Wrestlemania XV's ''Hell in a Cell'' match has just ended at Philadelphia's First Union Center, but the bout isn't over until the loser hangs: As the 15-foot-high chain-link ''cell'' around the ring rises, The Big Boss Man, tonight the victim of the Undertaker's wrath, awakens to find himself tethered to the cage with a hangman's noose, much to the horrified delight of the 20,276 raving wrestlemaniacs in attendance. Is this a blasphemous spectacle of brutality? The downfall of Western culture? Nah, it's just the hottest, most innovative entertainment pop culture has to offer.
In case you haven't noticed, wrestling has come a long way from the days of grunting no-neck bruisers pummeling each other on cheesy weekend-morning broadcasts. In 1999, it's transformed itself into theater-in-the-round redone as 'roid rage, jam-packed with charismatic, monumental players, prime-time-worthy production values, and labyrinthine plot machinations (backstabbing, allegiance hopping, and the eternal quest for title belts) that make Melrose Creek, 90210 look like Teletubbies.
The forces behind these operatic shenanigans are two multi-million-dollar leagues, the World Wrestling Federation and World Championship Wrestling, and one postmodern twist: Contemporary fans are hip to wrestling's fakery, and they revel in it. They're drawn to both choreographed pile driving and the internecine, ongoing story lines that pit rank-and-file grapplers against each other and their evil corporate taskmasters — WWF owner Vince McMahon, 53, and WCW champ/fictional president Ric ''Nature Boy'' Flair, 50. ''It's not just a bunch of men in their underwear going into a ring,'' says McMahon. ''Our stories are far more complex than they ever were.''
Try to keep up: Recently, WCW's ''Hollywood'' Hulk Hogan brainwashed Flair's son, David, into joining his renegade splinter group, the New World Order. Meanwhile, on the WWF, Mark ''Sexual Chocolate'' Henry was bamboozled into receiving an off-camera Lewinsky from a drag queen; and WCW's Big Poppa Pump kidnapped the wife of nemesis Diamond Dallas Page, then returned her by tossing her from a moving limo.
Along with these soapy scenarios — scripted by staff writers and league execs — today's wrestling boasts a new breed of wrestler. More thespian than thug, they include WWF's big, bald finger-flipping maverick, ''Stone Cold'' Steve Austin, 34, and WCW's big, bald Semitic avenger, Goldberg, 32. Together with the rest of the motley ensembles (including WWF's Chyna, Mankind, and The Rock), Goldberg and Austin headline a series of peripatetic live shows as well as 15 hours of TV programming watched by an estimated 35 million a week.
But it's not just the leagues and wrestlers that are different — so are those fans. No longer catering to just hyperactive children and dentally impaired trailer dwellers, wrestling is courting an increasingly sophisticated, upscale audience. Between 1997 and 1998, the WWF, according to the USA Network, has experienced a 156 percent increase in ratings among viewers with four or more years of college, while the ratings among households with incomes of $50,000 or more are up 111 percent. ''They've aimed it at an older crowd,'' says MIT Comparative Media Studies professor Henry Jenkins, author of the essay '''Never Trust a Snake': WWF Wrestling as Masculine Melodrama.'' ''They've created a morally ambiguous universe, with antiheroes and sympathetic villains. It's appealing to a Pulp Fiction crowd.'' Madison Avenue is taking notice; advertisers such as Coca-Cola, Coors, 20th Century Fox, and ABC are now wrestling regulars. ''Fortune 500 companies have awakened to the fact that pro wrestling has an appeal beyond the stereotypes of the past,'' says Burke Stinson of AT&T, yet another blue-chip company diving into the squared circle.
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