Why are we revisiting American Gladiators now?
Oliver Bateman
In 1989, a reality game show exploded onto our fuzzy CRT television screens: American Gladiators. Today, we have two documentaries that excavate the relics of this cartoonish spectacle, thrusting its tale of muscular men and women in singlets rolling around in big metal balls and hitting each other with pugil sticks back into the limelight. In yet another long moment of national crisis and economic flux, it’s fitting that we’re revisiting an era when many of us began to awake from the American dream into a much cheaper and tawdrier reality.
The American Gladiators Documentary, a three-hour film produced under ESPN‘s 30 for 30 and directed by Ben Berman, focuses our attention on series creator Johnny Ferraro, an Elvis impersonator-turned-TV producer from Erie, Pennsylvania, and his allegedly duped partner “Apache” Dann Carr. Carr, who remains something of a mystery until the latter stages of the film, has had an outsize impact on the world of sports entertainment. The retired union worker and arm wrestling champion already had a major role in Showtime’s 2017 documentary Tough Guys, which describes how he, Bill Viola, and Frank Caliguri pioneered MMA in Pittsburgh in 1970s, and old footage in The American Gladiators Documentary shows how closely the hit TV show resembled the games Carr staged for union workers in Erie in the early 1980s.
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In a stark contrast of perspective, Netflix‘s Muscles & Mayhem: An Unauthorized Story of American Gladiators, directed by Jared Hess and Tony Vainuku, uses its five 40-minute episodes to dive deep into the bruised lives of the gladiators themselves. It’s the story of musclebound men and women who bore the physical brunt of the show, earning less than many professional wrestlers while being denied a share of the show’s merchandising and ticket sales.
Together, these documentaries spotlight the potential and pitfalls of a sport-cum-entertainment spectacle that might have rivaled the UFC had the series made a similar transition from a silly “look-at-this-stuff” freak show into an organized sport. Instead, it became emblematic of a reality television business model that capitalized on ephemeral fame and disposable talent, a harbinger of today’s culture of fleeting authenticity and throwaway creativity.
So, why are we revisiting American Gladiators now? In a digital age flush with overnight celebrities and their transient viral moments, the saga of the gladiators feels uncomfortably relevant. It’s not just another relic from television’s yesteryears but a chilling parable. It amplifies the hollowness of evanescent stardom, spotlighting the pitfalls of an industry ready to exploit ambition and sacrifice authenticity — whether gladiator or influencer or reality star, each can be flushed down the toilet tomorrow with nothing to show for it. Through their tales, we’re confronted with the painful reality of how easily dreams can be snuffed out, trampled under the weight of commercial interests. We’re left hearing just the echoes of what might have been if these gladiatorial games had remained true to Dann Carr’s original vision of serving as a fun summer challenge for steel workers in Erie: an opportunity for the common man to be in the show rather than forced to sit back in front of his TV and see it.
In The American Gladiators Documentary, Berman’s narrative centers on Ferraro and Carr’s relationship, with Carr mysteriously absent till the climax. This absence becomes a narrative challenge as Berman creatively overcomes barriers to access through imaginative reenactments of Carr’s own unpublished autobiography, which an Erie newspaperman assures us is a work of actual genius. (It still hasn’t been released.) When Carr eventually graces the screen, the revelations of his own life unfold. This includes the claim from the huge protege that he had been training to become the first “American Gladiator” before the show’s launch that “Apache” Dann hadn’t given him a dime — this despite the man’s contention that he played his own role in the development of the games.
Where the ESPN documentary spirals into the complexities of authorship and the elusive truth behind the spectacle, Netflix’s take is more direct. Muscles & Mayhem celebrates the gladiators, illuminating their stories with both flash and shadow. It brings back fan favorites like Nitro, Tower, and Laser, shedding light on their struggles with performance-enhancing drugs and the heavy toll of their fame — though people wanting an even darker and more honest look at all of that should read Nitro’s 2009 autobiography, Gladiator: A True Story of ‘Roids, Rage, and Redemption.
Their tales of injuries, romantic escapades, unjust payments, and celebrity without compensation paint a vivid picture of the sacrifice behind the spectacle. These firsthand accounts are tinged with both regret and pride, offering raw insight into the personal costs of public fame. However, these poignant stories are sharply contrasted with the dismissive and often evasive statements from the show’s executives. They seem to skate around the deeper issues, leaning into corporate rhetoric. The resulting dichotomy between the gladiators’ nostalgic reminiscing and the executives’ hollow denials creates a palpable tension that makes the documentary a riveting watch.
In essence, Muscles & Mayhem is a curtain call for these beat-up old gladiators, the swansong of warriors of a bygone era. Their stories come across not just as memories but as reminders of an industry’s exploitation. Modern influencers, armed with social media tools and brand collaborations, lead a precarious existence but retain some power to carve out their legacies via product placements, subscription services, and revenue sharing. Meanwhile, these gladiators, the Saturday morning cartoon heroes of an older age, lacked all such avenues. When the roar of the crowd faded and the arenas emptied, they found themselves navigating the silence, haunted by the weight of obscurity, the pains of their injuries, and the shadows of their past.
Dann Carr emerges as a beacon of resilience amid this narrative. In a world where many of his contemporaries struggle to squeeze the last drops of their fleeting fame, Carr is an image of serene acceptance. Settling in the sunny climes of Florida, far from the frenzied world of Hollywood gladiatorial combat, he exudes stoic contentment. Had his efforts been properly recognized, this man could have been the linchpin in the sports renaissance of the ’90s. Instead, he’s chosen a path of introspection, symbolized by his dedication to curating indigenous art in his residence — a far cry from his lowest moment, when he contemplated murdering former friend Johnny Ferraro because of the perceived inequity of their financial arrangement.
On the surface, these documentaries will strike casual viewers as entertaining time capsules. To some, they will represent a nostalgic sojourn, meandering through the heady days of the American Gladiators era. Yet, it’s crucial to remember that this isn’t merely about reveling in the past. Together, these stories tell a cautionary tale, an unsettling homage to fleeting fame, the unsparing nature of showbiz, and dreams derailed by the precarious economics of cheap television — after all, the contestants and gladiators, like UFC fighters, pro wrestlers, and reality show participants today, can’t avail themselves of union protections or benefits. Set against the tumultuous background of an era when finance capital was bringing recalcitrant labor to heel, these narratives expose the stark realities of missed opportunities and erstwhile glory that inevitably leads into the void.
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Oliver Bateman is a journalist, historian, and co-host of the What’s Left? podcast. Visit his website: www.oliverbateman.com.