him to a cheap motel, knocked on a door, and introduced him to Bruno. “This,” Bob stated, “is where you’ll be living.”
The rejection struck Dwayne like a devastating drop-kick, layering new pain onto the initial trauma of the eviction. He instantly understood the situation: his father was almost certainly living with another woman. This realization carried profound implications: his mother was en route, unknowingly driving towards further heartbreak. “My heart hurts when I think about that,” he expressed. “The pain my mom was enduring on that drive. Like: What is my life now? That entire journey.”
Ata, still unaware, was embarking on this solitary cross-country journey in a highly impractical vehicle: a two-door red Ford Thunderbird. Rocky had purchased it just before his career decline, and it was now packed with all their worldly possessions, rumbling from San Francisco to Nashville, eventually pulling into the dilapidated motel’s parking lot.
Ata had been under the impression she was driving to her husband’s apartment. Instead, she was met by Bruno (who, incidentally, became a lifelong friend of Dwayne’s, even receiving a truck from him recently—but that’s beside the point). Dwayne was also there, as was Rocky, oddly driving a car with Illinois license plates.
Johnson recalls that his mother, too, instantly grasped the entire situation. “That was it,” he said, his voice trailing off. “Within five minutes, it all just….” He clarified, “It wasn’t even an explosion. It was just—a collapse.”
His father began fabricating transparent lies, while his mother became disturbingly quiet. Later, as Rocky continued to talk in circles, Dwayne approached him and whispered, “You should give her a hug.” But the embrace changed nothing. That horrific day spiraled further, 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 rushed to pull her back. The expression on her face, he confided, was unlike anything he’d ever witnessed. She was completely lost, he said.
Remarkably, Johnson’s parents remained together, though they wouldn’t officially divorce until much later, in 2006.
Meanwhile, Dwayne Johnson embarked on his own path to becoming “Dwayne Johnson.” His journey wasn’t without its challenges. After his football career concluded in utter humiliation—he was cut from a Canadian Football League practice squad—he moved back in with his parents. There, he spent countless aimless days battling depression while meticulously cleaning their Florida apartment. Eventually, he declared a new life ambition: to become a professional wrestler.
Predictably, Rocky vehemently opposed this idea. It’s unclear whether his resistance stemmed from paternal protectiveness (wrestling was a grueling profession) or simple selfishness (wrestling was his grueling profession). Regardless, it ignited an explosive argument, amidst the shouts, tears, and turmoil, Dwayne’s father delivered a line that would haunt him for life: “What do you think you possibly have to offer?”
The answer, it turned out, was a resounding “quite a lot.” In fact, a truly colossal amount. By many metrics—revenue, iconic catchphrases, mainstream crossover success, and even his legendary eyebrow raise—Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson arguably offered more to wrestling than anyone in its long history.
Following a rocky debut where the WWF attempted to market him as a generic hero named Rocky Maivia (a combination of his father and grandfather’s names)—a period marked by showers of boos and chants of “Rocky sucks,” growing doubts about his wrestling future, and a knee injury—Johnson underwent an almost overnight transformation. He re-emerged as “The Rock”: an audacious villain who spoke of himself in the third person and verbally demolished everyone. “The Rock” sported distinct sideburns and iconic finishing moves like the Rock Bottom and the People’s Elbow, capable of standing toe-to-toe with other late-90s superstars (Austin, Triple H, Mankind) during what’s fondly remembered as the wildly popular Attitude Era.
The Rock’s true genius lay in his unparalleled crowd engagement. His connection with the audience was groundbreaking. The actual wrestling often took a backseat to his captivating skits, powerful speeches, and popular singalongs. His catchphrases, like “If you can smell what the Rock is cookin’,” were so beloved that crowds would eagerly complete them for him. He was, quite simply, a ratings magnet.
Johnson parlayed this extraordinary momentum directly into a stellar Hollywood career. His brief cameo in 2001’s “The Mummy Returns” was such a resounding success 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. When “The Fast and the Furious” franchise began to lose steam, “The Rock” was brought in to reinvigorate it.
As one might expect, Rocky Johnson’s response to his son’s explosive success was exquisitely complex—a potent cocktail of pride, jealousy, possessiveness, and resentment. Dwayne Johnson revealed that his father always had a particular joke ready to keep him in line. Whenever Rocky overheard someone praising his son—be it for wrestling, movies, or business—he would interject:
“I taught him everything he knows,” he’d declare, then, after a perfectly timed pause to ensure all attention was on him, he’d add: “But I didn’t teach him everything I know.”
Johnson still visibly winces when recalling this line.
For the first time in his entire film career, Johnson has been challenged to tap into this deep reservoir of personal pain. “The Smashing Machine” is an emotionally raw experience, a brutal slugfest where Johnson’s primary scene partner is Emily Blunt, the English actor portraying Mark Kerr’s girlfriend, Dawn. In reality, Blunt and Johnson share a strong friendship, formed in 2018 while filming “Jungle Cruise”—a colossal $200 million, CGI-laden, family-friendly adventure inspired by the classic Disneyland ride. Blunt arrived on set anticipating “The Rock” persona: bold, invincible, and perpetually grinning.
