The People’s Champ Has Lost His People

Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s artificially-enhanced star power has finally begun to dim
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Picture this, because it really happened: Dwayne Johnson stands in an IMAX theater, taking Christopher Nolan's seat. "I even asked to let me sit where Chris sits," he said in a recent interview with Imax. "They said, 'Chris sits here.'" He watches Oppenheimer, then does something peculiar. He texts his movie director a picture of his bare chest alongside the IMAX screen. "Holy shit," he declares. "Red One on this screen and with this technology could be game over."

In a way, it was. The theater stays empty on opening weekend. His Christmas action movie, released prematurely in early November, limps to $26 million internationally in its opening week after costing $250 million to make. Critics savage it. Variety called it a movie with "less true Christmas spirit" than any holiday film before it. The words and numbers tell a story of disconnect.

This is what happens when reach exceeds grasp. The Miami Hurricanes defensive end turned sports entertainer who once electrified millions has become a collection of social media posts, failed movie projects, and strange creative decisions. His movies increasingly feel like products searching for an audience. Black Adam, his attempt to join the superhero universe, landed with a thud and failed to recoup its massive budget. Even his return to wrestling last year to feud with Cody Rhodes, once his surest sanctuary, feels as manufactured as his fatless 52-year-old body.

The Rock was different once. He commanded attention in professional wrestling rings, his catchphrases sharp and his presence undeniable. Each promo felt authentic, each title earned. Success changed him. Each victory demanded a bigger one. Each triumph required escalation. Now he appears everywhere, yet connects nowhere.

His empire expands while his influence contracts. The WWE’s centerpiece Bloodline stable swells with his Samoan relatives, some genuinely gifted like Roman Reigns and the Usos, others merely adjacent to greatness and wider in waistline than popular appeal. His daughter Ava struggles to read her lines as an authority figure in WWE's developmental league NXT after flopping as a wrestler, her presence another reminder that bloodline doesn't guarantee talent. Meanwhile, in rival promotion AEW, a New Jersey family that films viral videos at Costco generates more authentic enthusiasm — and views on Twitter — than the self-proclaimed "most electrifying man in entertainment."

The strange decisions pile up. Johnson announces he'll play Mark Kerr in a film about the troubled MMA fighter. But Kerr was 34 in the cult 2002 documentary The Smashing Machine that inspired the project. Johnson is in his fifties, neither Irish nor Latino like Kerr, yet insists on starring while wearing heavy prosthetics. It's the kind of choice that reveals a blindness to limitations.

Other action stars knew better. Sylvester Stallone proved himself behind the camera, crafting genuine art from his boxing and wrestling epics. Rocky and Rambo transcended simple action fare. Arnold Schwarzenegger understood his appeal had boundaries. They grew within their constraints. Johnson keeps trying to push past his.

His recent WWE appearances show the strain. Once natural and commanding, he now seems desperate for attention. His return to WrestleMania should have felt special. Instead, it felt like content creation, cut-and-paste moments for the social media clips that feed various algorithms. He serves on the board of directors for TKO, WWE's parent company, making his performances feel more corporate than creative — and the more he leans into that, as the company’s "Final Boss" with distended veins bulging out of his shiny bald skull, the more the whole thing seems awkward and wooden, just a corny guy pretending to be a bad guy. Was he always like this? Did we wrestling fans miss something?

Even in his biggest successes, questions linger. His most lucrative films, the Fast & Furious franchise, succeed as ensemble pieces rather than star vehicles. His social media presence, while massive, feels orchestrated compared to the vast following of people like the aforementioned Costco Guys, who grew up on the platform. His physique, more huge and ripped at fifty than in his pro football-playing twenties, raises questions that go politely unasked.

Only twice has he shown real range — playing an anxiety-ridden actor in Southland Tales and a troubled bodybuilder in Pain & Gain. These roles, embracing weakness instead of strength, hint at depths he rarely explores and perhaps no longer can. Now he chases after that same authenticity with The Smashing Machine, but it’s yet another forced effort.

The original documentary captured the once-unbeatable Kerr's descent with unflinching honesty. Johnson's version risks turning complicated tragedy into simplified spectacle in the same way that the wrestling biopic The Iron Claw did. You can't manufacture raw nerve. The authenticity Johnson found playing those earlier troubled characters came naturally. This feels like driving a square peg into a round hole, as if sheer star power could overcome basic questions of age, ethnicity, and experience.

Some stars burn out. Others fade away. Johnson has done something stranger — he's everywhere and nowhere, commanding attention without holding it. His movies turn up in theaters like divorced dads fulfilling their child support obligations. His wrestling appearances might as well be rendered with CGI. The bare-chested Imax dreamer has lost touch with what made him compelling.

The contrast becomes clearer when you look at wrestling's new stars. While Johnson orchestrates his returns with corporate precision, a failed-wrestler father and his chubby son filming comedy bits at Costco capture wrestling fans' imagination. Their appearance on AEW programming draws hundreds of millions of organic social media views. They remind us of what authentic connection looks like in an age of stage-managed moments. The Rock once had that same natural pull. Now he has everything except the magic.

The empty theaters for Red One tell the tale. The man who once needed nothing but a microphone, a raised eyebrow, and an elbow drop to captivate millions now needs $250 million to bore thousands with a giant-size likeness of his hairless, fatless, and enhanced-to-perfection chest. That's not electrifying. That's just expensive.

Oliver Bateman is a historian and journalist based in Pittsburgh. He blogs, vlogs, and podcasts at his Substack, Oliver Bateman Does the Work.