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Carolyn Parker, a climbing guide who lives in Albuquerque, where she goes by the nickname Blitzkrieg Barbie, also emphasized the lack of drill sergeant behavior.

Fads tend to oscillate: the karate- and steroid-fueled bodybuilding of the 1970s (which notably accompanied the rise of women in the workplace) gave way to Jane Fonda’s aerobics in the ’80s and spinning and cardio hell in the ’90s.

Taylor Lautner’s beefcake werewolf returns soon in “The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn - Part 1.”

The Twights generally require an interview or a referral from a current Gym Jones client, the completion of a written application that’s more of a fitness SAT than anything and, if you pass that step, a workout with Mr. MacDonald, a world champion mixed-martial-arts fighter.

Everything about the gym’s current configuration screams hard core, from the Web site (“Don’t complain if the work is too hard, or if you pass out, drop a barbell on your head, a kettle bell on your toes”) to cold décor: cinderblock walls, black rubber floor mats, fluorescent lights, no mirrors or windows.

It was the advanced program that Mr. MacDonald, barefoot and in cargo shorts, was teaching in early August, the one that culminated in tears and sweat.

“They don’t belittle you,” said Mr. Snyder, who has trained with Mr. Twight over the years.

And despite his stoic manner, Mr. Twight was clearly emotional over the deaths of his former students in Afghanistan.

Mr. MacDonald, 33, has a daunting physical presence (at 6-foot-3, he can dead-lift 550 pounds) and blunt speaking style, but he also once taught kindergarten.

The studio cash is nice, and the “300” notoriety was rewarding; a version of a 300-rep workout designed for the cast as a graduation test has gone viral and was even plugged by Men’s Health.

It’s possible that a reporter’s visit has prompted this convivial tone, but Mr. Snyder and other clients — sorry, “disciples” — insist otherwise.

Trainers of this elite caliber tend to dismiss celebrities as dabblers who want results without the work.

The Cult of Physicality
By BROOKS BARNES

SALT LAKE CITY

INSIDE an unmarked warehouse here, not far from a depressing stretch of fast-food joints and the Southern X-Posure strip club, Robert MacDonald — nickname: Maximus — is torturing a group of people.

Working with Gym Jones involves completing excruciating tasks.

Yes, the name is an overt nod to Jim Jones, the sect leader who steered more than 900 people to suicide in 1978.

(Jude Law didn’t get those contoured pectorals in “Repo Men” by accident.)

The pixie-ish Ms. Twight, a 50-year-old jujitsu practitioner, has a quick, infectious laugh.

More recently, economic and political upheaval, not to mention two grinding wars, have tipped people toward strength training and militaristic exercise.

Taylor Lautner’s beefcake werewolf returns soon in “The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn - Part 1.”

The Cult of Physicality
By BROOKS BARNES

SALT LAKE CITY

INSIDE an unmarked warehouse here, not far from a depressing stretch of fast-food joints and the Southern X-Posure strip club, Robert MacDonald — nickname: Maximus — is torturing a group of people.

The zealous devotion clients have toward the gym and its fitness philosophy, which turns as much on psychology as it does on physicality, can indeed be a little frightening.

The Cult of Physicality
By BROOKS BARNES

SALT LAKE CITY

INSIDE an unmarked warehouse here, not far from a depressing stretch of fast-food joints and the Southern X-Posure strip club, Robert MacDonald — nickname: Maximus — is torturing a group of people.

One man, howling in agony a second ago, has collapsed in a pool of sweat.

Carolyn Parker, a climbing guide who lives in Albuquerque, where she goes by the nickname Blitzkrieg Barbie, also emphasized the lack of drill sergeant behavior.