April 2nd, 2017. Camping World Stadium, Orlando, Florida. The closing moments of WrestleMania XXXIII. A man lies motionless in the center of a ring, and surrounding him is a sea of people. They're shocked. They're angry. But most of all, they're just... heartbroken. Eventually the man struggles to sit up, and facing the crowd with tears in his eyes,
he climbs to his feet, before leaving his jacket, gloves, and hat in the ring. And moving with slow, heavy strides, he makes his way
back up the entrance ramp, as 75,000 people chant in unison three words: "Thank you, Taker". For fans of pro-wrestling, this moment was devastating. It was the end of a story we had been experiencing
most of our lives, and one that had started when many of us
were still children. But if you're not a fan, this scene likely doesn't mean
a whole lot to you. Maybe you've heard mention of The Undertaker, perhaps a friend has vented to you over The Streak, but the specifics of why someone could become
emotionally invested in such an... ...odd form of storytelling still evades you. Well friend, you're in luck, because as you may
have been able to tell from my previous video, I have this borderline unhealthy obsession
with convincing non-wrestling fans that wrestling is not only a legitimate form
of storytelling, but also one capable of delivering narratives
distinct from any other medium. And granted, this video is probably a bad idea,
considering it took me a month to make, people think I'm insane whenever I bring up
this subject, and WWE tend to pursue their copyright claims with all
the vigor of Brock Lesnar caving Randy Orton's head in. But hell, we didn't get to where we are by
making decisions that made sense. So to start, I want to briefly talk about time, or more specifically, the unusual nature
of time in wrestling. See, wrestling is the only form of ongoing fictional
narrative that takes place consistently in real time. In any other form of media, it's the author, director,
writer, or editor who dictates the flow of time, but because wrestling is still operating under
the illusion that it is a competitive sport, the facade of reality means that it can only
be portrayed in real time. So if we watch Kofi Kingston on WWE Smackdown
one week, and then return the following week for the next, just as seven days have pased for us, seven days will also have passed for the
fictional persona Kofi Kingston, making him a fictional character that is aging
and growing in real time, meaning that wrestling is a fictional ongoing universe
taking place directly in our reality, in our timeline. I know that might not sound like a big deal
in the short term, but over time, it can be a powerful tool in storytelling. And I want you to keep that in mind, because
the purpose of this video is twofold. One, to explore the idea of the professional wrestling
persona, and how it develops a relationship with the audience, and two, how the passage of time affects that persona,
as well as that relationship. And so to do that, what say we take a trip right back
to the WWF of 1991? The early 90s were a fascinating time
for professional wrestling. The flamboyant powerhouses of the late 80s
were beginning to lose their luster and move on to greener pastures, and so the creative minds of the WWF were desperate
to recapture audience attention any way they could, and this is what led to the era of the gimmick. If you're not familiar with the term, a "gimmick"
is a wrestler's fictional persona. A wrestler's gimmick is what makes them distinct
from every wrestler on the roster. It's the character they embody, and that embodiment
defines everything, from their wrestling style and moveset in the ring, to even their entrance music and cadence of speech. Gimmicks are so important that the right one
can make or break a wrestler. For example, what you're seeing here is the current
New Japan star Tetsuya Naito being rejected by fans in the most devastating
way possible: with silent indifference. This was the reaction to his "Stardust Genius" gimmick,
basically that he was a good boy who liked wrestling. The gimmick lacked any real teeth, and so
was rejected outright by the audience. And so Naito, after a stay in Mexico, adopted
his new "Tranquilo" gimmick, in which he rejected the fans the same way
they had rejected him. treating everything in New Japan, from the audience,
to his opponents, to even the title belts with a languid disdain, only for then his popularity to explode, as a Japanese audience empathized with his disdain
for authority and his position as an outsider, And so they flocked to become one of his
"Los Ungobernales" - The Ungovernable, leading him to have the insane star power
he does today. American gimmicks tend to be a little less subtle
than those of Japan, and especially in the early 90s. At this point, the popularization of mixed martial arts
was still many years away, and so an audience at large had no real idea
