“I believe that our business is actually more complex than anyone understands.”
Netflix’ documentary series WWE: Unreal promises to reveal long held secrets about the inner workings of the wrestling business. But how do we interpret the revelations coming from an industry built on shaping narratives? The prophetic truth of Paul Levesque's opening confession stems from the exhaustive nature of the word anyone, from which even the speaker cannot escape.
For hardcore fans, Unreal is more of an acknowledgement than a disclosure of wrestling’s inner workings. It is a series meant to explain the oft asked question: If it’s not real, why does it matter? Not only does it succeed in making its case, it goes beyond initiating newcomers, by signifying the dawn of a new era, pointing us away from cynicism, back towards enjoyment, and even wonder.
A History of Wrestling’s Revelations of Reality
The details of the wrestling business have been openly discussed for decades. Secrets once limited to underground newsletters called “dirt sheets” reached escape velocity as YouTube and other platforms gave voice to obsessive fans and former wrestlers, much as Gutenberg’s printing press spread the words of the protestant reformers.
One might assume that such disclosures would lead to wrestling’s demise. But the success of wrestling has always depended on staying a step ahead of the audience; the creative genius of its innovators lies in anticipating the trajectory of cultural change. Unreal is the latest in a series of moves aimed at broadening the demographic appeal of wrestling, and a meaningful one, rooted in historical precedent.
The scripted nature of professional wrestling was openly acknowledged all the way back in 1997, when Vince McMahon declared that the World Wrestling Federation would “no longer insult the intelligence” of its fans. This speech, titled “The Cure for the Common Show” marked the beginning of The Attitude Era, a shift towards edgier programming that recaptured the attention of a maturing demographic that had outgrown the comic book superstars of yesteryear.
While the embrace of violent and hedonic extremes pushed the WWE to unprecedented heights of popularity, the relentless pace of unending story lines accelerated their race to the bottom. Hitting the limits of excess led to an eventual return to family friendly content (starting with 2008’s PG era), and on and on to the current era of Paul Levesque, where everything is being brought out into the light. By highlighting the humanity of WWE’s stars and their families, Unreal signals a continuation of the WWE’s turn away from cynicism, towards a hopeful future. More importantly, it indicates that the seedy elements of McMahon’s legacy are finally being swept away.
Why Maintain the Illusion?
When the history of wrestling’s carnival roots and deceptive practices are taken into consideration with the positive aspects of disclosure, the value of wrestling’s scripted format remains unclear: If it’s not real, why does it matter? Televised wrestling lacks the immersive quality of blockbuster cinema, and the genuine competition of legitimate combat sports.
These forms of entertainment may appear as wrestling’s closest analogues, but in reality, it bears much more in common with magic. Like wrestling, magic has a long history of secrets, maintained in multiple layers. But unlike wrestling’s facade of legitimacy, everyone knows that magic is not real. Its enduring success lies in the challenge it presents the audience: You know I’m trying to trick you, but are you clever enough to figure it out?
The first secret is quickly discovered by every novice who picks up a magician’s kit. Sleight of hand, the mechanism that undergirds everything else, is based on hard work and practice. This is the same truth recognized by anyone who decides to lace up their wrestling boots and jump in a ring.
The second secret is much harder to grasp. It is not based on studying tricks, but on understanding people. The key to success as a magician lies in their ability to recognize the perceptions and expectations of the audience, always remaining one step ahead.
In this regard, both magic and wrestling faced similar problems regarding the rise of cynical anti-stories, and they responded in similar fashions. Within a month of Vince McMahon’s 1997 disclosure, the public got its first glimpse into the art of legerdemain, with Fox’s Breaking the Magician's Code. Magicians realized the folly in fighting to keep secrets. Fear of being discovered draws attention to what they try to hide. The magician's game is built on innovation, and misdirection. The best way to keep one secret is to reveal another.
The results for the world of stage magic have been spectacular; it has flourished in the internet age. Everything is an open secret, except for what remains hidden on the cutting edge. The short shelf life of a new trick pushes performers to new heights.
