My day with Dwayne Johnson kicked off with an unexpected demonstration: the evolution of his signature punch. We chatted casually in a room off his kitchen, Johnson relaxed in black jeans and a Willie Nelson T-shirt that struggled to contain his impressive biceps. Hawaiian tunes drifted from a Bluetooth speaker. I confessed I wasn’t much of a wrestling aficionado, my last vivid memory being the 90s villain, Razor Ramon, known for his sneer and toothpick-tossing antics.
“I liked that guy too,” Johnson responded, which then jogged a memory: I’d once read that he, in his early wrestling days, actually studied and emulated Razor Ramon’s unique punch.
“Wow!” Johnson exclaimed.
This revelation clearly delighted him, and he unleashed that famous smile – a blinding flash of charisma that feels powerful enough to have inspired not just movie screens and GIFs, but perhaps even the act of smiling itself. Witnessing it firsthand, you feel a wave of warmth, like a sunset over a pristine tropical beach just as thousands of baby sea turtles begin to hatch.
“Wow!” he repeated, his joy palpable.
With that dazzling smile, Johnson launched into the origin story of his renowned punch. Long before he became “The Rock,” a global multimedia icon who could electrify stadiums with a single raised eyebrow, hosted “Saturday Night Live” five times, added “smackdown” to the dictionary, or was even considered a presidential candidate, he was simply Flex Kavana in 1996. (Yes, really.) He landed a dream tryout with the World Wrestling Federation. It went well, and everyone backstage offered their congratulations.
Then came Pat Patterson, a grizzled veteran and a true power broker in the wrestling world. His voice was gravelly, his face a weathered slab, and a cigarette dangled from his hand.
“Good job,” Patterson grunted.
“Thank you,” Johnson replied.
“Your punches,” Patterson remarked, letting the words hang in the smoky air, unexplained.
“Yeah?” Johnson prompted.
Patterson then unleashed a torrent of expletives.
“No good?” Johnson ventured.
“Horrible,” Patterson declared, proceeding to deliver an impromptu masterclass on the art of staged combat. A truly convincing punch, he explained, is the bedrock of the entire spectacle. The intricate balance of pro wrestling — a blend of theatricality, raw emotion, soap opera drama, and brutal physicality — all hinges on a punch that, despite being openly fabricated, must still convey genuine impact.
Johnson had recounted this anecdote before, but I interrupted, “Could you show me the difference?”
He paused, “Show me?” he asked. “Like, right now?” Before I could reply, he sprang from the couch with surprising agility, moving with the powerful, fluid grace of a tree swaying in a strong wind.
“Okay,” Johnson agreed, settling into a light, bouncing stance, knees slightly bent. “So – what’s the difference?”
I scrambled from my chair, and in an instant, 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 vantage point of Dwayne Johnson, typically reserved for his on-screen adversaries. My primary focus was his formidable fists: massive, knuckly “danger-cubes.” Beyond them, the rounded dome of his bald head loomed, his intense, heavy-lidded eyes fixed directly on my face.
“So,” Johnson declared, his voice firm, “there are certain punches guys will throw.”
Then, like a speeding truck, his massive right hand shot towards my forehead—and froze. “Boom,” he stated. Whether it was two inches or two millimeters from my face, I don’t know, but it hung suspended, as if momentarily unplugged, before retracting.
“Or sometimes,” Johnson continued, his fist now aiming for my cheek, “guys will throw like this: Boom.”
Again and again, Johnson sent his formidable knuckles hurtling toward various points on my face: boom, boom, boom. He demonstrated how a less skilled wrestler might over-dramatize a punch by jumping and stomping their feet—a trick easily spotted from the cheap seats. (Johnson demonstrated, and the floor vibrated.) I remained perfectly still, feeling an increasing calm with each feigned strike. I knew, with absolute certainty, he wouldn’t hit me. His movements revealed incredible precision, a holistic wisdom, fluency, and mastery. In that moment, I realized this man was an artist.
Whether in high-octane car chases or theatrical wrestling rings, Johnson makes everything look effortless. He often appears as a larger-than-life cartoon character, but this is a masterful illusion. Off-screen, he is meticulous, obsessive, and a devoted student of his craft. He thrives on details. After Pat Patterson’s blunt critique, Johnson descended into the wrestling minor leagues, earning a mere $40 a night in makeshift venues. During his downtime, he devoured VHS tapes of wrestling’s finest punchers, particularly Razor Ramon. That punch was a league of its own. Johnson dissected it frame by frame, analyzing every movement, striving to embed its essence into his own physicality.
