The most essential ability in professional wrestling is the ability to make people care. You can be the biggest wrestler, or the most average wrestler, or the most technically gifted wrestler, but if you can’t make people care then you’re not going to succeed.
Terry “Hulk Hogan” Bollea, who has died aged 71, made people care. In many senses, he was not a great pro wrestler. In the ring, his work was limited, formulaic and unimpactful. On the mic, he was not known for eloquence or wit.
But he made people care. God, he made people care. When he “hulked up”, resisting his dastardly opponents’ blows before leg dropping his way to victory, tens of thousands of Americans would scream as if bearing witness to their nation’s triumph in war. Hogan was the ideal American hero for the optimistic and extravagant ‘80s — a blonde, tanned, pure-hearted, patriotic Adonis.
The wrestling boom of the period was built on his gigantic shoulders. When he wrestled Andre the Giant — a mammoth 520lb Frenchman — on NBC in 1988, tens of millions of Americans were watching.
Of course, the clean image hid some darker facts (in the case of Hogan and in the case of the USA). Hogan’s muscles, like those of many of his colleagues in the World Wrestling Federation (WWF) were built less on taking vitamins and saying prayers, which he encouraged young people to do, but on steroid abuse. Hogan’s wide-eyed and comically unconvincing denial of his drug use tarnished his reputation — and his one-note act began to bore wrestling fans.
But the Hulkster was not done. He left the WWF and joined World Championship Wrestling (WCW). In a shocking and, for audiences, outrageous twist, the ultimate hero became a villain — joining the insurgent faction the New World Order (nWo). The extent to which the fans had loved Hogan ensured that they now really hated him (he faced a volley of trash).
But the 90s were a more cynical time. Villains had an air of transgressive cool. WCW’s viewing figures exploded as Americans tuned in to see who could defeat the charismatic anti-hero. Whether he was “good” or “bad”, Hogan’s look, and his presence, and his sense of what to do to make audiences react made him unmissable.
The last decades of Hogan’s career were more depressing. WCW imploded under the weight of its ageing and egotistical top stars’ complacency and self-entitlement. Hogan had acquired a reputation for being someone who would only work if it was maximally good for his image and his bank account. (Few wrestlers would later have kind words to say about him.) His miserable stint at Total Non-Stop Action (TNA), when he could barely walk and no one wanted to hear him talk, accelerated the decline of his brand.
He was also increasingly known as a chronic liar. Everybody lies, of course, but Hogan lied with unsettling ease and on a bombastic scale. He claimed that he could have joined Metallica, and that he was considered to be the face of the George Foreman Grill, and that Elvis Presley had been a fan of his (Elvis Presley having died before Hogan made his debut).
Being exposed for his apparently prolific use of racial slurs didn’t do much for Hogan’s public image. On the plus side, he did play a key role in bringing down the execrable website Gawker, when they uploaded a sex tape featuring Hogan and his friend’s wife and smugly refused to delete it, prompting Hogan (with the help of Peter Thiel) to sue them. It was a righteous legal leg drop.
But Hogan’s career did not recover. His suspiciously convenient return to public prominence with his noisy endorsement of President Donald Trump alienated much of what remained of his fanbase. His last appearance for the WWF was a lame beer commercial that was greeted with a chorus of boos.
A lot of criticisms will be made of Hogan in obituaries such as this. No honest obituary could fail to make them. It should be granted, though, that Hogan’s flaws when it comes to honesty were hardly exceptional in an industry that is built on make-believe. In professional wrestling, it can be hard to keep your personality and your persona separated. One does not have to excuse Hogan’s lies to appreciate that the carny is a great American archetype.
He was so charismatic, and so committed to his role, that even a glance at his viewers would elicit screams
Beyond this, Hogan’s personal and professional failings cannot obscure his achievements in the 80s and the 90s. He had a phenomenal ability to captivate a crowd — to make people believe that the outcome of a pre-determined athletic spectacle was THE MOST IMPORTANT THING TO HAVE EVER TAKEN PLACE. He was so charismatic, and so committed to his role, that even a glance at his viewers would elicit screams. You can neither teach nor buy that sort of charisma. (Only Stone Cold Steve Austin, in modern times, has matched it.)
It would be easy to remember Hogan as a rather sad figure, lurching from scandal to scandal — or, perhaps, more generously, as the time-worn eccentric who would post inexplicable tweets as if he was an absurdist comedian. But at his most prominent he was the wide-eyed hero wheeling around to face his countless jubilant Hulkamaniacs, who were willing him on — and, through him, willing on what seemed like greatness and nobility. It was a bit of a delusional impulse, perhaps. But at least people cared.
