Identity Is The Crisis You Can't See

A long time ago, in a media classroom far, far away...

BRAND WARS

[Dramatic music is playing right now]

Okay, the setting is less epic than I would’ve liked, but it’s still a place of interest – for me, at least: a media class, in the college I attended (not naming names, here). It also wasn’t the most well informed classroom I’ve ever been a part of (hence why I’m not naming names) – the teacher, who was trying to lecture to us about Alfred Hitchcock, had never heard of a MacGuffin; now you might’ve never heard of one either, but you’re not being paid to educate me about Hitchcock, are you?

But it was in this media room that the idea of a person as a brand was first mentioned, and it intrigued me. The idea is simple: when you see movie posters that feature the names of the actors of the film prominently, then you’re not simply reading a person’s name, but a brand.  Unknown actors are attempting to establish a new brand, and the known actors are attempting to utilise their own as a stamp of quality.

Since then, I’ve heard people vocalise this concept: “protecting my brand”, “building my brand”, etc. – usually in direct relation to themselves and their perceived career. And once you’ve heard it expressed like that, you realise that people who use this terminology should, at best, be left in a corner to themselves, or, at worst, be beaten around the head and chest with broom handles.

But the divide between the person and the persona is an interesting and existing phenomenon. Who you see on the screen, on the stage, and – as relates to this blog – in the ring, are not potentially who those people are. I don't mean the simple line between fiction and reality, but that place that people like Muhammad Ali occupy: where you're uncertain how much is a reflection of the man and how much is a role being played.

Les Kellett, British wrestling’s best funny man, is a good example of the potential dichotomy between person and persona: had you only ever known Les for his work in the ring, feinting drunkenness, rasping at the referee, and his skill of making any man look like a fool, then you would’ve assumed him to be a good humoured, comic fellow; but had you only ever heard the backstage stories, which included an inhuman ability to absorb punishment and ignore pain, coupled with a moody temperament, and a willingness and talent at psychological intimidation, then you might’ve conceived the Yorkshireman as quite a fearful figure. (I’ve never met the man, but I’ll wager he was neither of these things – at least to the extreme that either side of the perspectives might suggest.)

The point is that people sometimes get carried away with themselves and make character judgements about someone, when they have nothing but second hand stories or performances to go on. People are not brands; and the personas that get built up – either intentionally, or accidentally – may not hold any truth: “One man in his time will play many parts.”

Billy Who?

"Never meet your heroes" is not a piece of advice I agree with. Certainly there are people who you (yes you) have probably built up in your mind so much that there's no way that they could actually live up the expectations you have for them; but I don't think this rule applies one hundred percent of the time.

That being said though, there is one hero of mine, who is probably held so high in my regard because I never met him: Billy Joyce. There's a good chance you haven't heard that name before. If you have, good on you, but I'm going to go into a little bit of history anyway: Billy Joyce was the ring name of Bob Robinson, apparently one of the greatest wrestlers of all time. When I say apparently, it's because - aside form never meeting the man - I have never actually seen Mr Joyce wrestle. I have only heard stories from the old time Wigan wrestlers, who described a genius of the craft. This craft was catch-as-catch-can wrestling.

The two most prominent names that I heard of coming from the infamous, original snake pit gym, in Wigan, were Billy Robinson and Karl Gotch. It is primarily because of their influence on professional wrestling that I knew their stories. And it wasn't until a year or so of actually training and learning about the history that I heard the name Billy Joyce, or "Bob Robby", mentioned. So imagine my surprise when I hear of the heavyweight Gotch, who even after years of training, was toyed with, by the significantly smaller Joyce. "He'd let you arm drag him, and you'd end up pulling him onto your leg."

The legend of a man who was the epitome of the idea of grappling being a game of human chess, was built up in my mind. Never the biggest, strongest, nor fastest, here was a man that simply outwrestled everyone. But it's not solely because of that that I consider him a hero; the biggest influence on the legend, for me, was a story I heard from the other big man, Billy Robinson:

"I asked Billy Riley, my trainer, who was the worst student you ever had? And he said without a doubt it was Billy Joyce. He would come week in and week out, and he was just terrible. Could barely teach him a thing. Until one day it all clicked, and he started timing his moves, countering people, knowing his set ups, and beating everyone. But it took him years to get there."

