Wednesday, April 09, 2014

Wrestling with Reality: The Ultimate Warrior and the Transcendence of Narrative

         

         The Ultimate Warrior died yesterday, which must come as a shock to those who believed he had died – or, at the very least, should have died – years ago. Born James Hellwig, the Warrior was for several years one of the most popular professional wrestlers in the world. A  heavily muscled, paint-faced, tassel-wearing dynamo, he stood out as a cartoon superhero even among the legions of over-the-top characters that populated the late 80s/early 90s WWF. And while his ring work as sloppy and predictable and his shouty, rage-filled promos never made a lick of sense, he had an aura that attracted young wrestling fans the world over. When his catchy theme music hit and he ran full speed toward the ring to grab and shake the ropes like a lunatic, we knew that, despite the size (think Andre the Giant), strength (Andre again), or technical superiority (just about everybody else) of the opponent, we were in an awesome display of sheer willpower. But the most remarkable thing about the Warrior was not that brief-but-memorable time in the spotlight; it was the direction his life took in the years thereafter.
            Owing to its carnival roots, professional wrestling has long been about working the crowd. While there have been plenty of actual wrestlers, athletes, and legitimate tough guys (the late All American, “Dr. Death” Steve Williams embodied all three) in the business, it remains a scripted production, a performance piece. There are good guys and bad guys and storylines designed to elicit pathos, sympathy, anger, and inspiration. The primary difference between the WWE and any other show is the physicality and the potential for harm, both real and imagined. The agonizing blows we saw on screen were faked for our entertainment while the actual damage (drug abuse, alcoholism, legitimate injury) occurred, pre-Internet uprising, out of the public eye.
            The Ultimate Warrior both exemplified and subverted this reality. On the one hand, the Warrior began as a picture-perfect example of professional wrestling’s fraudulence. Though an accomplished bodybuilder, Hellwig’s actual wrestling skills were poor - try watching his matches at a remove from childhood admiration, and his inability to do more than warm up the crowd and clothesline the competition becomes painfully obvious. But give him some facepaint, that entrance music, and an opponent who is willing to make him look good, and his lack of grappling ability becomes a non-issue. Suddenly, as the Ultimate Warrior, he is eminently credible as a charismatic hero in a pseudo-sport where the chief requirements for heroism are looking like you can beat someone up and not antagonizing the audience. To put it bluntly, this was a man who looked like he could kick some ass, and he did, and people cheered him for it.
            At the same time, however, the Ultimate Warrior’s ascendance turned the professional wrestling script on its head. Even in an era of big egos and rampant substance abuse, Warrior’s unreliability, unprofessionalism, and steroid use were so blatant that WWF owner Vince McMahon fired (and re-hired) him on several occasions. In addition to sparking countless death rumors (Hellwig appeared smaller post-steroids, leading fans to speculate the character had been given to another performer), this brought a dose of external reality to an industry that thrived on creating its own. The Warrior’s departures showed that what happened outside the ring – pay disputes, McMahon’s ongoing steroid trial, etc. – had the ability to completely discredit what went on inside it, and no amount of narrative gloss (i.e. a worked “injury” or a fake burial a la The Undertaker) could reset the pulled-back curtain.
            This pattern of defying expectations would extend to Hellwig’s post-ring career as well. One of the many reasons for his rocky relationship with McMahon was that Hellwig sought to profit from the character he embodied and helped to create while the WWF saw the Ultimate Warrior as company property. This prompted Hellwig to legally change his name to Warrior in 1993 and later sue the WWF for rights to the character, sparking rumors that he had lost his mind and cementing his reputation as an egomaniac. Yet while Hellwig was demonized for chasing a paycheck, comic book artists Jack Kirby and Joe Simon are often celebrated as tragic figures who fought – unsuccessfully – for the ability to profit from iconic characters they helped create. One man’s martyr is another man’s leech, and visa versa.
