Netflix Made Me Watch WWE — And It’s Betting $5 Billion You’ll Watch Too
My first and only previous experience with WWE was a brief episode in 1990 during which my childhood neighbors, the Broders, recruited me for a letter-writing campaign to lift Hulk Hogan’s spirits.
The “Come Back Hulk” crusade, a mere half-sentence in the wrestler’s 16,000+-word Wikipedia biography, was a staged bit to coax the de facto star of the league (then known as WWF) back into the ring after a man called Earthquake broke his ego and several of his ribs. Its limited real estate in Hogan lore confirms this was just a blip in his and WWE history, but it burrowed into my seven-year-old brain to become its lone point of wrestling reference for decades. I thought of it when Hogan sued Gawker out of existence, when he flashed his Trump-Vance tank top on the RNC stage over the summer and, really, almost anytime I see a yellow Speedo.
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Last night, that touchstone was eclipsed. Netflix compelled me to sit through an entire three-hour outing of WWE flagship Monday Night Raw. And not on my couch, either. For the streamer’s inaugural WWE telecast, the first fruits of a $5 billion rights deal, I attended in person. A love of comped tickets to brand new arenas brought me to Los Angeles’ Intuit Dome, but what kept me there was a sincere curiosity about how easily this wildly popular yet wildly niche spectacle might potentially court new fans.
WWE’s move to Netflix isn’t just another box in the grid of sports rights bingo. It’s part of conscious effort, in wrestling’s new era, to scale its success globally. The massive entertainment sports brand counts an estimated 90 million fans in the U.S. alone, and the possibility of Netflix growing that base among its 282 million subscribers in more than 190 countries is tantalizing for all parties. WWE president Nick Khan said as much at a December preview of the new partnership, touting Raw’s Netflix move as a bid to boost to its “global flair.”
How this and future global live streams will perform abroad remains to be seen. What was evident in the arena on Monday evening is that the Hollywoodification of the WWE is complete. No moment from the sometimes taxing three-hour ordeal signified this shift more than when the WWE’s most successful alum, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, offered the opening remarks. After his slow procession into the ring, where he kissed Endeavor and WWE parent TKO Group Holdings CEO Ari Emanuel on the forehead like Emanuel was a baby on a whistle stop tour, Johnson jokingly threatened Netflix co-CEO Ted Sarandos about buffering.
“If The Rock finds out he was glitched,” said Johnson, pointing towards a box suite as he segued into his WWE third person. “I’m going to go Squid Game on your candy ass.”
No Squid Game-ing was necessary. The telecast, like the streamer’s much riskier Christmas Day NFL double-header, carried on without any of the technical issues that impacted November’s Jake Paul-Mike Tyson fight. And it’s not that this was even the WWE’s first go at streaming. “Premium” events have been hosted by Peacock for a minute. But the WWE’s other broadcasting homes — which also include USA, The CW and, until recently, Fox — do not command the brand loyalty or awareness of Netflix. The Intuit Dome crowd, which leapt at any excuse to cheer or jeer over the course of the evening, illustrated this when roaring its approval for the Netflix “tudum” that kicked off the show. The animated logo of a tech giant elicited actual screams of joy.
Celebrity attendance was a potpourri of wrestling fans and head-scratchers. When the camera panned to the front rows, Ashton Kutcher, Vanessa Hudgens, Macaulay Culkin, Seth Green, Tiffany Haddish, Richard Gadd, Michael Che and Danielle Fishel, the Boy Meets World star whom 50 Cent recently dubbed “fine forever,” all smiled enthusiastically. Kelly Osbourne was also in the crowd — her one-year-old son, seemingly unfazed by the pyrotechnics, in tow.
The match-ups themselves were illuminating. The first, contextualized for me by the patient man in a neighboring seat, was part of a long-standing beef between two members of the Anoa?i family. In WWE world, these men are all cousins from the same Samoan lineage. But they are also engaged in a perpetual beef, fighting over a necklace that, from my row, looked like a chili wreath. The Rock is the most diplomatic of these cousins, so he made his second appearance of the night to present the victor, Roman Reigns, with the necklace.
Another fight featured a love triangle that sort of recalls the Aniston-Jolie-Pitt tabloid drama of the ’00s. The Aniston figure celebrated her win by kicking her “ex” in the crotch. This went over very well, as did a silent Travis Scott who was on hand to play hype man for wrestler Jey Uso.
It’s admittedly a lot to take in for the uninitiated. I’m still not clear on the significance or hierarchy of the gold belts. While one might think that this year’s extended College Football Playoffs would have me sick of listening to Pat McAfee, I wish his ringside commentary had been piped into the room and not just the telecast. Still, most narratives are easy enough to grasp. And when the details get lost between thrown folding chairs, there are cameos, so many cameos. John Cena, the world’s recognizable knee-length jorts enthusiast, was notably on-hand to tease his alleged farewell tour of the WWE and whip up enthusiasm for something called “The Royal Rumble.”
Like The Rock, Cena has had the green light to permanently bounce for more mainstream pursuits for some time. Both men obviously retain a financial stake in WWE success — Johnson sits on the TKO board — but, in the arena, you get the sense that there are other factors preventing them from leaving the nest for good. This audience adores them in a way that those who merely go see their movies will never understand.
Even Hulk Hogan can’t escape WWE’s gravitational pull. Hours after announcing a long term partnership between his former employer and his Real American Beer company — be leery of fake American beers! — the recipient of my early adolescent note of encouragement showed up just before the final match. He was, no surprise, vigorously booed. Some outlets attributed the 71-year-old’s poor reception to his MAGA enthusiasm, but such takes lack the very important context that even this novice grasped hours earlier: These people love to be booed.
Encouraged public admonishment might actually be WWE’s most accessible selling point. What other institution, outside of the British parliament, embraces this kind of heckling? Actors are too sensitive. Conventional athletes are too intimidating. But WWE talent celebrate boos, controlling their volume with smirks and arms raised in defiance, manipulating the crowd like masochistic conductors.
Booing our villains can be just as cathartic as cheering on our heroes. And while I’d argue that the whole operation could do with some liberal editing — truly, it takes these people ten-minutes just to walk into the ring — I get the appeal. And for the legion of Netflix subscribers who now blindly sample whatever pops up in the streamer’s carousel or top 10, I’m guessing a lot of them will get it too.
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