That's not word for word, as it's from memory, but the gist of it is there.

Because I've never met this man, and I've never seen him go to work on the mats, I have only my imagination, fueled by the stories of others. If I'd have met him, or actually had the chance to witness his wrestling, I don't think the legend would live up. This is the story of someone who was not a natural born genius, who, from the first moment of being on those horse hair mats, knew what he was doing. This was the worst student they'd ever had, who simply worked at it. That kind of story gives me hope.

The Thing I Hate The Most

There are plenty of things to hate having to deal with, as a pro wrestler: the travel, having no toilets in a changing room, having no changing rooms to speak of, "bookers", venues that don't have a shower - there's enough things to make any man mentioning them sound like a diva having a fit. But there's one thing I truly hate having to do more than anything else, and that's walk through the curtain to the ring. Once I'm in the ring there's (usually) nothing to worry about, and waiting backstage very rarely produces problems, but the transition between the two is typically the hardest part of my night.

Right before my matches I make sure I've warmed up properly, and my muscles are loose, before preparing myself for the time where I have to cross the clothed threshold. In these minutes, I don't like talking to people; I just keep my head down and pace the same spot over and over again. I'm not entirely sure why that moment is the toughest for me, but I think it's something to do with considering it a point of no return; more than once I've heard my music start and thought about making a run for it.

It's ridiculous when you think about it too, as I'm about to be slammed around a ring, forearmed in the head, and stomped on, yet it's the act of walking to the aforementioned ring that turns my stomach into a butterfly collector. And no matter how many times I rationalise it to myself, making the point that I've done it a few hundred times before and that nothing horrible has happened so far, there is a zero percent improvement in my disposition when I hear the opening chords of whatever is playing for me on that night.

On the bright side of things, if walking through a curtain is the worse thing that I have to regularly deal with, I think I'm doing pretty good - lifestyle wise.

Sitting Here In Silence

Pro wrestling documentaries conform to one of three narratives: the first two are character focused; either a career beginning or ending, that promises a bright future, or reveals a dark past; with the third primarily concerned with the representation of wrestling - usually this is a discussion of how "fake" wrestling is supposed to be, juxtaposed against the real injuries sustained whilst in the ring.

Maybe I'm simply too cynical to enjoy people living out their bright futures in front of a camera crew; I know I get no pleasure in watching their nightmares take over, either; and I find the question of how "fake" wrestling is, to be a tired one that doesn't really need to be addressed again.

I don't like wrestling documentaries. That is, I don't like the majority. GAEA Girls [by Kim Longinotto and Jano Williams] is the exception. Although the structure of the narrative is not an unfamiliar one, telling the story of a group of trainee wrestlers, all looking to make a name for themselves, with one girl - Saika Takeuchi - taking up the role of the main character, it is the way in which the story is told, that is important.

For those of you that don't know (shame on you) GAEA was a Japanese wrestling company with an all women roster. The trainees in this documentary are those of Chigusa Nagayo, who's one of the owners of GAEA, as well as a well established wrestler in her own right.

The reason why this is one of my favourite documentaries is for something that I didn't even notice, until someone pointed it out. I didn't notice it because it wasn't there - a voice over. There are interviews with the trainers, with the trainees, with the families, but no voice over and no score from the filmmakers telling you - implicitly - how to feel. Because of this, I've heard a variety of reactions to the movie. Certainly, there are repeat opinions, but there're also minor and major contrasts in them, too. You never really know how someone's going to take to it.

I actually don't want to go any further in describing it, for the simple reason that I'd hate to turn this into some form of commentary. This film is supposed to be stark; it's supposed to have those unsettling, quiet moments.

If you're training to become a wrestler, or are just considering it, watch this film!


GAEA Girls can be found on Youtube, but, if you like it, buy the DVD off Amazon and support some good art.

Feminism, WOW! (part 2)

Part 1 Recap:

Women who wrestle face a specific problem, when it comes to representation: "the male gaze". Typically, "the male gaze" refers to the theory that mainstream media is presented through the perspective of a heterosexual male. In wrestling, the "gaze" also extends to other factors - such as nationality - but, for now, our focus is on gender identity.

