Ever since Owen Hart fell to his death, on live television and in character, kayfabe has been dead. More than the betrayal incurred by his brother live on air, more than any winks or nods in edgy promos, it was Owen’s tragic fall that rendered nearly a century of tradecraft as something utterly trivial. Kayfabe, of course, was for decades the foundation upon which suspension of disbelief in wrestling was established. Perhaps more than a foundation, though, it was a wall – formed by the tacit agreement between performers and promoters that the nature of the business was sacred and only to be acknowledged amongst themselves. It was an imposing barrier and, if you dared cross it, the repercussions were severe.
This needed to be so, probably more for the wrestlers than the fans. Suspension of disbelief is the key to all effective drama, from the stage to the screen to the squared circle. The wrestlers needed to give themselves to the performance so wholly, otherwise the absurdity of their narratives would unravel the whole routine. An oft-cited story recalls Hulk Hogan in the back after a match, still selling a leg injury although no one in plain sight could have possibly seen him. And, of course, it’s long been tradition that “faces” and “heels” never travel from show to show together, expediency be damned. The point behind such dogged dedication to masquerade? There’s only The Show, and nothing else, and it must be maintained at all costs.
But then Owen Hart got killed during The Show, and reality had to be confronted. Up to this point in wrestling’s history, hardly anyone past puberty believed the business ran on authentic strife. But it was never agreed upon by the wrestlers nor the fans to acknowledge this, thereby allowing kayfabe to exist within the same paramaters a moviegoer psychologically prepares himself to watch, say, The Avengers. It’s simply more fun that way. Hart’s death, in a manner much more affecting than his brother’s fiasco in the “Montreal Screwjob”, forced fans and performers both to acknowledge the separation between story and reality. Death, of course, has never allowed for disbelief, much less its suspension.
And then, when it seemed impossible, The Show went on. That very night, The Show went on. Vince McMahon has been criticized over countless creative decisions, but this remains the most significant of them (in his professional life, anyways…). Yes, Hart’s death was subsequently acknowledged in the federation’s programming, but it slowed nothing down, not even that night. People had paid for tickets to see a show, and McMahon claimed it was his obligation to them more than to anyone else that should guide the business.
So The Show went on, but it had irrevocably changed. Along with Owen Hart, the most sacred charade of this carnival business as mass spectacle was buried. Fans had to acknowledge that the characters for whom they cheered or booed were simply characters, played by real men with lives outside the ring often opposite their performances inside it. There was no choice in the matter, it was simply made so. Nothing forces us to confront life like death, and the ruse of pro wrestling was not exempt from this fact.
The Show could not have carried kayfabe into the 21st Century, regardless. Never in a world of 24-hour news and the internet could kayfabe continue to exist. Fans began monitoring the real lives of pro wrestlers with as much if not more ardor than the presented product. Oftentimes, the true story becomes more intriguing than the one told to us.
But Vince McMahon, his performers, and his myriad rivals never really agreed to that new paradigm. The Show went on that night that Owen Hart died. The Show went on after Chris Benoit committed murder-suicide. The Show went on after every dirtsheet and insider laid bare the politics behind the scenes, the real-life confrontations and mishaps that seem more soap operatic than what has been decried “the male soap opera”. There are pauses – pauses to reflect on the passing of fellow performers, or to acknowledge national events like 9/11 – but almost in the next breath has The Show resumed. Because it no longer has kayfabe, The Show has evolved so that it may not even need reality. And it is with that stubbornness in the post-kayfabe era that John Cena, CM Punk, and, as proof that tragedy is nothing if not irony, Bret Hart went to the ring on Sept. 10, 2012 in Montreal, where kayfabe was first diagnosed to be in declining health fifteen years ago, for an episode of Monday Night Raw dubbed “Pat Patterson Appreciation Night”.
That night’s audience had witnessed Jerry “The King” Lawler, well into his fourth decade of professional wrestling, depart from his usual role of color commentator and lace up the boots to compete, an infrequent sight for most men in their sixties but not entirely uncommon for “The King”. Mere minutes after a tag match with Randy Orton against CM Punk and Dolph Ziggler, that Montreal audience watched in stunned horror as Lawler began slumping at the broadcast table, clutching himself in pain and gasping for air. The silence of an entire arena was deafening as Lawler received CPR, then was placed on a stretcher and carted out by EMTs.
Few details emerged aside from faint slivers of hope, relayed by Lawler’s fellow broadcaster Michael Cole. Cole didn’t acknowledge his partner’s situation immediately, instead calling the match before him alone, as if The King’s mic had merely gone out. But for those watching at home, we knew something was afoot as fans in the live audience ogled a terrifying scene just outside the camera’s frame.
I will never forget the unease of Daniel Bryan stealing glances at what was occuring outside the ring while he was performing mere feet away.
Tragic news spreads like wildfire in the age of social media, and platforms such as Twitter and Facebook were alight with rumor and speculation about what had happened. Coming back from commercials, Cole informed us that Lawler had been evacuated and was receiving medical attention. The flatness in his voice told us this wasn’t part of the show, and his concern became ours. The night’s event went on with no commentary for the two remaining matches, perhaps the most surreal spectacle in the history of Raw. For those in the arena, particularly Michael Cole, it must have felt like shell shock, those fleeting moments after impact when all the world is in disarray and nothing can be pieced together.
When Cena, Punk, and Hart stepped into the ring for the closing segment, no one knew what to expect. But we should have. We got the company’s top two stars at at the time, anchored by a legend of the industry, providing advancement to an angle that has been building for months, an angle in which Jerry Lawler himself had been significantly featured. We got excellent promos from two men who were set to perform in a few days, promos their feud had been needing to stimulate interest in an otherwise staid program. We got The Show.
Many at the time felt that Raw’s last hour should have been canceled and still do even now over a decade later, despite the hindsight of knowing it was not a fatal incident for Lawler. How could they go on while a staple of the enterprise was perhaps on his deathbed, perhaps brought there by the enterprise itself? How could Cena and Punk and, especially, Hart go out to the ring to perform while this real human tragedy unfolded? Those are fair questions, but with the wisdom inherent to the passage of time they still have no satisfying answers.
Lawler could have been dead and John Cena still would have faced CM Punk at “Night of Champions”. There would have been pauses: memorials, retrospectives, tributes, and many a tear shed for The King. But, inevitably, The Show would go on. And so it did that night, as always, ever faithful in a business, a “universe” as it were, that knows no other loyalty, not even to the players themselves, no loyalty but to the continuing adventures of our heroes and villains, even as the men and women who inhabit these roles slip away.