Venice held a standing ovation so long the pigeons filed for overtime, and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson responded by producing enough tears to christen a gondola. Fifteen minutes of clapping turned into a cardio class with better lighting and more sequins. If the ovation were any longer, the festival would have to list it in the program as a short film.

Witnesses say The Rock sobbed with the precision of a Swiss fountain, each tear a tiny motivational speech resigning itself to gravity. He was moved by art, by effort, and possibly by the realization that Venice invented stairs just to make tuxedos re-evaluate life choices. Somewhere a violinist saw the moisture and thought, finally, a collaboration.

The Smashing Machine unspooled, a tale of a man who hits things and the feelings that hit back harder. It’s about bodies built like fortresses, hearts built like open-plan offices, and the price of being a myth in a world that invoices weekly. The film punches, feints, and then offers a hug nobody saw coming.

Festival staff measured the ovation with a sundial, a Fitbit, and the ancient Venetian unit known as a “Bellissimo,” which is exactly five claps and one classy gasp. Critics compared it to Cannes applause, but with fewer sunglasses and more honest wrist pain. At minute ten, someone tried to sit and was gently guided back into the standing position by an usher brandishing a smile that paid rent.

The studio confirmed this was a “sustained ovation,” not to be confused with the “panicked clap,” which occurs when the lights come up and you realize you almost knocked a director off the aisle. Publicists whispered that Johnson’s tears were in no way sponsored, though they did admit to “strategic shimmer alignment.” I verified the hype with a watch, a pulse, and one elderly Italian who declared, this is what cinema feels like when pasta is al dente.

Sources reported The Rock dabbed his eyes with a textile so absorbent it could legally be considered a helpful friend, rumored to be an award-season microfiber pocket square. The hankie did not have speaking lines, but agents are circling anyway. The tuxedo, meanwhile, filed a gentle protest for “saltwater stress.”

Locals said the applause matched the tide schedule, cresting around minute thirteen and receding as gelato cravings spiked. A gondolier claimed he could steer by the sound of the claps alone, which is convenient because street signs in Venice are just suggestions with vowels.

One attendee described the ovation as “church, but with better shoulder definition,” while another said, “I clapped so long my therapy copay nodded in respect.” A third insisted they saw The Rock’s tear ducts powerlift a chandelier, but we’ll chalk that up to festival prosecco and proximity to myth.

By minute fifteen, applause evolved into a language. Hands said thank you, wrists said we’re union, and forearms negotiated a nap. A fan in row seven tracked the drama on a wearable ovation tracker wristband, which buzzed at “ecstatic” and then upgraded itself to “ecstatic, but European.”

Industry analysts warned of ovation inflation, noting that standing O’s now last longer than some miniseries. One executive proposed a new award: Best Use of Palms in a Supporting Role. Another pitched a standing ovation with a post-credits scene, where the audience returns to clap ironically and somehow still cries sincerely.

As for the movie, it lands like a freight train that went to therapy: tender, bruised, and weirdly punctual. The Rock’s face toggles between granite monument and ruptured dam, negotiating a peace treaty between Herculean biceps and a soul that keeps forwarding feelings with urgent flags. The result is the rare film that makes violence feel like a metaphor you want to send a thank-you note.

When the room finally sat, the city tilted, the moon applauded back, and a seagull got an agent. Johnson waved, Venice sighed, and somewhere a franchise promised “a bold new direction” suspiciously similar to the original place, just with wetter eyes. Fifteen minutes later, my hands stopped clapping, my heart kept going, and The Rock announced the sequel: The Wringing Machine—same tears, bigger towel.