For those of us for whom wrestling means memories of Kendo Nagasaki grappling in front of salivating grannies on a rainy Saturday afternoon, the World Wrestling Federation, with all its attendant camp hooplah, may appear to be a "sport" populated by lunatic egomaniacs intent on enacting bizarre S&M fantasies in front of an audience of whom a fair proportion are bedding their own cousins.
But Saturday Night Live writer Blaustein's sensitive documentary reveals the human beings behind the brawling, a set of alternately desperate, damaged and, in one case, surprisingly well adjusted performers who, like the stars/victims of the old Hollywood studio system, swirl round the edges of celebrity after the ruthless machine that is WWF slams them to the mat for the last time.