what an actual full-contact fight looked like, nor the kinds of people who participate in them, which allowed wrestling promoters to try out
anything and everything. Any gimmick with a remote chance of getting over
was put on television, from professional gimmicks such as an evil repo man, the tax-collecting wrestler, IRS, to the infamous dentist, Dr. Isaac Yankem. This man is now the mayor of Knox Country,
Tennessee. What is reality? Gimmicks would even heavily, uh... "borrow"
from pop culture, such as Robert De Niro's performance as the
psychotic Max Cady from Cape Fear being reimagined as evil wrestler Waylon Mercy. Just let that one sink in. My favorite gimmicks of this era, however, for their sheer
ludicrousness, was the supernatural gimmicks Mantaur. Oz. This guy, who was bafflingly named "The Yeti". This was a dumb, glorious period for pro wrestling,
and these gimmicks were frequently disastrous, with many of these characters appearing
in just a few matches, before plummeting into the annals of
wrestling obscurity. But for all that fell, there was one that didn't. There was one that rose beyond anything
anyone could have imagined. It's bizarre watching The Undertaker's first entrance now. There's a genuine look of bewilderment to the audience as this 6-foot-10, 300-pound man walks solemnly
to the ring as morose funeral organs drone in the background. This was Mark Calaway, a Texas native who had previously wrestled under
the personas of Texas Red and Mean Mark Callous. And while he'd found modest success with each,
this was different. The Undertaker was different. There was something so eerily convincing
about the dead giant; something in his movements that whispered maybe,
just maybe, this was a creature beyond human. That was the gimmick of The Undertaker, and it was that gimmick that drew inspiration
from an unlikely place, in the form of 1978's horror film Halloween, and the character of Michael Myers. What made Michael Myers so terrifying as a serial killer
was he was human, but also something beyond. He may have looked like a person, but he was also
an unstoppable force of violence, completely immune to pain and single-minded
in his desire to take human life. And it's those qualities that Bruce Prichard and fellow
WWE creatives wanted to imbue in The Undertaker, and that's exactly what his matches communicated. Any maneuver in professional wrestling requires
both parties to cooperate; both the person performing the offensive maneuver
to actually do it, and the person taking the move to convey
that it actually hurt, and that conveyance is known as "selling", and selling that a move was effective was just as vital
as the actual move itself. And here was the difference between the Undertaker
and every other performer on the roster. The Undertaker didn't sell. There was no visual indication that his opponent's
moves were having any kind of real effect on him, and it made the character feel eerily indestructible, never more palpable in the moments of his eerie sit-up,
a move directly inspired by Michael Myers, in which the Undertaker would be on the receiving end
of a devastating piece of offense, only to rise back to life. The sit-up was a trademark of any Undertaker match; the moment his opponent's momentum was broken, and they'd remember they were in the ring
with the Deadman. If that sounds silly, it kind of was. On the surface, there's so many things about
The Undertaker that were campy and overly theatrical. This was, after all, an undead wizard, who, for whatever reason, had decided to join
a professional wrestling organization. But it was also so much fun. Seeing other wrestlers interact with The Undertaker
was the bizarre highlight of any show. The nature of the character meant that WWF
could be more creative and original with the storylines featuring him. And those stories only grew more strange
and entertaining with the addition of the ghoulish Paul Bearer,
The Undertaker's manager, who would carry to the ring a magical urn, which reportedly was the key to The Undertaker's
supernatural power. And yes, that is ridiculous, but just listen to how much fun the two would have
in their promos: Bearer - Jaaake the Snaaake Roooberts! Bearer - The clock on my embalming room wall
is ticking dooown! Bearer - Only three weeks awaaay to Wrestlemania! Taker - Now the running's over. Taker - Now... Three weeks. Taker - You meet the Reaper at WrestleMania. [funeral bell] If this is all starting to sound a little close to parody,
well, it could have been. But the thing that kills me about The Undertaker
is that it never actually felt that way. The Undertaker's gimmick should have been a joke. It should have been a disaster, one that disappeared
with all the other novelty gimmicks of the 90s. But it never did. And the reason for that was Mark Calaway himself. For a gimmick to really work, it's vital for the wrestler to
