PProfessional wrestling has always had a unique relationship with the truth. The most obvious example of this capricious relationship is kayfabe, the effort of performers to present everything that happens in the ring as 100% true and the consent of spectators to accept it, but in reality the phenomenon goes far beyond the squared circle.

As author David Shoemaker puts it in the second episode of Netflix’s new documentary series Mr. McMahon“Nothing anyone involved in wrestling tells you should be taken as fact.”

Since the carnival-like days of professional wrestling, behind-the-scenes performers and employees have deceived the media, fans, and even themselves for purposes ranging from the innocent to the sinister. For some, it’s easy to lose track of where their personas end and real life begins. Promoters have exaggerated their attributes and glossed over their troubles in order to make more money, cement their legacies, and avoid the consequences of any misdeeds they may have committed. WWE founder and figurehead Vince McMahon has been particularly adept at this. He even managed to rebound from his first retirement as WWE CEO and chairman amid allegations of sexual misconduct in 2022, before a lawsuit filed by former employee Janel Grant alleging that McMahon subjected her to sexual assault, human trafficking, physical abuse, and “extreme cruelty and degrading” led to his firing, again, in late January 2024.

It’s not easy to honestly and thoroughly cover every aspect of this business when you’re constantly dealing with all of the above. It’s even harder when your subject is dealing with a company that’s as dedicated to controlling its image and massaging its history as the WWE has been over the course of its 45-year existence (or 70+ years, if you count its pre-WWF origins). Some sports journalists, including those who have worked in Mr. McMahonhave made valiant and worthwhile efforts to provide serious reporting on the subject. The Vice TV series The dark side of the ring has made considerable strides outside the purview of the WWE in the five seasons that have aired since 2019. The show’s hosts, a mix of wrestlers, promoters, and pundits, can’t resist a certain amount of self-mythologizing, but it has provided compelling looks at serious incidents involving the WWE, including Chris Benoit’s horrific family destruction and the infamous “Plane Ride From Hell.”

Productions that have been given some access to the company have not gotten very far. Even acclaimed films like Off the matAnd Hitman Hart: Wrestling with Shadowsboth released in the late 1990s, offer only fleeting glimpses behind the curtain of the company. Most current “factual” content regarding the WWE is produced by the WWE itself, which has yielded many rosy profiles of stars and pivotal moments.

When WWE announced in 2020 that they had sold a multi-part documentary series about embattled WWE co-founder and figurehead Vince McMahon with The BellBill Simmons as executive producer and sea ​​of ​​fire And Tiger KingWith Chris Smith directing and producing, there was little reason to believe they’d have any better luck penetrating the palace walls. Simmons and Smith are a respected journalist and filmmaker, respectively, with proven track records. But nothing in the early days of this particular project suggested they were a match for the WWE machine. It didn’t help that Simmons’ previous collaboration with WWE studios, HBO’s 2018 documentary film André de ReusWhile well-made, it wasn’t exactly hard-hitting. The fact that WWE President and Chief Revenue Officer Nick Khan raved about an earlier version of the series, calling it “otherworldly, awesome” in a Q3 2021 Earnings Call, wasn’t promising either. Few experts in the field or fans with any knowledge of how the WWE operates — myself included — expected Simmons and Smith to take on WWE’s insular universe.

Based on Mr. McMahon‘s interviews with its lead character and its most strident yes-men, like Terry “Hulk Hogan” Bollea and WWE Executive Director Bruce Pritchard — most of which were filmed before the most recent sexual misconduct allegations against McMahon — no one in his inner circle thought they could pull it off. Which is perhaps the show’s greatest asset. Years of softball questioning for whitewashed productions seems ill-prepared for even rudimentary journalism. He gleefully brags and fabricates, distorting easily refutable details like attendance figures, making false claims (he doesn’t believe Mark Calaway, aka The Undertaker, suffered a concussion during his Wrestlemania 30 match against Brock Lesnar and suggests that the star’s extensive physical symptoms were actually a traumatic reaction to the loss), and smugly declares that he’s working the crew while he talks to them, as if everyone involved will sympathize with him and no one will consider checking facts or taking follow-up action. All Simmons and Smith need to do to make this footage more than a hollow, bloated ode to McMahon is apply the basic principles of their work. And they do.