Nearly three decades later, by his coffee table, Johnson unveiled Razor Ramon’s signature punch for me. “It was all about this beautiful body push,” he explained, then exploded across the room. His upper and lower body torqued in a twist, arms spread wide, he surged forward with fluid speed. His entire torso rotated like a helicopter, his right hand unleashing a savage punch while his left hand slapped sharply against his thigh. The resulting crash made the whole room rumble.
Johnson was right. This was a completely different form of movement: devastating yet elegant, gentle yet lethal. I remarked that it resembled tai chi.
With evident delight, Johnson demonstrated the punch repeatedly, dissecting its subtle intricacies and the various sleights of hand involved. He showed how the right fist subtly opens into a slap just as it connects with the opponent’s jaw, then instantly closes before the audience can notice. Simultaneously, the left hand imperceptibly slaps against the puncher’s own thigh, creating a convincing sound effect that the crowd mistakes for the punch itself.
Mastering this technique imparted a profound lesson: professional wrestling is largely the art of dramatizing pain. It’s about the theatricality of inflicting, enduring, and selling that pain. Wrestlers must gasp, wince, crawl, roll, clutch their backs, and slap the canvas. None of this can be performed indifferently. Pain, even feigned pain, is a fundamental, almost revered element. To disrespect it is to betray the performance. To execute it convincingly, you must commit your entire being.
There’s little need to introduce Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. He’s achieved a level of global fame few can match, once even introducing the Super Bowl with the casual ease most of us would reserve for a visiting relative. When he appears on screen, his brand is unmistakable: a torrent of witty remarks, explosive action, thrilling chase sequences, and fantastical CGI creatures. He’s a beacon of cinematic sunshine, consistently delivering positivity, entertainment, and classic popcorn fun.
However, Johnson’s latest film, “The Smashing Machine,” breaks this mold entirely. Far from a feel-good escapade or a lighthearted reboot, the movie is, true to its name, intense and visceral. It features an abundance of brutal smashing: faces, knees, ears, doors, lamps, bottles, and even souls are relentlessly shattered.
The movie chronicles the life of Mark Kerr, also known as “The Smashing Machine” – a name with significantly less public recognition than “The Rock” (by several zeroes, perhaps). Yet, Kerr is an incredibly compelling figure. In the late 1990s, when the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC) was a fledgling sport, controversially dubbed “human cockfighting” by the Senate, Kerr enjoyed a brief but terrifying reign. His physique was so immense, his muscles appeared exponential; he looked like a walking stack of cantaloupes. His fights were electrifyingly brutal. Kerr would typically target an opponent’s legs, execute a takedown, then relentlessly pummel their face with every hard part of his body – fists, knees, forehead – until the fight was stopped. This technique became known as “ground and pound.” He once knocked out an opponent in a mere 19 seconds and forced another to surrender by driving his chin into their eye socket.
Kerr’s compelling narrative first emerged in the 2002 documentary, also titled “The Smashing Machine,” which serves as the foundation for Johnson’s film. Directed by John Hyams, the documentary masterfully combined raw, intimate footage to create a poignant existential portrait. It depicted Kerr’s triumphs in the ring and the adulation of massive crowds, but also his profound suffering in the aftermath: flinching at a doctor’s touch, clashing with his turbulent girlfriend, Dawn, and weeping in a hospital bed following a painkiller overdose. Within the fighting community, it quickly became an essential, cult classic. While it functioned as a cautionary tale about the downfall of a seemingly invincible warrior, its impact ran deeper. Kerr’s story brought to light unspoken truths about violence, pain, and loneliness, particularly within the often stoic, hypermasculine realm of combat sports.
Dwayne Johnson was among the documentary’s admirers. In 2002, his career was rapidly shifting from wrestling icon to Hollywood A-lister. Yet, watching “The Smashing Machine” brought him firmly back to reality. He saw it as an alternate reflection of his own life. Earlier, during a slump in his pro wrestling career, Johnson had seriously contemplated transitioning to mixed martial arts, even discussing it with Mark Kerr himself (they trained at the same Gold’s Gym for a time). Now, brutally portrayed on film, was the path he hadn’t chosen. As his film career soared with successive “Fast & Furious” installments (5, 6, 7, 8, X) and a “Jumanji” reboot and its sequel, “The Rock” remained captivated by “The Smashing Machine.”
