When John Cena finally turned heel in 2025, it was supposed to be the moment wrestling fans had waited for over a decade. For years, the polarizing chants of “Let’s go Cena / Cena sucks!” rang out in arenas around the world, and behind those chants was a simple wish: turn heel. Show us what a villainous John Cena looks like. Fans had begged WWE to pull the trigger, especially during eras when his squeaky-clean babyface act was losing its appeal. So when it finally happened, it felt seismic.
The opening chapter didn’t disappoint. Cena returned with an edge, a mean streak, and most notably, the involvement of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. Their shared history, once buried beneath promo wars and main-event matches, was rekindled in an intense, aggressive way. The two cut promos that felt dangerous, unscripted, raw, naked. Cena took jabs at Hollywood, ego, and legacy. For a brief moment, fans believed they were witnessing the beginning of WWE’s next big era. The Rock helped make Cena’s heel turn feel like it truly mattered.
But then, The Rock left. Whether due to film obligations, physical concerns, or a lack of long-term creative investment, his absence became glaring. He famously used the phrase, “The Final Boss’s job is done,” — And that’s where it all breaks down from there. WWE’s booking scrambled, and with it, Cena’s heel character quickly started to unravel. Instead of building momentum with fresh rivalries, the creative direction took a nosedive into repetition. Cena began feuding with people we’d already seen him fight, which is fine, it’s like a band playing the greatest hits tour, but in this case the band is phoning it in. It’s like watching a 3D model of John Cena put on his best songs from the comfort of a Fortnite concert.
One of the core criticisms of Cena’s babyface run for years was that he “buried” rising talent. He would feud with a newer name, get booed, and then still win in the end. Unfortunately, his heel run has done little to flip that narrative. Not only has he failed to put anyone over in a meaningful way, but the matches themselves haven’t felt premium. These are not epic, psychologically thrilling bouts worthy of pay-per-view main events. Instead, they feel like polished versions of what you might see headlining a random episode of Raw or SmackDown. I don’t care how big of a hashtag R-Truth (excuse me I mean Ron Killings excuse me I mean Ron “R-Truth” Killings excuse me I mean R-Truth, again) got, John Cena facing him at a special event felt like a Sunday Night Heat main event just before the real match later that same night at the PPV.
The problem isn’t just who he’s facing; it’s the entire presentation. Cena has leaned so heavily into theatricality that his heel persona feels more like a character from a superhero parody than a dangerous, serious threat. His facial expressions are exaggerated to the point of absurdity. He winks at the camera, makes cartoon villain faces, and talks in smug riddles that sound like they were written by ChatGPT trying to imitate a Bond villain. His face looks so much like Jim Varney that he makes pictures of Jim Varney look like someone else. It’s hard to take him seriously, and worse, it’s hard to believe this version of Cena is any real departure from the version we’ve seen for the last two decades.
That’s not to say there haven’t been moments of brilliance. The CM Punk promo was a standout; a blistering verbal exchange that reminded fans of what made the original 2011 “pipebomb” so compelling. Punk, now back in WWE after years of trying to lowkick someone in the UFC, took the opportunity to torch Cena’s motives, his late-stage heel turn, and the system he’d long been the face of. Cena, in turn, responded with barbs that mirrored the cadence, tone, and rhythm of Punk’s own historic promo. But therein lies the problem: it was good because it was a retelling. A rerun of a masterpiece. Cena, for all his charisma, didn’t deliver something fresh; he simply paid homage.
And that seems to be the theme of this heel run: homage. It’s a collection of callbacks. A highlight reel of feuds, promos, and stories we’ve already seen, packaged under the guise of something new. It’s as if WWE wanted to say, “See? We turned him heel!” without actually doing the uncomfortable work of booking him like heel. The entire presentation feels sanitized. Cena has only cheated to win by lowblows, which is the Facebook poke of the heel world: slightly annoying, slightly creepy, completely irelevant in 2025. If you’re thinking to yourself, “Facebook still has a poke option?”, that’s literally the point here. He hasn’t cost babyfaces their titles. He hasn’t formed a stable or manipulated anyone. He’s just been slightly more sarcastic.
Part of the reason for this half-measure is obvious: merchandise. John Cena still sells millions of dollars in t-shirts, hats, armbands, and now even NFTs (which is the real heel turn and something we should be talking more about). WWE is a publicly traded company, and they’re understandably cautious about jeopardizing that revenue stream. Turning him into a full-on villain risks alienating a massive segment of younger fans and casual viewers who still see Cena as a real-life superhero. More importantly, WWE likely wants the ability to flip him back to a babyface at a moment’s notice — perhaps at or right after SummerSlam — when the next “threat” needs someone to vanquish it.
This tightrope walk between heel and babyface is what ultimately dulls the edge of Cena’s turn. There’s no real risk, and therefore, no real reward. The most iconic heel turns in wrestling history (think Hogan, Bret Hart, or even Roman Reigns in 2020) worked because they were committed. The performers changed their look, their tone, their alliances, and most of all, their intent. Cena, despite turning heel in theory, still feels like the same guy who tells fans to “never give up,” just with a different background color on the Titantron.
Even his entrance is underwhelming. Fans expected something dramatic: new music, darker gear, a revamped character. Instead, Cena walks out to “My Time is Now” with slightly more ominous lighting and a set of LED boards that read “JOHN CENA” in plain white text on a black screen. It’s minimalist to a fault. There’s no sense of menace, no statement being made. It feels like a palette swap in a video game, not the reinvention of one of wrestling’s most recognizable icons. Honestly, and I hate to say it, it’s probably my favorite part of Cena’s entire heel turn. It’s lack of character is the character and it just works.
And again, it comes back to fear. WWE wants it both ways. They want the shock value and YouTube views of a heel turn without the long-term consequences of actually making their biggest brand ambassador unlikable. The storytelling has reflected that confusion. One week, Cena is berating the audience and mocking younger stars. The next, he’s making wish appearances and smiling in behind-the-scenes TikToks. The messaging is muddled, and the fans can tell.
The sad part is that it didn’t have to be this way. A fully committed heel Cena could have been generational. He could have aligned himself with a rising faction, manipulated authority figures, cut ties with old allies, and reinvented his in-ring style to reflect a darker, more brutal approach. He could have targeted fan favorites with psychological warfare, telling them that they’re soft, that they’re playing the role he played for 20 years; and that it leads to nothing but burnout and betrayal. He could have forced fans to question whether they really wanted this all along.
Instead, what we got was the diet version. John Cena Light (now with extra Varney!). It’s not terrible. It’s not even bad. It’s just aggressively mediocre, especially considering the level of hype that preceded it. That’s why on the “Tim Rose Jr.’s Totally Biased But Probably Right Scale”, it lands somewhere around a 6/10. Enough to say it happened. Not enough to say it mattered.
There’s still time, of course. WWE could surprise us and go all-in post-SummerSlam. Cena could drop the merchandise, ditch the slogans, and become something entirely new. But as of now, what could have been a reinvention on par with Hulk Hogan’s Hollywood run is instead shaping up to be just another chapter in a book we’ve already read.
And maybe that’s the most disappointing thing of all: not that Cena turned heel too late, but that when he finally did, WWE didn’t have the guts to let him truly be bad.