It’s impossible to guess what the tone of the show was before the sexual assault allegations against McMahon, referenced in multiple episodes and addressed in full in the finale, halted production and shifted focus to 2022. But the version that does emerge is far from the braggadocio fans of the league have come to know. (In another departure from the formula, WWE Studios is no longer associated with the production.) Over the course of the six-episode run, the Mr. McMahon crew gives their title subject a chance to tell his side of the story, starting with his impoverished childhood and moving through four decades of highs and lows in the history of the WWF-turned-WWE. Then they follow up repeatedly with a mix of interviews with industry leaders and experts, archival news, and footage from McMahon’s own programming, to provide further context for—and often outright debunk—what he’s saying.

The breadth of the show’s coverage is quite substantial. It touches on a number of serious issues that McMahon and company would rather ignore or skirt around, including labor abuse and union busting, the steroid trial, the ring boy scandal, referee Rita Chatterton’s rape allegations against McMahon, the suspicious death of Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka’s girlfriend, Benoit’s double murder-suicide, Ashley Massaro’s rape during a WWE performance on a military base and the company’s attempts to cover it up, and the current sex trafficking civil lawsuit against McMahon and the federal criminal investigation it has sparked.

The cast of interviewees the series has assembled is largely up to the task of discussing these topics and more. Former wrestlers Anthony White, aka Tony Atlas, and Bret Hart provide insightful (by wrestling standards) looks at their era in the WWF. The Struggling ObserverDave Meltzer does an excellent job of laying out the history of the WWE in a way that is comprehensive enough for those who follow wrestling, but still accessible to the uninitiated. Authors Sharon Mazer and David Shoemaker provide essential cultural critique. Veteran New York After Columnist Phil Mushnick candidly discusses his decades-long reporting on McMahon’s professional and personal misdeeds, while reporters Khadeeja Safdar, Ted Mann and Joe Palazzolo offer insight into their recent investigations into his crimes.

Mr. McMahon isn’t perfect. While I realize that time constraints would make it nearly impossible to properly explore every WWE-related scandal over the course of six episodes, some of them get little more than a passing mention here. (Netflix described the series in marketing materials as being compiled from over 200 hours of interviews with McMahon alone.) It’s telling that Snuka was credited at all, but it’s a shame that there wasn’t the time, resources, or interest to investigate the long-running rumors that the then-WWF may have played a role in covering up his involvement in Nancy Argentino’s death.

Some periods of WWE history are more thoroughly examined than others. The post-Attitude Era coverage, in particular, would have benefited from more cultural critique and expert opinion. It’s odd that the show seems content to allow modern-day stars like Cody Rhodes to insist that the current version of the company is supportive, unencumbered by the problems that plagued the rest of its history, without the pushback that almost every other assertion receives. (Though it’s convenient for Netflix, which will begin streaming WWE Raw in 2025, that its show is apparently entirely divorced from anything objectionable about the series.)

Despite its minor flaws and limitations in scope, the series remains a solid interrogation of McMahon’s life and work. I’ve been following wrestling for too long and seen too many improbable McMahon comebacks to declare with any confidence that he’s not going to bounce back, but I believe it will leave a lasting impression on his ability to control his own narrative. All of the usual devices he’s used to glorify himself and avoid accountability throughout his career are laid bare here. He mythologizes and exaggerates the details of Wrestlemania III, and the producers immediately follow up with actual attendance figures and background information on the stars. He dismisses proven injuries as isolated incidents when the series has already made a solid case that they were consistent with his behavioral patterns and the corporate culture he fostered. And he continues to attempt to draw a definitive line between himself and his alter ego, pinning every accusation and criticism he’s received on the latter. (In fact, he still does. In a statement shared on X on September 23, McMahon accused producers of confusing themselves with his character.) But the entire show serves as compelling evidence that there is no clear line between person and persona.

Mister Vince McMahon may have thought he could talk and scheme his way out of whatever the people involved in this production threw at him when he agreed to be a part of it. But in the end, it’s clear that the only person he’s worked with successfully is himself.