What truly captivated Johnson was Mark Kerr himself—the tender heart at the core of all that brutality. Kerr was a compelling contradiction: a sensitive individual who made a living by physically dominating others. In the documentary, he speaks candidly and deeply about suffering, both his own and that of others. He discusses his mother’s death, his battle with addiction, and a fiercely codependent relationship. Kerr’s voice is gently Midwestern, soft as cupped hands cradling a fragile bird. In that tender manner, he confesses he never truly enjoyed fighting or harming others, even admitting he struggled with nausea before his first match. (His trainer had to inform him that refusing to fight would likely incite a riot from the Brazilian crowd.) Essentially, Kerr was a gentle giant—imagine the Incredible Hulk speaking with the soothing tones of Mr. Rogers.
All of this struck a chord with Johnson. He acknowledged his career was incredibly fortunate, a fact he expresses immense gratitude for, constantly crediting his ancestors, allies, and fans. Yet, he admitted to feeling somewhat overwhelmed by his own success. The demands from studios, the various side ventures, endless meetings, relentless requests, and the constant projection of his charismatic public persona. While still fundamentally himself, his relationship with the world had transformed. His fame had grown so immense that he could barely venture out. He wasn’t complaining, but he recognized the classic Hollywood paradox: on a profound human level, he felt unseen, unknown, and confined. In recent years, Johnson often pondered: Am I genuinely pursuing my own desires, or merely fulfilling the expectations of those around me?
This internal conflict ignited his genuine obsession with “The Smashing Machine.” Johnson envisioned adapting the acclaimed documentary into a dramatized feature, bringing Kerr’s story to the widest possible audience. He yearned for everyone to grasp the unexpected depth of Mark Kerr’s character. Johnson himself fantasized about portraying Kerr, seeking to embody this flawed, muscular figure – a tragic hero who absorbed so much pain it almost consumed him.
Johnson understood that “The Smashing Machine” demanded a radically different performance from him. It wouldn’t rely on his customary charm and lightheartedness, but rather on genuine pain—the kind of agony that can only be drawn from one’s deepest personal experiences. This role presented an opportunity for Johnson to articulate the unexpressed facets of his own being, and he felt an overwhelming readiness to embrace it.
Arranging an interview with “The Rock” felt akin to scheduling tea with royalty. Months of negotiations with his representatives revealed the immense, almost geological, pressure on his time—every moment compressed from all directions. Available dates on the calendar shrank, until finally, late in the summer, a meeting was set. I received an invitation: “D.J. would love to host you at his farm in Georgia,” it read, adding that he wanted to introduce me to “his bull he’s raised on the farm.” A detailed itinerary followed, along with instructions to text his assistants upon arrival at the main gate.
To my surprise, when I arrived, Johnson was alone. He greeted me on a four-wheeler, opening the gate himself. He then led me toward his house with a series of subtle hand gestures, making me feel as if we were an elite two-person unit on a covert mission.
We quickly settled into a room adjacent to his kitchen, falling into a deep conversation about Hawaiian history. I soon realized that talking with Johnson is an intensely immersive experience. He’s open to exploring virtually any topic and will bring you along with him. I only encountered one barrier: late into the night, when I attempted to broach politics, Johnson raised his glass, clinked it against mine, and said, “Sam, brother, you’ve asked a lot of great questions today. What’s your next one?”
As a conversationalist, Johnson possesses an almost comical curiosity. He frequently interrupted his own responses to ask me questions about my childhood, siblings, writing, my parents’ divorce, and even my father’s death. (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 intrigued 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 remarkable intensity—hard, strenuously, almost athletically—as if his very soul is squatting the weight of your words with bulging emotional quads. When the conversation delves into truly revealing territory, and he genuinely feels what you’re conveying, you’ll hear deep, rumbling sounds: a seismic “MMMMMMMMMM” echoing from across the room. It’s like a massive creature in deep slumber, having a profoundly significant dream about you.
