I’m not sure I can recommend Glow (Netflix) in a Catholic publication, but if they could only bleep out the swears and censor the rude bits, I’d be very happy to do so. It addresses a mystery that’s foxed me for years: what the heck is pro-wrestling?
Our heroine, a mediocre Hollywood actress, attends a mysterious audition in a gym. Out strolls Sam Sylvia, a weary producer with a dead hamster on his lip. He declares: “Well, I said I’d try anything, so here we are.” Turns out this is a casting call for Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling: think Hulk Hogan in a push-up bra.
The ladies are told they will be wrestling (sexily) for a TV audience, which prompts our heroine to ask: which is it? Are we actresses who can wrestle or wrestlers who can act?
Search me. I know that the WWF is staged. Those big men called Thor and Panther tear off their leotards in anger, but the acting is so bad that I’ve always assumed they were, in fact, wrestlers. Unless they went to RADA and specialised in breaking chairs over each other’s heads: “Feel the anger, darlings. Be the chair … ”
Whatever it is, it’s unreal – so why is the live audience always so ridiculously into the drama? Because they are Americans? Americans do have an amazing gift for audience participation: I have actually seen one shout “Go for it, buddy!” at a mime.
Pro-wrestling was also very much an Eighties thing, and Glow makes the most of its Reaganite setting. The hair is huge and make-up loud – the ladies look like they’re ready for battle before they throw on their wrestling personas.
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