The potential return for this kind of risky generosity is on full display in Justin Willman’s most recent special, Magic Lover, in which he plays with the audience’s skepticism, inviting them to guess how the tricks are done, then leaving them mystified as he guesses their predictions, and confirms their suspicions, before revealing that these too were illusions.
Even the staunchest critic can’t help but smile when they see the reactions of children invited to assist his act. This reveals something profound about human nature. We were not meant for reductionistic worldviews. We are made for wonder.
Storied Misdirection - What Unreal Reveals
Wrestling performs its illusions in a different realm, the realm of stories. The reality based documentary is simply one more way to tell a story. It can be used to deceive. People are readily convinced by documentaries, without a thought given to the hours of opposing footage left on the cutting room floor. One could dwell on what was left out of Unreal, afraid of being deceived. But to do so would cause us to miss out on a story well worth pondering.
The series begins with the much loved champion Cody Rhodes, his wife Brandi and daughter Liberty, who thinks her father is a professional dancer. After taking a look back at Cody’s Wrestlemania 40 victory, the first episode centers around the debut of RAW on Nextlix, and sets the stage for the rest of the series on the road to Wrestlemania 41.
We are introduced to several other popular wrestlers whose stories will be integral to the main event, including Jey Uso and Rhea Ripley. In each instance, we learn their government names, their history in wrestling, and personal details about their lives and families. The second episode introduces more characters, including the creative team of writers and producers, as they decide who will participate in the Royal Rumble.
The third episode follows the trajectories of several women’s wrestlers. It’s an obvious move aimed at enlarging their female audience, but rather than focusing on the “look how far we’ve come and yet so far to go” narrative of embittered feminism, the femininity and vulnerability of the women are highlighted. Chelsea Green is someone who takes her role as a very silly character very seriously. Bianca Belair’s in-ring talent is matched by her skills as a fashion designer and seamstress who makes each of her costumes by hand. We see a group of women praying together privately, before fighting publicly.
The wrestlers are encouraged to incorporate elements of reality and improvisation into their performance, but in the blurring of fact and fiction, the boundaries of propriety sometimes evade the professionals. One wrestler was chastised backstage for going too far in her smack-talk, improvising lines about her opponent's divorce.
The show also highlights how sophisticated the inner workings of the industry have become. The producers are quite aware of how the public will react to events and elements of the story; sometimes using this to their advantage, staging events that will only be captured by the cell phone videos of fans, trusting in the algorithms to blow up a random person’s social media feed. But when something needs to remain a secret, the producers exercise extreme discretion.
The penultimate episode, The Heel Turn, shows how the biggest secrets are protected. Even the television directors are kept in the dark. As the scripted material comes to an end, Paul Levesque jumps on the headset, guiding them shot by shot through an exchange between Cody Rhodes, the Rock, and John Cena after The Elimination Chamber event. Levesque tells them not to bleep an upcoming f-word; paying the FCC fines is the cost of making great TV.
Cody’s shocking betrayal at the hands of squeaky clean John Cena set the stage for the big payoff at the Wrestlemania, the subject of the final episode. We hear the writers discussing some of the details yet to be determined, as each of the principle storylines wrap up. We see the impact of victory, as we watch Jey Uso win the championship through the eyes of his son. Even though the outcome of the match was predetermined, it’s a sign that the company has placed their trust in Jey.
We also see the integral role of the losers. Rhea Ripley, Charlotte Flair, and CM Punk accomplish as much in a loss by helping build up the next generation of wrestlers. For Punk, achieving his goal of being in WrestleMania’s main event, even as a loser, is more meaningful than simply winning another title. He’s not just a star, but the maker of stars.
The show’s final moments are focused on the match between Cody and Cena. In contrast to the excitement of the previous night’s triple threat match, the contest for the belt is a throwback to an older style of wrestling. Less athletic, more symbolic, with a slower pace telegraphing the meaning behind each move. It’s a shocking conclusion, with Cena winning through the dirty tricks of a classic heel.