Our scheduled four-hour conversation stretched into more than eight. I not only met Johnson’s bull – which we fed 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 breach our private dining area. The dialogue didn’t stop there. The morning after our interview, Johnson began sending me voice memos and videos: reflections, anecdotes, and additional questions. In late August, as I dropped my son off at college, he sent a Spotify link (Sawyer Brown’s 1991 song “The Walk”) accompanied by a message that felt like a heartfelt haiku:
To listen to later
You and I both have taken “the walk”
Now it’s your son’s time
Through hours of conversation and countless texts, Johnson and I consistently revisited the theme of pain. This is the core subject of “The Smashing Machine.” The film truly immerses the audience in the experience of pain: how we inflict it, absorb it, express it, and deny it. After viewing the movie, I became consumed by the topic. I began asking everyone I met a simple question: What’s the worst pain you’ve ever felt? Responses ranged from horrific tales of scorpion stings, bike crashes, and severed bones, to poignant accounts of childbirth, parents battling Alzheimer’s, beloved pets being euthanized, and struggles with drug addiction. Everyone had a story. Surprisingly, these conversations were rarely depressing; instead, they were profound, intense, humorous, invigorating, and often, paradoxically, uplifting.
Back in Johnson’s living room, after his impressive punching demonstration, and once we had settled back into our seats, I decided to ask him my pressing question. “What’s the worst pain you’ve ever felt?” I inquired.
Johnson fell silent.
Ice clinked in his glass, the only sound filling the room.
“Wow,” he murmured, his voice softened, devoid of his usual famous smile.
I had my theories about his answer. Throughout his career, Johnson has been quite open about his life. As the Hawaiian music played softly and he pondered, I mentally revisited the significant moments of pain in his past. Several stood out. His childhood was marked by frequent relocations across numerous states and even countries (Texas, Georgia, Oregon, California, North Carolina, Connecticut, Florida, Hawaii, New Zealand, Pennsylvania, Tennessee), making friendships difficult to maintain. There were confrontations and run-ins with the law. In high school, he excelled in football, earning a full scholarship to the University of Miami, seemingly destined for an NFL career. However, just before his freshman season, a brutal tackle in practice obliterated his left shoulder. This not only necessitated surgery and ended his season but also plunged him into a severe depression. His NFL aspirations never fully recovered.
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. This doesn’t even account for his extensive career in professional wrestling – a theatrical arena where staged pain frequently morphed into genuine suffering. In the ring, clad in spandex, Johnson endured a torn knee, a ruptured Achilles tendon, a lung so severely bruised he coughed up blood, and a beer shower from Stone Cold Steve Austin’s fire hose. During one particularly brutal match against John Cena, he completely tore his quadriceps and adductor muscles from his pelvis, and suffered so many abdominal wall lacerations that he required emergency surgery.
Finally, after a prolonged silence, Johnson provided his answer.
“The worst pain I’ve ever felt,” he began, pausing once more. Then, he recounted a story about his father.
At this point, I must briefly introduce you to the remarkable figure of Rocky Johnson. Understanding Dwayne Johnson is incomplete without grasping his father’s story. Rocky Johnson was less a conventional father and more an extravagant mythological origin—a prequel where the narrative truly pushed every boundary.
Rocky Johnson’s life began steeped in hardship. Born in Nova Scotia, his family were descendants of those who had escaped slavery in the American South generations prior. His birth name was Wayde Bowles—a near-anagram of “Dwayne.” Tragically, Wayde’s father died just before his 13th birthday, and within months, his mother expelled him from their home. (Legend has it, her new boyfriend drunkenly desecrated 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 led him to his true calling: professional wrestling. He adopted the ring name Rocky Johnson, later making it his legal name. He was a testament to self-creation, a triumph of fantasy over grim reality. Rocky Johnson not only survived; he forged a new identity from sheer nothingness.
This new identity was defined by wrestling. Throughout the 1960s and ’70s, Johnson was a trailblazer, a pioneering Black star performing across North America and internationally. Professional wrestling at that time was far from glamorous. The schedule was grueling, and the pay meager. Audiences were localized, fragmented into small territories, forcing wrestlers to constantly travel like circus performers, delivering fresh acts to diverse crowds. Johnson’s circuit took him repeatedly through the American South, where Black wrestlers were often coerced into demeaning stereotypical performances: speaking in exaggerated dialect, eating watermelon, and enduring public lashings. Johnson adamantly refused these demands. In the ring, he insisted on portraying the heroic “babyface.” He was disciplined, committed, a genuine athlete, and among the first professional wrestlers to cultivate a bodybuilder’s physique.