embody their fictional persona in everything they do. And this was the life that Calaway brought
to the Deadman, and what separated him from every other
wrestler at the time. Here was the Undertaker, a character who spoke
slowly and quietly, whose every move felt careful and considered. He was a 300-pound man who could fly through the air,
balance on the top of ropes, and slow matches down to a crawl, and yet you couldn't look away. There was a brutal grace to how Mark Calaway
embodied The Undertaker, and it let you believe he was real. There's an interview with the wrestler Gregory Helms
I really like where he talks about how Calaway once discussed how a wrestler should always wear
his title belt around his waist and make it a part of him, but that The Undertaker only ever carried titles
in his hand, because The Undertaker's character was
unconcerned with earthly things. And it's such a tiny detail, but it shows you the level
of thought Calaway was putting into his character, which in turn made that character real for the audience. And so fans believed in The Undertaker, and those reactions are what propelled the character
to the very peak of the WWF, and on his way, devouring legends like
Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka and Jake "The Snake" Roberts, even scoring a rare pinfall win over Hulk Hogan. And so, The Undertaker's legacy began. In the years that followed, The Undertaker would be part of some of the most
memorable and shocking matches in history, none more so than his brutal encounter with Mankind
at 1998's King of the Ring; the image of Foley plummeting off the roof of the cell
etched into wrestling history forever. Not all Undertaker storylines were good,
or even made sense, but what kept the Deadman relevant was his ability
to constantly reinvent himself. Depending on what part of the Deadman's career
you focus on, he could either be a mournful force of karmic justice striking down the evil that plagued the world
of professional wrestling, or a satanic leader of a cult who, I shit you not,
would sacrifice other wrestlers, making them part of his Ministry of Darkness. He even spent three years riding a motorcycle
to the ring, changing his entrance music to Limp Bizkit's "Rollin'", and somehow he got that over with fans, too. His ability to adapt and reinvent himself was part of why The Undertaker enjoyed
so much longevity with the WWF, but there was another reason, too. Everything we've talked about up until now was about
maintaining the illusion of The Undertaker. But behind that illusion, there was the actual person;
Mark Calaway. and the strange thing about Calaway is that
despite having 27+ years in the industry, It's rare to find anyone in the world of wrestling
who has a negative thing to say about him. And if you're unfamiliar with the backstage controversy
and politicking of the business, that is exceptionally rare. He's known as someone who would frequently
put the business ahead of himself, often giving advice to younger wrestlers, and using his own position within the company
to try and raise them up. And if you look at Calaway's championship runs,
this tracks. His title runs were never very long, often losing championship matches to younger talent
in an effort to raise their profile with the audience, something many of his contemporaries refused to do. Or, as former WWE wrestler Ken Anderson put it: This section is not meant as an endorsement
of Mark Calaway the human being. I don't know anything about the man personally,
and honestly, I don't really care. But what I do know is that the world of wrestling
can be a cruel and ugly place, one that brings out the very worst in people, the history of which is littered with men and women
consumed by their own demons. And I think it's awesome that The Undertaker
was never like that. That he chose to help those around him
rather than tearing them down. And to me, that's just as much a part of his legacy
as anything else. And so you had The Undertaker. A character loved by fans, and a man respected
by his peers. But over the years, something unusual
started to happen. Different stars would come and go,
but The Undertaker never did. He could disappear for months at a time, but he'd
always come back, year after year, and as the decades went by, he started to feel like
this ethereal, eternal part of wrestling. Even in the years I kind of fell off wrestling, I'd always tune back into WrestleMania just to see
what was happening with the Deadman. And there was a kind of comfort to that. No matter what else was going on in your life,
whatever changes you were experiencing, The Undertaker was always there. I can remember watching Undertaker matches
when I was learning to read, when I graduated college, and even when I started making YouTube videos. And the thing was, just as I was growing
and getting older, so was he. He was a fictional persona, but he was also
