Guaranteed Entertainment

One evening in Manhattan's old Hippodrome twelve years ago, Ed ("Strangler") Lewis was trying to pin Lee Wykoff to the mat with some purely scientific holds. It was an honest wrestling match without any phony dramatics. It was also horribly dull to watch. At the end of two boring hours, the Hippodrome was nearly empty --and legitimate wrestling was dead.*

Last week, wrestling was alive, kicking and frankly show business. Are some of the matches "fixed"? Certainly, but not in the sense that some wise guys think.

Today's wrestlers are conscientious showmen who often allow the audience to pick the "hero" and the "villain" after the show begins. They engage in preliminary cuffing and hair-pulling while they "feel out the house" to see what happy ending is desired. One prominent promoter explained last week: "You never know beforehand when you're gonna see a lousy prizefight. In wrestling, we give you guaranteed entertainment."

Timing & Histrionics. In St. Louis, where he packs them to the rafters, Wild Bill Longson demonstrates an experienced actor's adroit timing. Wild Bill knows exactly when a kick aimed at his opponent's groin will bring down an avalanche of hearty boos. His histrionic skill earns him $1,500 an appearance. Barrel-chested Yvon Robert (rhymes with snow bear) has done so well at playing hero in his home town that he is now co-owner in a profitable sideline: a fancy Montreal nightclub called El Morocco. Gargantuan Primo Camera has no particular gimmick, but he is netting more from wrestling (he says he makes $120,000 a year) than he ever did as world's heavyweight boxing champion.

The newest, slickest, most popular performer of them all is a man who calls himself Gorgeous George. In Hollywood, some bars and grills no longer feature the single word "Television." They put out signs reading: "Gorgeous George, Television, Here Tonight."

Catcalls & Curls. Five years ago, George Wagner was an ordinary wrestler who earned about $100 a match. Now he has an act. Last week, in Buffalo's Memorial Auditorium, 11,845 people waited impatiently for the preliminaries to end. At the cue, the amplifiers blared the Entry of the Gladiators and down the aisle strode James (George's valet) in morning coat, Kelly green vest and tie. He took a spray gun from a silver tray and began spraying the ring (George says that he just can't stand germs). The music stopped and a transcribed voice boomed excitedly: "Gorgeous George is on the way."

Gorgeous, small (5 ft. 9 in.) as wrestlers go, paraded down the aisle surrounded by policemen. His once-black hair is long, marcelled by a beauty parlor and bleached an improbable pale blond. By theatrical standards, his act is too broadly conceived and overplayed--but it goes well in a sports arena. Men jeer him with catcalls and wolf-whistles. When a woman fan heckles him, he retorts acidly: "I told you not to come down tonight, Mother."

With his mincing ways, his curls and his 88 fancy bathrobes, George is plainly a ring villain. His "secret weapon": bobby-pins (he calls them Georgie-pins) which he sometimes pulls from his golden hair and pretends to poke into his opponent's impervious thighs.

All this careful attention to detail brings Gorgeous George upwards of $70,000 a year. He doesn't seem to mind playing his swishy role. But he steps out of character whenever anybody asks nosey questions about his wife and two kids: "Let's leave the better half of my life outa this, yes?"

*Although the death throes lasted for years. The official death certificate had already been issued by the New York State Athletic Commission when it ruled that wrestling was an exhibition rather than a contest.

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