Dwayne frequently characterizes his relationship with his father as “complicated,” but this word barely scratches the surface. From infancy through his teenage years, Dwayne sat ringside, mesmerized as Rocky, built like a superhero, hurled theatrical wrestling villains around for adoring crowds. WWE footage captures these moments: a young, wide-eyed Dwayne watching the man he idolized perform this elaborate drama of pain.
Outside the ring, Rocky had little leisure time. His days began early with gym sessions, followed by long drives to matches. His work often kept him away for extended periods. Around age five, Dwayne started joining his father’s workouts. Forbidden from touching weights, he’d sit in a corner, observing Rocky sculpt his famed muscles. As Dwayne grew older, Rocky would teach him wrestling moves on a mat afterward. These lessons, along with spontaneous fishing trips during their travels, constituted most 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 was the esteemed Samoan wrestler High Chief Peter Maivia. Ata understood the demanding lifestyle. However, her marriage to Rocky was tumultuous, marked by explosive arguments and periods of separation.
Dwayne’s upbringing was a disorienting blend of reality and fiction. To truly grasp it, one must understand the classic wrestling concept of “living the gimmick,” a practice Rocky Johnson mastered. Dwayne recalls, as a child, being puzzled by his father’s fancy cars—Lincolns, Cadillacs—which would always return to motels, trailer parks, or shabby basement apartments. This was “living the gimmick.” For Rocky, illusion was a survival tool. He could charm his way out of, and back into, any predicament. Johnson shared that his father never truly learned to write, laboriously drawing letters in basic shapes. Yet, his signature was impeccable: elegant and regal, fit for a king. Even his physique was partly a facade. While his upper body was immense, capable of bench pressing over 500 pounds, he entirely neglected his legs. “Open up ‘skipped leg day’ in the dictionary,” Johnson joked, “and you’ll find my dad, beaming.”
“The worst pain I’ve ever felt,” Johnson stated, pausing once more. “The worst pain I’ve ever felt was being evicted from Hawaii and sent to Nashville to live with my dad.”
This occurred when he was 15. Dwayne and his mother resided in a modest Honolulu apartment, while Rocky was away wrestling in Tennessee. Their marriage was so strained that their separation often brought a sense of relief. Johnson clarifies that his father was never physically abusive, but their arguments were colossal and deeply scarring. Objects would fly, and unforgivable 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 find an eviction notice on their apartment door. Johnson vividly recalls his mother standing motionless, staring at it, before dissolving into tears. Recounting this, Johnson himself became visibly emotional. “It broke my heart,” he confided. “It broke my heart to see my mom like that.”
After Ata composed herself, she called Rocky. She explained that while she finalized things in Hawaii, she wanted to send Dwayne to Nashville. She would then ship their car to the mainland and drive out with all their possessions, hoping they could reunite as a family.
“No problem,” Rocky assured her. “I’ve got an apartment.”
But Rocky, as ever, was “living the gimmick.” When Dwayne arrived in Nashville, his father was nowhere to be found. Instead, he met a man named Bob. Bob drove Dwayne to a rundown motel, where he knocked on a door and introduced him to another man named Bruno. This, Bob stated, was where Dwayne would be staying.
That act of rejection struck Dwayne with the force of a flying drop-kick, layering new pain onto the raw wound of their eviction. He instantly understood the situation: his father was almost certainly living with another woman. This realization carried weighty implications: his mother was en route, meaning even more heartache was imminent. “My heart aches when I think about that,” he shared. “The agony my mom was experiencing during that drive. Thinking: What is my life now? That entire journey.”
Ata remained oblivious to the truth. She embarked on this solitary road trip in an utterly impractical vehicle: a two-door red Ford Thunderbird. Rocky had purchased it just before his career plummeted, and now it was crammed with all their worldly possessions, rumbling from San Francisco to Nashville, finally pulling into the desolate parking lot of that grim motel.
Ata had been under the impression she was driving to her husband’s apartment. Instead, she was met by Bruno. (Incidentally, Bruno became a wonderful, lifelong friend to Dwayne, who 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 explained that his mother, too, grasped the entire situation instantly. “That was it,” he recalled. “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 began fabricating transparent lies. His mother grew ominously silent. Later, when Rocky persisted in his evasive circular explanations, Dwayne approached and whispered, “You should give her a hug.” But the embrace resolved nothing. That nightmarish day spiraled further, culminating in a terrifying moment when Ata exited Rocky’s car and walked directly into freeway traffic. Cars swerved and blared their horns. Dwayne rushed to pull her back. The expression on her face, he told me, was unlike anything he had ever witnessed. She was utterly lost, he said.
