The Wrestler's Motif
The Undertaker’s WrestleMania 29 Entrance
Every wrestler is a motif.
The more well-thought out and well-executed the motif, the easier it is for that wrestler to connect with an audience.
(Before going any further, it’s useful for you to know that a motif is a recurring theme in narrative. It’s an idea like “what is justice?” examined by characters in a story or by the author of a novel or the director of a film, etc.)
The wrestler has many tools at their disposal to articulate their recurring theme. Let’s focus on six: the wrestler’s name, the wrestler’s attire, the wrestler’s entrance music, the names of their signature and finishing moves, the wrestler’s gestures, and the wrestler’s catchphrases.
There is perhaps no motif more consistent than The Undertaker’s.
We begin with the name because the name usually tells us a lot about the character and, ultimately, determines what attire they’ll wear, what music accompanies them, what their moves will be called, what their gestures will be, and the syntax of their promos.
As The Undertaker, he’s a necessarily gothic figure, born of darkness, come to reap the souls of his opponents. The image you form in your mind when you hear the phrase “The Undertaker” is almost exactly what you get when he first steps out from behind the curtain. He rises up from the recesses of a shared consciousness, an understanding of Death as immortal tole taker come to collect. His attire is black, wide-brimmed hat hiding his pale eyes, looking like the undertaker from an old western, as he glides to the ring to a reimagining of Chopin’s Funeral March.
His signature move is the Choke Slam, a literal description of the move but still in keeping with the character’s theme, choking the life out of his opponents before slamming them into an imagined casket. His finishing move is the aptly named Tombstone Piledriver, flipping his opponent and holding them upside down before driving their head into the canvas.
Taker covers his opponent with an iconic gesture (one of the few gestures to require the participation of another character) folding his opponents’ hands across their chest so they look like a corpse in a coffin. One, two, three - they’re defeated/dead. The Undertaker would then kneel, raise one hand, roll his eyes into the back of his head, and stick out his tongue, a haunting, powerful image that perfectly realizes the essence of the character.
The Undertaker victorious at WrestleMania 29.
The Undertaker is, understandably, a creature of few words.
Those few words are, much like “Tombstone Piledriver”, an obvious allusion to the theme of death, “Rest in peace.” This is a perfect catchphrase for the character, concise, imposing and intimately connected with his aesthetic. The Undertaker is such a timeless, powerful wrestler because every facet of the character is consistent across these six tools we’re discussing. These tools combine to transform a fantasy about death into a reality in the wrestling ring. It’s a truly remarkable bit of theatre. While every wrestler can’t (and shouldn’t) be The Undertaker, every wrestler can (and should) learn a great deal from him about articulating a character.
His “gimmick” (pro-wrestling’s word for character/motif) would evolve. In the early aughts he became The American Badass, his hat replaced with a bandana and sunglasses and his slow march traded for a motorcycle ride. He wore a black trench coat and jeans.
The dirge became rap, rock band Limp Bizkit’s Rollin.
He retained the Choke Slam but added The Last Ride, a super power bomb where he raised his opponent up off his shoulders and then slammed them down on the mat. He’d dub the move where walks along the ropes before hammering down on his opponent’s shoulder “Old School”. His gestures changed to be more in keeping with the biker aesthetic. When entering the ring he’d simply raise both arms at each side of the ring ropes, and the crowd would raise their arms along with him. When leaving on his bike after a match, he’d stop at the entrance ramp and raise a single arm high above his head. His catchphrases became “The Deadman”, “Decade of Destruction”, and “I’ll make you famous."
It might sound like a jarring transition if you didn’t experience it, but it was emblematic of the times. The gimmick created a new kind of consistency where everything related to The Undertaker simply meant “badass”.