At its conclusion, Levesque tells us that the Championship match was never going to be as exciting as some of the other matches, or the prior year’s event. He took a risk by shifting the momentum. They may have lost some casual fans that jumped on the Cody bandwagon the year before. He did it for the long-term success of the company, knowing that if a dozen or even a hundred casual fans are turned away, the puzzling details catch the attention of curious minds who perceive something deeper going on. It’s a snare designed to hook the future wrestlers, writers, and producers who will keep wrestling one step ahead of the curve.
I Believe …
The creative endeavor of professional wrestling relies on more than the talents of the stars, writers, and production teams to make memorable moments. As we learn throughout the series, these decisions are not made in a purely calculated fashion. We can point to parallels in Shakespeare, Homer, and Joseph Campbell to analyze why the characters and plotlines work, but the masters don’t rely on theory.
They work through feel and intuition, responding to creative instincts, working in concert and with the ever changing spirit of the age, and the unplanned nature of real life events. This requires an openness to what comes that stands in stark contrast to the rigged matches of wrestling’s carnival roots.
When Paul Levesque says “I believe that our business is actually more complex than anyone understands” not only does he include himself among the mass of fans, he reveals a hopeful expectation of an optimistic future. Such openness, regardless of stated belief, is best described as faith.
Michael Hayes, a former wrestler turned producer, put it this way:
“I was blessed. There is no doubt this is what God wanted me to do with my life. He helps me a lot. You wouldn’t believe how many ideas I get from him. He really likes wrestling. He really does. I’m not smart enough to come up with all this sh*t. Somebody puts that sh*t in my head.”1
This shouldn’t be surprising. God centered his plan of redemption on the original heel, a trickster turned prince through a long night of wrestling. Is it any more of a stretch to consider that he might turn a crooked confidence game into a new means of spreading the story of redemption?
The Story Continues…
Unreal was released just days before Summer Slam, WWE’s second-biggest premium event, for the first time expanded to two nights. References to the documentary were made throughout the event, in an attempt to retain the attention of newcomers. The conscious disclosure of the fabricated nature of John Cena’s heel turn was perhaps the best way to remove lingering doubts of cynicism.
When the switch in a character’s moral alignment is obscured by kayfabe, the reality of the person remains unknown. Consider the recently departed Hulk Hogan. Kids who looked up to the Hulkster in the 80’s may have recovered from the initial shock of his turn towards villainy when they learned the truth about wrestling’s scripted nature; but those doubts would only intensify with the revelations of his seedy private life.
When he lingered in the business, demanding to play the hero well into his 50’s, he did so at the cost of younger talent’s health and success. Towards the end, it wasn’t even clear if he could tell where Hulk Hogan ended, and Terry Bollea began.
Such lingering doubts would have been a black mark on the legacy of John Cena, the world record holder for wishes granted through the make-a-wish foundation. Instead, we get to see that the heel was the character, not the reality.
Indeed, Cena’s heel ended as soon as the documentary was released; he reclaimed his good guy status just in time to face Cody mano-a-mano, face to face, in the final match of Summer Slam, a grueling effort devoid of tricks, in which the torch was well and truly passed from one hero to the next.
This was close enough to the eventual outcome I predicted when my own curiosity was piqued by the curious outcome of Wrestlemania. It also confirms my greater suspicions regarding the future of professional wrestling.
There will always be elements of the story that keep people guessing. Staying one step ahead is the creative passion of those who run the business. But there are many elements that will no longer be hidden, including the public lives of the people who participate in the wrestling business.
Keeping the fans on their toes in the internet age will require a level of discipline that doesn’t allow for seedy underbellies and double lives. The requirements to be a WWE superstar will extend beyond the in-ring abilities, and on screen charisma. It will require a lifestyle that can bear up under the scrutiny of child-like hope and wonder. Being a person of integrity, morality, and character will become just as necessary as looking the part.
If the fans uphold this standard, cheering for the good, and booing the bad, the producers will meet the demand; and the surprises that come along will be quite welcome.
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