The goal of any documentary about an individual is usually the same: Who is this person? That’s the task Netflix’s Mr. McMahon attempts to take on. And what an effort it requires. Vince McMahon is undoubtedly a business genius but also a true Cro-Magnon.
There are many ways to describe the man who brought wrestling to the mainstream (first as the WWF and now as the WWE): Industrious, competitive, vile, philandering, sexist, cruel (albeit occasionally not), a terrible boss of talent when it comes to protecting their health, but a phenomenal boss when it comes to helping them make a name for themselves. I don’t want to suggest that McMahon is so complex that it’s hard to say whether he’s a good person or a bad person. That’s easy. He’s a terrible person who just happened to employ and create careers for thousands of people and created entertainment that reached a level of mass appeal that will forever confound me (hint: I’m not a wrestling fan).
Still, for all his repugnant behavior (some of which may have been for show but didn’t seem like a long run from the real thing), we learn early in the series that McMahon spent his early years dirt poor and grew up with a chip on his shoulder that would one day turn into a boulder.
McMahon’s life changed when his father entered his life when Vince was 12. Before that first encounter, they had never shared a moment. Vince Sr. was hardly a loving father, but he did take Jr. under his wing and teach him the ropes of promoting regional professional wrestling. The word “regional” is a very significant one. Long before the days of WrestleMania, the staged sport was segmented across the country by regions owned by various entities. The father was very good at his job but lacked his son’s ambition. Once Sr. decided to sell the WWF, Jr. stepped up and made an offer to buy that couldn’t have been more seller-friendly: if Jr. couldn’t come up with the money to buy the WWF in three installments, he would not only forfeit the deal, but dear old dad would keep all the money that the son had paid so far.
From there, much of Mr. McMahon is about a boy who started from nothing to become one of the greatest showmen in the history of the world. “The PT Barnum of wrestling” is referred to at one point, and the description fits. But there is a likely criminally dark side to McMahon’s methods that keeps the success of the WWE from being simply a “great American success story.” McMahon worked his wrestlers to the bone. Multiple former stars of the sport (including Hulk Hogan and Bret Hart) refer to working seven days a week, 365 days a year.
Now, this is the part that may seem dismissible but should not be: none of McMahon’s wrestlers, while he was on the rise, got paid unless they entered the ring. And while the matches were (and are) choreographed to reach a particular outcome, the pounding their bodies took was very real. Hence the entrance of painkillers and steroids into the sport. Both helped manage pain, recovery, and mass. McMahon was very clever about painkillers and steroids. He never told any of his charges to take them, but he made certain they knew the consequences if they couldn’t perform.
There’s a fascinating stretch in the series that showed McMahon being challenged by Ted Turner’s wrestling league, the WCW (World Championship Wrestling). As wealthy as McMahon had become on the busted backs of his athletes, Turner was wealthier still, and for well over a year, Turner’s league outperformed McMahon’s largely by poaching his best talent. If one were forced to point out McMahon’s most significant talent, it would be tenacity. McMahon outmaneuvered Turner by creating more stars and making the matches more risky, violent, and outrageous.
None of that surprised me much, but if the craven and piggish use of women as props to humiliate through the “storylines” of the WWF was unpleasant enough to view in the ring. It was outside of the ring that made my eyes open wide. Several wrestlers spoke of taking advantage of women associated with the sport—fans or co-workers. Much of the documentary series was shot before McMahon was named and charged in multiple lawsuits for acts with women so disgusting that I’ll just let you watch (if you choose) rather than describe.
Remarkably, McMahon’s wife, Linda, has remained by his side despite numerous confirmed affairs, and now these charges of sexual abuse, which are still to play out. In some ways, McMahon isn’t that hard to figure out. He’s a power-hungry egomaniac who accomplished more than anyone could have ever expected through the “art” of scripted entertainment. He’s also a serial abuser of women, a conniving boss, a swindler, a brilliant brand maker, and a person who worships at the altar of self. Hell, maybe he should run for president if he doesn’t serve jail time. After all, he would not be the first of his kind.
Directed by noted documentarian Chris Smith, Mr. McMahon is exceedingly well-made and very revealing in showcasing a fringe sport’s journey to the mainstream through the force of will of one man. Still, the question that I’m not sure the film completely answers is who Vince McMahon Jr. is at his core. As the documentary closes, that’s a question that appears to be a mystery to McMahon himself. The thought I had is that maybe there is no core. Maybe at the center, there is nothing more than the shifting sands of a gifted, ruthless opportunist.
Mr. McMahon is a portrait of a slug who made it big. It’s up to the viewer how to feel about that. Me? I felt like I needed a long shower.
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