‘The American Gladiators Documentary’ Review: ESPN Doc Is Entertaining but Evasive
We may live in a post-truth world, but most viewers still settle in to watch documentaries with the assumption that what we’re going to be treated to is at least some version of “truth.” Surely, we think, “truth” is what most documentary filmmakers aspire to.
Perhaps owing to a background that’s in comedy — Lady Dynamite, Comedy Bang! Bang! — rather than nonfiction, Ben Berman doesn’t operate on that level. Berman, who made his documentary debut with 2019’s Sundance entry The Amazing Johnathan Documentary, is more interested in the lengths that people go to avoid the truth. He isn’t angry at liars — he’s not Alex Gibney — so much as he is fascinated with the prevarication itself, not always the motivation for it or the reality behind it.
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Berman’s new film is ESPN’s two-part The American Gladiators Documentary, which airs under the 30 for 30 banner, even though, as the director candidly acknowledges in the credits to the second installment, anybody expecting this to be a “sports” film is likely to be disappointed. Instead, The American Gladiators Documentary is partially an exercise in amused nostalgia and partially an industrious comedic shell game, a director chronicling his own process of trying to make a film that is complicated by his evasive primary subject.
Taken on those playful terms, The American Gladiators Documentary is consistently entertaining across its three hours. Berman has, however, seemingly accepted that because one aspect of his story’s “truth” is unknowable, other aspects of the truth are close to irrelevant, making it a really frustrating piece of journalism. One’s ability to focus on the first (entertainment) will depend on one’s willingness to accept that the documentary isn’t really aspiring to be the second (journalism).
The doc begins with Johnny Ferraro telling his own story, a journey from Erie, Pennsylvania, Elvis impersonator to Hollywood striver to creator of American Gladiators, which premiered in syndication in 1989 and, over its seven-season run, became one of that moment’s most recognizable and beloved (and maligned) brands.
Ferraro traces his version of the story and Berman seems to adhere it, weaving in memories from various producers and pivotal figures like art director and game designer Steve Graziani, one of the men responsible for indelible competitions like Joust, Gauntlet and the insidious Skytrack. Over the years, American Gladiators had dozens of the titular gladiators and Berman has access to some of them, including Deron “Malibu” McBee, Mike “Gemini” Horton, Salina “Elektra” Bartunek and Billy “Thunder” Smith, as well as a handful of contestants, led by Wesley “2 Scoops” Berry.
Ferraro is amiable and forthcoming, except for all the ways he’s clearly evasive. As he puts it to Berman, “Are you gonna tell the right story? Is your vision my vision?”
Berman seems to agree, though he films Ferraro’s interview segments with an eye toward the artificiality of his narrative, placing him in staged environments — a dingy Hollywood-style hotel, walking down the Venice Beach boardwalk, even though Ferraro says he hates the beach. American Gladiators director Bob Levy identifies himself as “one of the Top 10 directors” in television history in terms of “having fun,” but Berman is obviously trying to compete. Then he brings up … Dann Carr.
As fans of the franchise know, Carr — credited as “Dan” on the show, but “Dann” throughout the documentary — is listed as the series co-creator, but one participant after another claims never to have heard of him. What happened with Ferraro and Carr? Why does it seem that Berman has been unable to interview him? And can you tell the story of American Gladiators without Dann Carr?
The documentary, especially in its second half, becomes focused on that last question more, perhaps, than getting a single answer to either of the first two questions. Yes, there are plenty of involved parties featured in the documentary, but beyond just Carr, fans will probably have a checklist of their favorite gladiators who are absent — surely starting with Nitro and Ice.
With Berman as a frequently heard and seen part of the project, it’s a saga as much about the mechanics of telling the story as about the story itself, as the filmmaker seeks a variety of workarounds to his access issues. He tries to track down Carr’s friends and loved ones, but discovers that their stories don’t always line up. He engages in elaborate reenactments to simulate Carr’s voice and weaves in other absent voices through samples from audiobooks and even recordings of unspecified provenance. Without being identical, there are similarities to Berman’s approach on his Amazing Johnathan film, where the limitations of the genre and the limitation of his subjects were probably more interesting to him than the subjects, ultimately.
And the result really is consistently engaging and often very funny, and by making so much of his own journey in the present tense, Berman is smartly able to turn some basic details of his process into narrative surprises. Plus, lest you worry that The American Gladiators Documentary is lost in formal ouroboros, there’s a ton of great footage of buff folks with ’80s hair bludgeoning each other with Q-tips and experiencing gory injuries.
But just because we may never know who created which aspects of American Gladiators and which of those aspects were integral to the show becoming a sensation, and just because Dann Carr is presented as an ostensible mystery who doesn’t necessarily want to be solved, doesn’t mean there aren’t things that we do know about American Gladiators. I wish Berman was as actively invested in those elements.
The available gladiators all tell very candid stories about injuries and steroid use and the subsequent drug addictions that ended careers and, in some cases, lives. Ferraro doesn’t address any of that and Berman doesn’t put him on the spot (and Billy “Thunder” Smith’s 2021 death is barely acknowledged). The available gladiators tell crazy stories about how little they were paid and how they were overworked and exploited. Ferraro tip-toes around that and Berman doesn’t put him on the spot. There’s an audio recording of Lori “Ice” Feterick saying that the show wouldn’t let her bring her girlfriend to events because it didn’t match the producers’ desired family-friendly image, but Ferraro has nothing to say on that subject.
It isn’t that Ferraro has fooled Berman. With cheeky editing and winking chyrons, the director is very transparent in his awareness that his star is a huckster. But he’s amused and distracted by Ferraro, and some crucial questions seem not to even be asked. The biggest, which connects to every aspect of the documentary, is, “Where did the money go?” American Gladiators was a huge hit. Somebody got rich. Was it the studio? Dick Askin, former president of Samuel Goldwyn Television, is a substance-free talking head. Was it Ferraro? If so, the interview subject who defends him with the assessment “Johnny’s never fucked anybody over more than he’s given them …” is bizarrely incorrect and nobody should be taking anything here at face value.
Or maybe that’s the point: American Gladiators was all about style over substance and Berman made a documentary about that disconnect, intentionally putting his own style over a substance that or may not exist. Though I was never less than engaged with The American Gladiator Documentary at its three-plus-hour length, I wonder if I might have been more willing to embrace the approach if it had been 90 minutes without a destination instead.
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