            As the 90s faded and the new millennium dawned, Warrior’s reputation as a megalomaniacal has-been continued to grow. He appeared in WCW to work a brief, disastrous program against old WWF frenemy Hulk Hogan, for which he collected a hefty sum before retiring. He published a comic book starring (surprise!) himself. He became a prolific blogger and a conservative pundit, responding, sometimes abrasively to fan inquiries, and using YouTube videos to attack nemesis in the industry. In short, the man who had once been one of wrestling’s biggest faces (good guys) became for many a consummate Internet heel: caustic, incomprehensible, self-absorbed, and more than a little petty.
            This was the narrative that defined The Ultimate Warrior for the last years of his life. It was one that was soundly reinforced by his corporate nemesis: the WWE. McMahon’s company rounded up several of Hellwig’s former coworkers for a “documentary” that makes Michael Moore’s agitprop look subtle and balanced. Like many narratives, however, the Warrior story plays loose with facts to tell a tale, and like many narratives, it is subject to revision.
            For starters, take the notion that Warrior bought into his own hype. When he wasn’t hurling put-downs, Hellwig made it clear in his writings and videos that the Ultimate Warrior was a character he played and wrestling was a proud chapter in his life but definitely not the entirety of it. This awareness of the limitations of one’s celebrity separated Hellwig not only from the quintessential has-beens (such as perpetual spotlight-seeker Hulk Hogan) of any field but from many poor, deluded still-ares (I’m looking at you, James Franco).
            If the Warrior’s egoism was at least partially a narrative embellishment, so too were other aspects of his supposed lunacy. To be certain, Hellwig’s writings, like his wrestling promos, sometimes came across garbled: standard capitalization and punctuation were not part of his regular moveset. And yes, he made more than his share of inane, ignorant, or idiotic remarks. Incorporating “Queering doesn’t make the world work” into a speech for college students, for example, paints him as a second-rate Ted Nugent. But for a supposed rightwing caricature, Warrior had no problem deviating from the script, such as when he excoriated Republicans for their heavy-handed intervention during the Teri Schiavo fiasco. Though abrasive and politically incorrect to a fault, Warrior was guided more by conservative philosophy (the Western canon and Greek mythology in particular) than by irrational hatred.
            One salient aspect of Warrior’s creed that shined past the murk of his ranting delivery was a belief in the power of the individual to shape his or her own destiny. This belief explains how a still-fit competitor walked away from a well-paying career to pursue personal interests rather than acquiesce to its demands. It also explains how a man years removed from the spotlight and seemingly universally loathed in the business that made him famous could achieve reconciliation with a company he quit – and sued – on numerous occasions. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.
            A few days before his untimely demise at the age of 54, the Warrior was inducted into the WWE’s Hall of Fame. In a class containing other once-formidable names (Mr. T and Jake “the Snake” Roberts chief among them), he stood out as the headliner. His hair was short and gray, and he limped when trying to replicate his signature energy, but his message, delivered sans quixotic shouting this time, is the same as it’s always been. To paraphrase, he said every man, by his actions, can make his own legend, and he thanked his fans for keeping his legend alive.
            In retrospect, the speech turned out to be an early eulogy. Three days later, while walking to his car with his wife, the Warrior collapsed, was rushed to a hospital, and pronounced dead. In the wake of his demise, legions of former colleagues – including past nemeses Hogan and McMahon – have taken to Twitter to pay respects.

            By conventional wisdom, none of this should have happened. The late 80s/early 90s Warrior was popularly imagined as roided-up rockstar and seemed doomed to burn out rather than fade away. Conversely, the post-wrestling Warrior was taken for a washed-up, selfish provocateur, poised to fade into obscurity and pass bitter and alone. Instead, neither happened. The Warrior died a husband and a father, at peace with his legacy and reconnected to an industry that gave him his start. In death and in life, the Warrior, like any good practitioner of individualism, did not allow the narratives thrust upon him to define him. He wrote his own.

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