Instead, she discovered a different Johnson: introverted and intensely curious. They quickly connected, spending hours in deep conversation, forming a bond so strong they publicly refer to each other as best friends. “I mean, he’s really a magical person,” Blunt shared.
However, this very magic also caused her frustration. So little of Johnson’s authentic self seemed to surface in his professional work. Blunt observed that much of his public persona was a carefully constructed performance, a character he developed for survival, which had subsequently dominated his entire career.
Johnson had encountered this criticism previously and always had a ready response. He acknowledged and respected actors who pour their raw emotions into their roles, but maintained that he preferred to process his personal struggles in private. His primary goal, he always asserted, was to deliver a great show for the audience—audience first.
“I’ve given him hell for years about this ‘audience first’ mentality,” Blunt revealed. For her, true service to an audience meant offering one’s complete self—the complex, joyful, and often painful reality of human existence in a challenging world. “This is audience first!” she would passionately tell Johnson.
By this very definition, “The Smashing Machine” marks Johnson’s true “audience first” endeavor. The film is helmed by Benny Safdie, known for his edgy, experimental projects (often with his brother, Josh) that blur the lines between fiction and reality. Safdie’s work frequently employs unconventional casting; “Good Time” stars Robert Pattinson as a gritty New York bank robber, while “Uncut Gems” features Adam Sandler as a desperate gambling addict. However, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson represents an entirely different caliber of star power. Johnson collaborating with Benny Safdie is akin to Taylor Swift recording an album with Björk.
Safdie’s adaptation of “The Smashing Machine” meticulously reconstructs scenes from the original 2002 documentary, yet expands upon them with dramatic flair and peculiar additions. It incorporates dialogue and scenarios that a documentary crew could never have captured. The resulting film is less a conventional sports biopic and more like gazing through a kaleidoscope while ten sweaty men take turns pummeling your heart. It’s a chaotic mosaic of moods and acting styles: claustrophobic fight sequences punctuated by cheesy ringside commentary, prolonged tender moments shared between men whose severely disfigured ears resemble those of the BFG, and a Japanese journalist in fingerless gloves who seems to have wandered in from a David Lynch film. The soundtrack also boasts enough jazz percussion to ruin every open-mic night across the country.
When Johnson initially contacted him, Safdie was unfamiliar with Mark Kerr’s story. However, he swiftly became engrossed, telling me that Kerr struck him as “one of the most cinematic characters imaginable.” He saw Kerr as a hyper-muscular George Bailey from “It’s a Wonderful Life”: a virtuous man who endures immense suffering to arrive at a profound new understanding of his own being. Safdie viewed Kerr as a conduit for profound empathy, prompting him to ask, “What scenarios could we place him in to help the world better understand itself?”
The film’s centerpiece is Johnson’s transformative performance, which demanded he truly become Mark Kerr. As expected, Johnson approached this challenge with utmost seriousness. He had to reshape his already colossal physique; while always massive, his sheer bulk in this role is staggering, with each thigh seemingly deserving its own credit. Beyond physical changes, he altered his movement. Kerr, Johnson explained, carried his weight high, primarily in his shoulders. Johnson adopted this stance, learning to walk with a slight forward lean, as if perpetually italicized. In one scene, Safdie observed Johnson, filmed from behind, subtly adjusting his angles, acting in reverse. “I was like: This is amazing,” Safdie recounted. “The guy is acting with the muscles of his back.”
Crucially, Johnson also had to master Kerr’s distinctive voice—that gentle, Midwestern “golly-gee” cadence. Working with a voice coach, he learned to speak softly and tenderly, from deep within his throat (a stark contrast to Johnson’s own earth-shaking rumble). He practiced incessantly, effortlessly switching between his natural voice and Kerr’s. He’d send Safdie voice memos in character, prompting Safdie to declare, “And I was like: Oh, this is going to work.”
However, the most unsettling transformation is Johnson’s face itself—one of the most recognizable and valuable visages globally. Here, it’s deliberately defamiliarized, leaving you uncertain of who you’re truly observing. Johnson revealed that this required daily hours in the makeup chair, involving 21 distinct prosthetics, a masterpiece by Oscar-winning artist Kazu Hiro. Safdie’s intention was not for Johnson to look exactly like Kerr, but for his famous features to subtly merge, creating an eerie hybrid. The film thus places the viewer in an uncanny valley, caught between Dwayne Johnson and Mark Kerr, between triumph and defeat, violence and healing.
Yet, the most arduous aspect of Johnson’s metamorphosis was emotional. Just before filming began, Blunt directly asked him if he was afraid.
“I’m good,” he responded.
“That’s not what I asked,” she gently pressed.
In that instant, Johnson confessed, he grasped the extent of his fear. This film held an almost perilous significance for him, a project he had fantasized about for years. Now, on set, on the cusp of bringing it to life, doubts surfaced: What if he failed to deliver? What if he lacked the acting prowess required? What if he humiliated himself—or, worse still, the very Mark Kerr he had grown to admire?