Click here for part one.

Part 2: Suffragette City

Because the typical wrestling fan is believed to be male, and therefore the typical wrestler is believed to me male too, women have always been designated as a "special attraction" i.e. different from the norm. The male gaze exists in media for a business reason; those who are believed to be most likely to spend their money on a product will be targeted, by attempting to present to them things that are believed to conform to their beliefs and values. Similarities and differences are highlighted and exploited, and little is ever challenged.

Now, as a business model, you might argue that this is a logical approach; you attract the majority, in an attempt to earn the most. However, the typical gaze of a wrestling show is so very limited that monetary justification is not a strong counter position. Members of the audience might even turn away by the handling of intergender relations.

If you are a woman in wrestling you have one of four roles to fulfil:

1. The Diva - The object of sexual desire. Plays up to her looks
2. The Prude - The opposite of the Diva, in that she scorns the objectification of women.
3. The Subvert - The woman in the masculine role. Typically taken up by the more muscular women.
4. The Wrestler - Gender neutral. Just a wrestler.

Having been trained with women, wrestled a few, and even dated one or two, I've heard one phrase repeated: "I'm not a girl, I'm a wrestler!" This is usually shouted at timid male trainees who have a hard time overcoming the perceived social stigma of bodyslamming a woman. It's also a very telling phrase.

In the above four roles, only two can be said to be explicitly female - the Diva and the Prude. The Subvert plays the role of a man - she's considered interesting because she's subverting the gender roles and not acting as a woman should. And the Wrestler is not assigned a sexual identity - the importance is placed on the moves performed, which carry no gender bias. Only the Diva and the Prude are overtly feminine roles, and what do they have in common? Sex. Or, more specifically, objectification and sexual desire - one is for and one is against.

This is why some women do not want to be identified as such, within wrestling; because the woman in wrestling is only ever presented as a sexual object. Perhaps it's a greater commentary on how men are believed to perceive women - the Madonna and the harlot - but doesn't that make men sound like a Freudian nightmare?

I've always taken to the belief that the best wrestling shows - the true supershows - are the ones that have something for everyone. Normally, this is considered as choices in wrestling styles, but what of wrestling philosophies? I'm of no doubt that some men can only relate to women in sexual terms, but why does an entire show have to be targeted at them? Give them one or two matches, then show me something in a perspective I've never seen before. Maybe I won't even enjoy that perspective, but, you know what? I'm not the biggest fan of Lucha, either.

Feminism, WOW! (Part 1)

I don't think women's wrestling should exist.

(Interesting remark, let's see where this goes.)

Whenever you talk sexual politics you're in constant danger of appearing as either:
a.) a preachy, left wing, arsehole
or,
b.) a preachy, right wing, arsehole

Right now, I probably appear to be the latter of the two. But I'll do my best to win the feminists back over (hi mum!), as well as make a coherent argument.

Anyone reading this will be predisposed to think one way or another about gender roles. If you're hardline one way or another in your beliefs, then I don't think anything I can say will talk you around; if you tutted at that opening statement, and have only read this far out of spite, or some other misplaced ill will, then this post not for you; if you were roused to a cheer at what you believed to be open misogyny, then this post is also not for you. This post is for simple consideration.

Now that that's out of the way, let's return to the opening line and condense it. Focus on the term "women's wrestling" and really think what that means. Intrinsically, it's sexist. Why? Because of the need to include the modifier "women". When men wrestle it's called "wrestling", when women wrestle it's called "women's wrestling". So? Well, by needing to qualify that it is indeed women wrestling, and not feel that same need to do so when men wrestle, there's the implication that the wrestler is a role to be taken up by a man.

Consider the term "male nurse" - it's the same idea. The norm is that "she is a nurse, and he is a male nurse". The implication is that a nurse is job for a woman, and when a man takes up this position it is a break from the norm.

To allow the label of "women's wrestling" to continue, is to preserve the idea that women are, at best, a special attraction i.e. they're not normal wrestlers.