Remarkably, Johnson’s parents remained together, though they eventually divorced many years later, in 2006.
Meanwhile, Dwayne Johnson embarked on his journey to become the man he is today. There were still significant obstacles. After his football career concluded in utter humiliation—being cut from a Canadian Football League practice squad—he moved back in with his parents, spending countless aimless days in a depression-fueled cleaning frenzy in their Florida apartment. Then, he declared a new life path: he wanted to become a professional wrestler.
Predictably, Rocky vehemently opposed this idea. It’s unclear whether his resistance stemmed from paternal protectiveness (wrestling was a tough life) or pure selfishness (wrestling was his tough life). Regardless, it ignited an apocalyptic argument. Amidst the shouting, tears, and turmoil, Dwayne’s father uttered a question that would forever echo in his son’s mind: “What do you think you possibly have to offer?”
The answer, it turned out, was: quite a lot, actually. A truly monumental amount. By various metrics—revenue, iconic catchphrases, mainstream crossover appeal, even his distinctive eyebrow raise—one could argue that Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson offered more to the world than anyone else in the entire storied history of wrestling.
Following a tumultuous start where the WWF attempted to market him as a generic “babyface” named Rocky Maivia (a combination of his father’s and grandfather’s names)—enduring showers of boos and chants of “Rocky sucks,” questioning his wrestling path after a knee injury—Johnson underwent a dramatic rebirth. Almost overnight, he re-emerged as “The Rock”: an arrogant villain who famously referred to himself in the third person, trash-talking everyone in his path. With his distinctive long sideburns and iconic finishing moves like the Rock Bottom and the People’s Elbow, he stood toe-to-toe with other late 90s legends like Stone Cold Steve Austin, Triple H, and Mankind, dominating the wildly popular Attitude Era.
The Rock’s true superpower lay in his unparalleled crowd engagement. His connection with the audience was revolutionary, turning the actual wrestling into a mere backdrop for his unforgettable skits, speeches, and singalongs. His catchphrases, such as “If you can smell what the Rock is cookin’,” were so iconic that entire stadiums would chant the endings for him. He was a ratings juggernaut.
Johnson seamlessly transitioned that immense momentum into a Hollywood career. In 2001, his brief but impactful cameo in “The Mummy Returns” resonated so strongly with test audiences that, before its release, Universal Pictures greenlit a spinoff, “The Scorpion King.” He rapidly ascended to become one of the industry’s most bankable stars, even being brought in to revitalize “The Fast and the Furious” franchise when it began to falter.
Unsurprisingly, Rocky Johnson’s reaction to his son’s astronomical success was incredibly complex—a potent cocktail of pride, jealousy, ownership, and deep-seated resentment. Dwayne Johnson recounted how his father always had a go-to joke to keep him grounded. Whenever Rocky overheard someone complimenting Dwayne, be it for his wrestling, films, or business acumen, he would inevitably interject.
“I taught him everything he knows,” he’d declare, then, after a calculated pause to ensure maximum attention, he’d add, “But I didn’t teach him everything I know.”
Johnson still appears to wince slightly when recalling this.
For the first time in his acting career, Johnson has been compelled to tap into this deep reservoir of personal pain. “The Smashing Machine” is an emotionally grueling film, a dramatic confrontation where Johnson’s most frequent scene partner is Emily Blunt, portraying Mark Kerr’s girlfriend, Dawn. Off-screen, Blunt and Johnson share a strong friendship, forged in 2018 while filming “Jungle Cruise”—a $200 million, CGI-laden, family-friendly action-adventure based on the classic Disneyland attraction. Blunt arrived on set anticipating the boisterous, invincible, grinning action hero: “The Rock.”
Instead, she discovered a different man: introverted and intensely curious. Johnson and Blunt quickly connected, their conversations often stretching for hours. Their bond deepened to the point where they frequently refer to each other publicly as best friends. “I mean, he’s really a magical person,” Blunt shared with me.
Yet, this inherent magic was also a source of frustration for Blunt, as so little of Johnson’s authentic self seemed to manifest in his professional work. She recognized that much of his public persona was a meticulously crafted performance, a character he developed for survival, and that this character had seemingly consumed his entire career trajectory.
Johnson was familiar with this critique and had a standard reply: While he respected actors who poured their souls into their roles, he preferred to keep his private struggles separate. His priority, he maintained, was to deliver a good show, always putting the audience first.