“I felt that he was perhaps retreating inward,” Blunt observed. “I sensed he might be scared, because I was scared. I believe D.J. had likely avoided acknowledging that fear, having had to be so resilient from a young age—the hero, the steadfast backbone for everyone.”
Johnson concurs. “I didn’t identify it,” he admitted. “I didn’t know. I didn’t label it.” The moment he articulated it, he began to perceive fear everywhere, even lurking behind his long-held professional mantra: audience first. “I was just scared to do it,” he confessed. “That’s the truth.” He had always believed he was serving his audience, but now understood he had simply been “living the gimmick.”
I asked Johnson if he could recall the last conversation he had with his father.
“I do,” he replied after another prolonged silence. “Yeah. And it hurts.”
Their final interaction was a fierce argument—the most significant since the explosive confrontation 25 years prior when Johnson first declared his intention to become a wrestler.
The dispute revolved around a book. His father had just released his autobiography, “Soulman: The Rocky Johnson Story,” in 2019, by which time Dwayne was globally renowned. Rocky was not only sharing his life story but also, Johnson understood, aiming to profit from it. Johnson accepted this, but also prepared himself, knowing his father’s tendencies.
As expected, the book was replete with astonishing revelations. Dwayne Johnson’s initial discovery was a foreword attributed to him, which he had not, in fact, written. The entire book was similarly imaginative. “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 have overlooked all of that; he was accustomed to it. But then he encountered a series of quotes, falsely attributed to him, detailing how much of his success—not just in wrestling, but in TV shows and movies—he supposedly owed to his father.
Johnson was shocked, deeply hurt, and furious. He reflected on his decades of hard work and the countless individuals who had supported him. Now, Rocky was brazenly appropriating Dwayne’s voice and claiming all his achievements as his own.
“It just completely crossed the line,” Johnson stated, attributing it to “the attention, and the narcissism.”
Mid-story, he rose to pour himself another glass of tequila.
He called his father, leading to an argument. As always, Rocky vehemently denied any wrongdoing. Johnson grew so incensed that he ultimately passed the phone to his mother. Shortly thereafter, he succeeded in having the autobiography removed from circulation.
That proved to be the final conversation between father and son.
When Johnson received 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 initial rush of excitement—activity buzzing, crew members busy with equipment—when his phone rang. Johnson rarely answers calls, preferring voice memos, but he picked up. The conversation was brief: his father had passed away in Florida.
After hanging up, Johnson remained in his truck, processing the news for what felt like an eternity. He was torn: should he go home to his family? Fly to his mother? But then, his father’s voice echoed in his mind—a familiar mantra, a phrase uttered countless times after injuries, arguments, or even news of death: “The show must go on.” So, Dwayne Johnson exited his truck and went to work.
At Rocky Johnson’s funeral, a who’s-who of wrestling legends appeared: Hulk Hogan, the Wild Samoans, the Bushwhackers, Triple H. They shared countless wonderful stories and kind words. “Wildly enough, my old man was just this amazing friend,” Johnson reflected. “A complicated husband. A complicated dad. But an awesome friend to everyone else.”
“Was he a better friend to you than he was a dad?” I inquired.
Johnson paused in thought. “No,” he replied. “He wasn’t my friend either. No, sadly. No one’s ever asked me that before. But no. I wish. I wish. I think that my mom was my friend.”
Despite this, 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 for love was very limited,” Johnson reflected. “He was kicked out of his home at 13. Imagine that profound 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 art of wrestling. Moreover, through his own actions, he inadvertently taught Dwayne 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 advise (a lesson Dwayne learned at age five). Another key teaching: “They can’t feel your pain, they can only see it,” a principle for “selling” pain in the wrestling ring, ensuring the audience fully comprehends your suffering.
In a scene from “The Smashing Machine,” Dwayne Johnson, portraying Mark Kerr, is driving and attempting to coax drugs from a nurse over the phone. Despite Johnson’s massive physique, which nearly fills the SUV, his voice remains remarkably pleasant and light. He explains to the nurse that he requires liquid opiates, as the pills are “a little hard on my tummy.” The conversation concludes with cheerful small talk—“I’m feelin’ really good, I appreciate it”—after which Johnson brightly states, “A day without pain is like a day without sunshine.”
Benny Safdie, present during the filming of that scene, was struck by the “sunshine line,” noting it wasn’t in the script. “It was just so perfect,” Safdie recounted. “Because you don’t necessarily know what it means. But it’s so meaningful.”
A day without pain is like a day without sunshine. Safdie mused over its meaning: Does it imply a constant state of pain? Yet, sunshine is inherently good. So, is the implication that one actually desires pain?
“It’s a truly loaded, intricate phrase,” he noted. “And he delivers it with a smile.”
Immediately after filming ceased, Safdie inquired about the origin of the line.
Johnson, reverting to his natural voice, revealed it was a saying from his father.