Some promoters boast of having an all women wrestling show, as if this is truly better than the usual cards which limit themselves to one "women's match". Both types of show just prolong the separation of male and female wrestlers, by the continued import of the idea that the gender divide is vast. Men and women are different - clearly. But the difference is only as significant as the difference between weight divisions. Lightweights are not considered to have any more or less claim to being a wrestler than the heavyweights (most of the time, I concede).

The problem is "the male gaze", which is the idea that entertainment is presented to the audience through the perspective of the heterosexual male. Straight men are the main demographic targeted in most forms of media, and wrestling is certainly no exception to this. The "gaze" of a wrestling show presents a vision of a world which attempts to pander to the wants and values of its audience - or the majority of it, at least. Difference is exploited and made apparent, for the sake of entertainment. And being a woman is different to the majority of a wrestling crowd.

What You See & What You Get

There's a classic example, given in philosophy, of the difference between what is perceived and what is true. It's a fairly easy to understand thought experiment, so feel free to follow along at home:

If I was to take a completely straight stick in my hand and look at it, then my sense of sight would inform me of the even nature of the stick's geometry. But once half submerged in water, the refraction of the light creates the appearance of a bent stick.

All this example is highlighting is that our senses can be fooled, and because of this, we should weary of placing all our faith in our perceptions.

There's an obsession of the body in wrestling. It's only natural, considering that the matches are a form of physical expression, but there's this almost unnatural obsession of the ideal body in wrestling. I'm not the first to point this out, but the bodybuilder physique is often considered the ideal aesthetic, and has been for some years. I understand why - the development of the muscles to a comic book proportion is an achievement, and, if nothing else, fascinating - but there's no variation in qualification of what is a good body for wrestling. Bigger is always better.

This isn't a disaffirmation of the bodybuilder as a wrestler, nor as an athlete. Big muscles are an accessory, like a fancy robe to walk to the ring in, or a mask - they're interesting to look at. But if you want to see the best bodies for wrestling, google some images of Cael Sanderson, Aleksandr Karelin, or Marcelo Garcia. All of these men compete in different weight classes, in different sports - freestyle wrestling, greco-roman wrestling, and submission grappling, respectively - yet none conform to the ideal body aesthetic.

The idea that bigger is better is preserved by society, and does not actually originate from the wrestling community. Take the masculine symbols of cinema: violence, phallic imagery, and muscles. The more violence, the bigger the guns, the bigger the muscles, the better. Which is why I'm not here to condemn or even ponder the continuing worship of muscle-bound wrestlers. I actually want to talk about the other form of physique driven obsession - self-obsession.

I think that if you took a cross section of wrestlers, and ran them through some psychiatric tests, then you'd discover alot of them would be suffering from body dysmorphia. Yes, there is a steroid problem in wrestling, but there are also anorexics, and bulemics, and people who simply believe there is a defect in their image and don't know what to do. They all just want to build muscle and loose the fat.

I've sat in changing rooms and seen people spend their entire night flexing in the mirror, doing some exercise, and then returning to the mirror for more flexing. People like this are the ones who become obsessed with getting bigger, put all manner of things I can't spell into their body, and will fervently deny chemical based accusations; others who "just can't get in shape", will go for a day or two, at a time, without a meal; there are people who throw up immediately after eating, because they want abs; and I know someone who came close to killing themselves with diuretics.

Wrestlers believe in the ideal body. It's a necessity to them, not an accessory.

I'm not in the habit of naming and shaming, so I won't begin here. But, I will share with you a story of a not so sympathetic encounter with an image obsessed wrestler:

I have blogged previously that I am a former chubby lad and this story takes place at a time when I was a couple stone heavier than I am now. So, imagine a short, ginger boy, with a little more to love than the average person [massive arse].

It's yet another show, on just another weekend, arriving with a few of the usual suspects of North West English wrestling, and we "do the rounds" i.e. shaking hands and saying hi to everyone who's already there.

A short while later, I've changed into my trunks and boots. I'm awaiting the start of the show, when a wrestler, who've I yet to say introduce myself to, walks up, takes a quick glace at me, and announces "Jesus, you need a tan!" And when I say announces, I mean he deliberately says it loud enough to catch everyone's attention - he even looks around to see if he got a good laugh out of anyone. I'll be honest, I was expecting a handshake and a "pleased to meet you". But I'm used to this type of person, so I respond, simply "why?" He looks a little taken aback, gives it some thought, and - again - announces "cause you're supposed to have one, aren't ya?"