a real person. I've sat in arenas and watched The Undertaker. I've shared a physical space with this fictional character, which in some small way makes me feel like
a tiny part of his story. And after decades, it felt like that was a story
that would never end. And it was that feeling that led to "The Streak". The Streak began in 1991 at WrestleMania VII, as The Undertaker scored a decisive victory
over Jimmy Snuka. WrestleMania is the biggest night of the year
in wrestling. Known as the Showcase of the Immortals, it's where
every major storyline of the year concludes, and as the years rolled by, a pattern started to emerge. The Undertaker had never lost at WrestleMania. In fact, come WrestleMania XXI, 14 years later,
he'd gone 13-0, making the streak a testament to the enduring
long-term relationship he'd built with the fans, but also something else. It was a prize to be claimed; more valuable than any title. The one who could finally end the streak
would himself become a legend. And so each year, a new challenger stepped forward, and each year, after a brutal struggle, they'd be sent hurtling back into the abyss, in the process making for some of the
greatest matches in wrestling history, such as his WrestleMania XXV showdown
with Shawn Michaels, seen by many as the best match WWE has ever done. But personally the match for me that really
exemplifies The Streak is his brutal showdown with Triple H
at WrestleMania XVIII. This was the third time that Triple H had attempted
to break The Undertaker's streak, and at this point, both men were in the twilight
of their professional wrestling career. Both had achieved every accolade imaginable,
and so all that was left was this war for legacy; Triple H obsessed with being the one to finally
shatter the streak and cement himself as the greatest of all time, and The Undertaker fighting to keep that legacy alive. And what unfolded was nothing less than a war; the two men destroying each other in a violent,
emotional encounter that is honestly a little difficult to watch. You can see the welts and scars the match has left
on both performers, both of whom gave everything they had to tell
the best story their bodies would allow, concluding in this beautiful moment when Triple H
realizes he cannot and never will beat The Undertaker, and in one final moment of defiance, like everyone
that came before him, is sent plummeting back into oblivion; The Undertaker going 20 - 0 at WrestleMania. After the match, the two men leave arm-in-arm. The war for their legacy is over. There is no animosity left between them. I really hope I don't sound like a crazy person to the non-wrestling fans who have made it this far
into the video, but I think this was a really powerful story being told. One of the most terrifying things about achieving
success in a public space is not knowing when your time will come, not knowing when you'll lose relevance and cease
being what you are. And that to me is the story of The Streak. Every year The Undertaker is getting older, while his opponents were only getting younger
and more ferocious, and every year you'd watch this legend cling to
the legacy that made him what he was. And it could be so close, for a moment you'd think
it was over. But it never was. The Undertaker was still immortal. He was still the Deadman. And nothing could ever break that. Enter Brock Lesnar. Brock Lesnar made his 2012 return to WWE as
one of the most legitimate fighters on the planet, having defeated Randy Couture for the real-life
UFC Heavyweight Championship, and in the years that would follow, he'd prove
a devastating, terrifying competitor, leaving opponents in macabic pools of blood, even destroying John Cena in one of the most
brutal, one-sided title matches in history. But now The Beast Incarnate had set his eyes
on a different prize. He'd set his eyes on The Streak. But surely it wouldn't matter. The Streak could never be broken. ...Right? ...Right. The Undertaker gives the match everything he has. Every possible strategy, every angle, every move. Nothing works. Until finally... Announcer - Brock Lesnar into the cover! Announcer - Has the leg! The Streak... [bell rings] Announcer - ...is over. It's over. The Streak lies in ruin. The Undertaker has lost. I want you to watch this moment again, but this time,
keep your eyes on the reaction of the fans, and look at the expressions on their faces. This isn't surprise at an unexpected outcome. This is something more. This is heartbreak, and accepting something
no one wanted to accept. That this was the beginning of the end
for The Undertaker. Three years later. April 2nd, 2017. Camping World Stadium, Orlando, Florida. WrestleMania XXXIII. The Undertaker faces Roman Reigns, the divisive
rising star of WWE, and new face of the company. The two battle back-and-forth as the Undertaker,
now over 50 years old, struggles to keep up with his younger, more dominant