“I’ve badgered him for years about this ‘audience first’ mantra,” Blunt confided. To her, true service to an audience meant offering one’s complete self—the expansive, joyful, and often painful reality of being human in a challenging world. “This is audience first!” she would passionately argue to Johnson.
By this measure, with “The Smashing Machine,” Johnson has finally truly prioritized the audience. The film is written and directed by Benny Safdie, renowned for his (and his brother Josh’s) edgy, experimental projects that blur the lines between fiction and reality. Safdie’s films often feature unconventional casting, such as Robert Pattinson, the English “Twilight” heartthrob, as a grimy New York bank robber in “Good Time,” or Adam Sandler as a desperate gambling addict in “Uncut Gems.” But casting Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson is a completely different caliber of star power. Johnson collaborating with Benny Safdie is akin to Taylor Swift recording an album with Björk.
Safdie’s interpretation of “The Smashing Machine” meticulously reconstructs entire scenes from the original 2002 documentary, but dramatizes and expands upon them, weaving in peculiar additional touches. It includes dialogue and moments that no documentary crew could have possibly captured. The experience is less a conventional sports biopic and more akin to peering through a kaleidoscope while a dozen sweaty men take turns punching you in the heart. The film is a visceral tapestry of varied tones and performances: claustrophobic fight sequences punctuated by cheesy ringside commentary; extended, tender interactions between men whose cauliflower ears evoke fantastical giants; a Japanese journalist in fingerless gloves who appears to have stepped out of a David Lynch film; and enough pervasive jazz percussion to dismantle every open-mic night across the country.
When Johnson initially contacted him, Safdie was unfamiliar with Mark Kerr’s story. However, he quickly became captivated. Kerr, he explained, struck him as “one of the most cinematic characters imaginable.” He was like a hyper-muscular George Bailey from “It’s a Wonderful Life”: a good-hearted man enduring immense suffering to attain a deeper comprehension of his existence. Safdie viewed Kerr as a conduit for radical empathy, prompting him to ask, “What scenarios could we place him in to help the world better understand itself?”
The film’s true highlight is Johnson’s performance, which demanded he utterly become Mark Kerr. As is his nature, Johnson approached this challenge with utmost seriousness. He had to reshape his already formidable physique; while always huge, his sheer mass in this role is astounding, his thighs alone seemingly deserving of individual credit. He also completely altered his movement. Kerr, Johnson explained, carried his weight high, centered in his shoulders. Johnson adopted this posture, even learning to walk with a slight forward lean, as if subtly italicized. During one scene filmed from behind, Safdie observed Johnson subtly shifting his angles, performing in reverse. “This is amazing,” Safdie recounted, “The guy is acting with the muscles of his back.”
Crucially, there was Kerr’s distinctive voice—a gentle, Midwestern cadence, almost a lullaby. Johnson collaborated with a voice coach, learning to speak softly and gently, originating the sound from deep within his chin (a stark contrast to his own rumbling voice, which seems to rise from the earth itself). Johnson practiced relentlessly, effortlessly switching between his natural voice and Kerr’s. He would send Safdie voice memos in character, prompting Safdie to realize, “Oh, this is going to work.”
However, Johnson’s most startling transformation is his face, arguably one of the most recognizable and valuable features globally. Here, it’s unsettlingly defamiliarized, making it difficult to discern precisely who you’re looking at. Johnson explained this required daily hours in the makeup chair, involving 21 different prosthetics—the meticulous work of Oscar-winning artist Kazu Hiro. Early in the process, Safdie opted against making Johnson look exactly like Kerr, instead allowing Johnson’s famous features to subtly emerge, creating an uncanny blend. The film places the audience in an unsettling “uncanny valley” between Dwayne Johnson and Mark Kerr, between victory and defeat, violence and healing.
Yet, the most arduous aspect of Johnson’s metamorphosis was emotional. Just before filming commenced, Blunt asked him if he felt scared.
“I’m good,” he asserted.
“That’s not what I asked,” she gently corrected him.
In that instant, Johnson confessed, he grasped the extent of his fear. This film held an almost perilous significance for him. He had harbored this fantasy for years, and now, standing on set, it was on the verge of becoming reality. What if he failed? What if he lacked the necessary acting depth? What if he humiliated himself—or, even worse, brought shame to Kerr, a man he had grown to admire?