Eventually, Taker would return to a gothic aesthetic but retain elements of The American Badass, combining every iteration. In his later years he would add “The Hell’s Gate”, an MMA-style submission hold. He would be described as “the best striker” in WWE history, and incorporate more realism into his fighting style. Despite all the changes throughout this evolution, The Undertaker never betrayed the integrity of the character. He was always played, in earnest, whether ghoul or badass or both. This is what makes him such a compelling, enduring character. At every level, using every tool at his disposal, he’s focused on conveying the same concept. His identity, through the sights, sounds, and messages of professional wrestling, is whole.
It would stand to reason then that wrestlers who aren’t successful may not have a character that’s consistent across the six tools. Maybe their name doesn’t jive with their signature or finishing moves or their attire doesn’t reflect their music or maybe their gestures don’t punctuate their catchphrases. Using the blueprint of a successful character like The Undertaker, it’s possible to deduce what might not be working for another.
Let’s take the character of Wardlow in AEW. Everything about Wardlow screams big, athletic badass. His identity is fairly consistent and his connection with the crowd undeniable.
He “got over” (became popular) organically as MJF’s frustrated (and inevitably liberated) henchman.
A perfect example of character-synergy is Wardlow’s “Powerbomb Symphony”. This began as him delivering a single powerbomb, and then the crowd would chant “One more time! One more time!” Eventually, Wardlow started moving his hands in time with the “One more time” chant, looking like he was conducting a symphony. Thus “Powerbomb Symphony” was born, a series of vicious powerbombs that signals the end of a match.
After delivering three, four, or five powerbombs, Wardlow steps on the opponent’s chest, flexes, and scores the victory. The gestures, the call and response, and the names of the moves all coalesce seamlessly into Wardlow’s identify. But what’s missing from Wardlow’s toolbox, keeping him from connecting on an even deeper level?
He doesn’t have a good catchphrase.
Now catchphrases aren’t always necessary. Wrestlers like Jon Moxley or Kevin Owens just talk, usually focused on a particular subject, unbound by catchphrases. That’s their identity. That’s what works for them. So it may be the case that Wardlow doesn’t need a catchphrase. Surely no catchphrase at all is better than a bad one. And, currently, he has a bad one, and it’s actively hurting the integrity of the character. At the end of his promos, he’ll say that his opponent is living in “Wardlow’s world!”
An audience can tell when something is contrived. That’s why the “Powerbomb Symphony” works and Wardlow’s current catchphrase doesn’t. There’s also a very specific reason “Wardlow’s world” doesn’t work. Alliteration is a playful sonic device. It connotes whimsy, designed to be pleasing to the ear and add emphasis to the point of a phrase. What about Wardlow is whimsical or playful? He comes out from behind the curtain to the lyric, “This is war!” as the audience slowly chants, “Ward-low, Ward-low, Ward-low!” He wears a basic singlet, the straps of which he’s fond of taking down when it’s time to powerbomb someone into oblivion.
His catchphrase, or promo terminology, needs to be simpler and more intimately connected to the act that got him over in the first place. Consider the phrase, “One more time…” as the anchor of his speeches. Something like, “And you’ll know you’re done when you hear one…more…time.” This way, the wrestler is a reflection of the crowd and vice versa, building anticipation for the moment Wardlow initiates a Powerbomb Symphony.
These are just two examples of what can be achieved with characterization in professional wrestling.
There are countless more who demonstrate the reliability of the six tools described in this article, as well as those who demonstrate other, more innovative ways of being in pro-wrestling. What might appear merely ancillary can have important ramifications for the trajectory of a character. Each tool is a means of connecting with the audience. So a name, a song, clothing, moves, gestures, and turns of phrase can all have a profound affect on a wrestler’s life.
Choosing the right look or catchphrase is often an iterative process with lots of trying and failing. A wrestler tends to find an affective combination of elements when they decide to play a character informed by their real-world interests or their real-world selves. It’s best not to think of the six tools as a prerequisite to becoming a successful wrestler. They are merely suggestions, avenues of expression to be explored when needed. One of the joys of being a pro-wrestling fan is in watching this process play out on a weekly basis. We see wrestlers find themselves and when they finally lock into a motif that works, we are rewarded just as much as them.
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