That is the kind of reasoning that reverberates through wrestling. There is a right way and there is a wrong way for people to look. And the pressure to conform is not always implicit.

To Be Someone Must Be A Wonderful Thing

Mass recognition is not good in itself. To argue against celebrity, most people point to the string of reality stars that've appeared in the pop culture over the last few years. These television generated personalities appear to have no notable talent, add nothing positive to society, and are the entertainment equivalent of junk food. However, this is the most obvious target of anti-celebrity attacks. A simpler one - that I'm surprised more people don't mention - is the fact that criminals often become celebrities: Jack the Ripper is close to a modern myth, Charles Manson is a recognisable caricature, and Myra Hindley's image has been reproduced for exhibitions.

All that being said, I actually don't believe fame is bad in itself, either. Jack the Ripper wasn't a bad person because he became famous, it's because he had a habit of killing people. Celebrity is merely a state of affairs, and, the majority of the time, a simple product of good advertising. Celebrity is simple acknowledgement, and nothing more.

It's often believed that you're either going to be a star in wrestling ("superstar" is a copyrighted term), or you're going to be a purist. To put it another way: are you going to be concerned with being famous, or being a good wrestler? If you're going to have the most appeal, then you can't wrestle a style that is esoteric. The mainstream wants easily understood entertainment. This births the romantic notion of appealing to the "real" wrestling fans - the minority of people who'll applaud and become invested in even the most minor of details.

I'm not sorry to dispel this idea, but there is no "real" wrestling fan, just as there is no fake wrestling fan. The closest you'll ever reach to a true fan of the work are the people who've done the work - the people who've been on the mats and swapped sit-outs and switches. The "real" wrestling fan is the wrestler. (I'm fanatical about wrestling, that's why I do it.)

It's the uninitiated that buy the tickets, sit in the seats, and cheer and boo.

You are not automatically a bad wrestler by appealing to the audience. You are not automatically a good wrestler by being unappealing to the mainstream. Business and art are not mutually exclusive, they're independent. And people get bogged down in being different for the sake of being different, to see this sometimes.

Invisible Friends

There's an amazing amount of hubris in wrestling. And by hubris I mean ancient Greek, Oedipus Rex level hybris. There are people who believe that the show begins and ends with themselves. For awhile, I thought that people like this were putting on an outward act of arrogance, in an attempt to get other people to believe them. But it wasn't long before I realised that "oh no, they really believe it, don't they?" It's these people whom I want to mind-jack. It's a mentality that's fascinating - in the same way that documentaries about serial killers are.

In abstract, these type of people are, at best, quaint, comic figures; in person, they're an endurance test.

I actually try to avoid talking about this type of person, most of the time. The simple reason is that they crave attention, and have little misgivings if it's positive or negative - the important thing is that they are being discussed.

Why bring it up here, then? Is this the point in my life where I burn the small bridges that I have in British wrestling? No (I will do that in good time). The important thing to point out is that you - yes, you - are not the sole reason that the show was as good as it was.

This weekend gone, I was reminded how much I owe to people that nobody else notices.

I can't remember where I heard it first, but I've heard it repeated quite a few times: "the sign of a good referee, is that you don't notice he's there". This is true of everyone whose job doesn't involve wearing spandex.

There are so many little things to be done, on even the smallest of shows. If these things are done correctly, then nobody will be thanked for a job well done; if something fucks up, then somebody will not hear the end of it. The best example I can think of, is music. Music, for me, is when the match begins and ends. It acts as your introduction and also signals that the referee did, indeed, count three. I hate it when something as simple as music messes up. It makes me want to grab the sound guy, shake him about, and shout "YOU HAD ONE JOB! ONE JOB!"

I've yet to assault any music men, but I've also yet to thank any of them, too. I'm not even sure how they'd react if I did approached them and said "thank you for playing my music correctly". If anything, they'd probably assume I was making fun. So let this be my unspoken nod to everyone who continues to do their job correctly, and type the pleasure, the privilege is mine.