“I sensed he was retreating somewhat,” Blunt revealed. “And I just felt he might be scared. Because I was scared. I believe D.J. may have sidestepped acknowledging that fear, perhaps because he’s been forced to be so incredibly resilient from a young age—the hero, the unwavering support for everyone around him.”
Johnson concurs. “I didn’t identify it,” he admitted. “I didn’t know. I didn’t label it.” Once he finally did, fear became visible everywhere, even lurking behind his long-held professional motto: audience first. “I was just scared to do it,” he confessed. “That’s the honest truth.” He had always genuinely believed he was serving his audience, but now he recognized he had simply been “living the gimmick.”
I asked Johnson if he recalled his last conversation with his father.
“I do,” he affirmed, after another long silence. “Yeah. And it hurts.”
Their final conversation was a colossal argument—the most explosive since the original clash 25 years prior, when Johnson first revealed his aspiration to become a wrestler.
The dispute revolved around a book. His father had just released his autobiography, “Soulman: The Rocky Johnson Story.” It was 2019, and Dwayne’s fame was immeasurable. Beyond sharing his life story, Rocky was clearly capitalizing on his son’s success. Johnson said he was okay with that, but he also mentally prepared himself, knowing his father’s tendencies.
As expected, the book was replete with startling revelations. Dwayne Johnson’s initial discovery was a foreword purportedly written by him, except it wasn’t. Not a single word was his. The rest of the autobiography proved equally imaginative. “Growing up with my dad,” Johnson shared, “I know the true versions of 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. However, he then encountered a series of quotes, attributed to him, asserting how much he owed his father for all his success—not just in wrestling, but in TV shows, movies, everything.
Johnson was shocked, hurt, and enraged. He reflected on his decades of hard work and all the individuals who had supported him. Now, Rocky was presuming to speak in Dwayne’s voice, laying claim to all his accomplishments as his own.
“It just completely crossed the line,” Johnson stated emphatically. “It boils down to attention, and narcissism.”
Mid-story, he rose to pour himself another glass of tequila.
He called his father, and they fought. As usual, Rocky denied any wrongdoing. Johnson became so enraged that he eventually handed the phone to his mother. Soon after, he successfully had the autobiography removed from stores.
That was their final conversation.
Johnson received news of Rocky’s death while in Georgia, on the first day of filming his new movie, “Red Notice.” He had just arrived on set, soaking in the buzz of activity, 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, or fly to his mother? But then, his father’s voice echoed in his mind—a mantra repeated countless times after injuries, arguments, or even tragic news: “The show must go on.” So, Dwayne Johnson exited his truck and began his workday.
At Rocky Johnson’s funeral, a host of wrestling legends appeared: Hulk Hogan, the Wild Samoans, the Bushwhackers, Triple H. They shared heartfelt stories and kind words. “Surprisingly,” Johnson mused, “my old man was just this incredible friend. 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 asked.
Johnson paused in thought. “No,” he replied. “He wasn’t my friend either. No, sadly. No one’s ever asked me that. But no. I wish. I 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 for love was severely limited,” Johnson reflected. “He was cast out at 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, survival, and wrestling technique. He also, inadvertently, taught him the significance of humility, gentleness, introspection, and gratitude through his own contrasting behaviors.
Perhaps Rocky Johnson’s most enduring presence in his son’s life is through his words—the numerous 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 advise (a lesson Dwayne learned at age five). Another: “They can’t feel your pain, they can only see it.” This was Rocky’s philosophy on “selling” pain in the wrestling ring—ensuring the audience fully grasped the extent of the suffering.
There’s a poignant scene in “The Smashing Machine” where Dwayne Johnson, as Mark Kerr, is driving and attempting to coax drugs from a nurse over the phone. Despite Johnson’s massive physique—nearly filling the SUV—his voice is surprisingly pleasant and light. He explains to the nurse that he requires liquid opiates, as the pills are “a little hard on my tummy.” The call concludes with a cheerful exchange of pleasantries—“I’m feelin’ really good, I appreciate it”—before Johnson blithely declares, “A day without pain is like a day without sunshine.”
Benny Safdie, present in the car during that scene, was struck by the “sunshine line,” noting 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. Safdie pondered its meaning: Does it imply a constant state of suffering? Yet, sunshine is inherently a good thing. So, is the speaker suggesting a desire for pain?
“It’s a truly loaded, complex phrase,” he observed. “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 that the line was from his father.