Mr. McMahon and Friends

Recently, I watched the six-part Netflix documentary Mr. McMahon. It was at once compelling and something of a slog. Add to the mix a cringeworthy element, a grossness, and— undeniably —there’s a story to tell here. My recollection of Vince McMahon, the documentary’s subject, was as a wrestling announcer in the 1970s, when—as kids—my older brother and I dutifully watched the sport on local TV station WOR, Channel 9.

McMahon excelled as a put-upon presence and straight-man foil for a colorful cast of bad guys: wrestlers and, in many instances, their bombastic managers. Witnessing the man get harangued by “Classy” Fred Blassie, Captain Lou Albano, and—my personal favorite—the Grand Wizard of Wrestling was a youthful thrill. Typically, the proteges of Blassie, Albano, and the Grand Wizard were “heels,” rotten to the core, and boo-worthy. Who can forget Nikolai Volkoff, the Wild Samoans, and Sergeant Slaughter?

Indeed, 1970s wrestling was engagingly benign. The good guys included a stellar cast: champion Bruno Sammartino, Haystacks Calhoun, and Chief Jay Strongbow, who—I just discovered—was an Italian American. But then, so was Iron Eyes Cody, who canoed through polluted waters throughout the 1970s, logging many miles and shedding many tears along the way.

I recall being surprised—twenty or so years later—to learn that Vince McMahon, the geek announcer from my boyhood, initially worked for his father, purchased the World Wide Wrestling Federation (WWWF) from him, and built—along with his wife—a mega-enterprise now known as World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE). Adding his two cents throughout the documentary, McMahon absolutely established the fact that he was a business wunderkind and all-around sleaze as well. Also, the guy has had one too many face-lifts and sounds like he smokes ten packs a day—or is it a whiskey voice? In his final appearance in the mini-series, the empresario almost-seemed AI generated sporting a new Clark Gable mustache and dyed jet-black hair. The weirdness just kept on coming.

What amazed me most about the documentary, I think, was modern-day wrestling’s cult following and uber-popularity. WrestleMania has been big—really big—through the years. But it’s still scripted entertainment with a mishmash of realism thrown in, albeit of a more adult variety now than I experienced when Jerry Ford and Jimmy Carter lived in the White House. The contrived feuds—and real ones—are just not my cup of tea, but countless others can’t get enough of the brew.

Mr. McMahon, the documentary title, is derivative of Mr. McMahon, the wrestler, a creation of Vince McMahon, who entered the ring in the late 1990s. All bulked up by then, he fought, among others, Donald Trump. The stakes: Loser gets his head shaved by the winner. Guess who won the match? Upon seeing clips of this nuttiness—par for the course in this milieu—it dawned on me that contemporary politics has devolved into an offshoot of the WWE: vulgar, no holds barred, with the blurring of fact versus fiction.

In this corner: Orange Crush, managed by Lindsey “Bats**t Crazy” Graham. And in that corner: Kamala, Queen of the Ciphers, managed by Chuck “the Schmuck” Schumer. Okay, now I understand. I get it. It’s not really real.