opponent. And then... something happens. The Undertaker attempts his trademark sit-up. But as he does, decades of matches and pain set in, and he collapses to the mat, exhausted. It's hard to convey the gravity of this moment. This is a move The Undertaker had performed
hundreds of times over the course of his career; a trademark reminder that he was the Deadman;
that he was something beyond human. And what killed me about this moment was it was the first time he had ever felt human. And in that instance, I knew. This was it. This was the last match of the Undertaker. The Undertaker would return for guest spots
in the years that followed, but for me, this was the moment that was the end
of a story I had been experiencing my entire life. And whether that was the story of the fictional persona
The Undertaker, or the actual person, Mark Calaway, it didn't matter. The two were indistinguishable at this point. Ending a narrative 26 years in the making, One about the creation of a legacy, the struggle to keep that legacy alive, and finally, knowing when your time has come. And that's a story the experience of which I think
I value more than I could ever possibly convey. If you're not a fan of wrestling, you'll never experience
The Undertaker's story the same way I did: As a constant, ongoing, real-time narrative over decades. It's already too late for that. But what I want to convey with this video is that
it doesn't matter, because this is just one story in the world
of professional wrestling, and dozens of others are unfolding right now,
right this minute. The fall of Kazuchika Okada. The rise of Becky Lynch. The ongoing saga of the Golden☆Lovers. It's stories like these; these real, unreal stories,
that are the reason I love professional wrestling, and the reason I always will. Friends, thank you for watching my video. and particularly, if you do not care about wrestling at all, thank you so much for sticking around to the end
of this one. If you enjoyed this video and want to help me
make more like it, you can support the channel over on Patreon
at patreon.com/supereyepatchwolf. And thank you so, so much to the people there
who support me, and make putting a month into a crazy project
like this possible. A special shout out this week to: You can also find me on Twitch at twitch.tv/supereyepatchwolf, hosting the Let's Fight a Boss video game podcast, or on Twitter, @eyepatchwolf. Friends, take care of yourselves,
and i'll see you next time.
He did another video about wrestling that’s really great too! I hope this could be the start of a series where he covers other people careers
SuperEyepatchWolf is one of the best advocates for all of wrestling. I just want the Trinity coming together with Super eyepatch, Showbuckle and the return of Realneatpuro.
Excellent video.
It perfectly summarizes the one aspect we share about The Undertaker- one of the last remaining links to our past fandom.
SuperEyePatchWolf is a saint and likely the sole reason I sell any wrestling based merch and prints in the local comic Con scene haha.
No one used to be interested in my wrestling stuff at the local Irish cons till his first video on wrestling, then suddenly all his fans got into it and spread it among their fans and I legit get told a lot they got into wrestling cause of johns video.
Dudes really nice too, always makes time to go around and chat to everyone.
I'm a simple man, SuperEyepatchWolf posts get upvotes
Excellent video essay, perfect summary of the necessary information told in a compelling way.
This was an incredible video, and seeing this really meant a lot to me. Especially the part about time, and The Undertaker being a constant through big moments in the video creator's life. As a fan in my late 20s who has grown out of love with wrestling a bit, especially WWE, this really put things into perspective to me. I'm going to Mania this year for the first time, after years of dreaming about it as a kid. It's something that always felt unattainable. But now that I'm a little bit older, and a little more withdrawn from it, something about seeing this has made me more excited than ever to go.
Thanks again Woolie for creating SuperEyepatchWolf.
That was great -- I only wish he had spent another 3 minutes talking about the gravity of that loss to Roman a bit more.
LIke, there were stories and stories from people posted on twitter of how influential the undertakers presence was to them.
Or how after the match, Roman won -- but left the ring to the undertaker, who in his 20+ years in the business rarely broke kayfabe, got up and walked over to kiss his wife, before leaving up the ramp and disappearing into smoke.
how leaving his gloves and attire in the ring caused people to tear up (i know he mentions it in the onset of the video, but it woulda hammered the point home to how much his presence meant to everyone in the audience again). IDK, I was one of those people shedding a tear at the end of the show, it woulda revivified that memory again