The McMahon Family vs Daniel Bryan storyline is just the latest instalment of wrestling storylines inspired by the real-life Montreal Screwjob. John Lister explains how genuine double-crosses have, for better and for worse, been among the most influential moments in wrestling history.
After four consecutive main event spots on pay-per-view, Daniel Bryan has returned to the mid card. As the storyline goes, management figures HHH and Stephanie McMahon have successfully ensured he has not become the face of the company. Although he technically now has two WWE title reigns to his name, Bryan remains some way short of being the top competitor in the promotion. In short, he is not the guy.
In the storyline at least, HHH and company have been manipulating things such that Bryan’s ability to outwrestle his opponents has never paid off with a fully-fledged title reign. At SummerSlam he cleanly pinned John Cena to win the title, a relatively rare outcome for a Cena bout, but moments later dropped the title to Money In The Bank contract holder Randy Orton thanks to a “shocking” turn by authority figure HHH.
HHH went on to explain, at length, that Bryan was simply not suited to holding the title and thus being the face of the promotion. It followed similar comments made by Vince McMahon in the run-up to SummerSlam.
Bryan regained the title at Night of Champions, only to have HHH strip him of the title the following day citing a fast count by referee Scott Armstrong. Although HHH portrayed it as a collusion between Bryan and Armstrong, the storyline implication was that it was HHH who had ordered the fast count as a last resort insurance policy against Bryan being in an unstoppable position to win.
That led to a rematch at Battleground for the vacant title at which Bryan again failed to reach the summit, this time because a run-in by the Big Show attacking both Bryan and Orton led to the show going off air without a finish.
Logically enough that led to a Hell in a Cell bout that theoretically precluded any interference. In fact HHH wound up in the cell and was attacked by Bryan, prompting referee Shawn Michaels to favor his “best friend” over the man he trained, superkicking Bryan and leaving him prey for an Orton victory.
On paper at least, the story is reminiscent of numerous angles by which promoters and other authority figures unfairly attempt to manipulate match outcomes for what they see as the good of the promotion. The idea is that fans can empathise with the babyface because his struggles reflect their own experiences at work where effort and talent are not always the key to success.
In particular, the storyline has similarities to that of “Mr” McMahon’s attempts to wrest the title from Steve Austin in 1998 and 1999, right down to stripping him of the title and then having a match for the vacant title the next month end without a new champion.
That story, as with Bryan’s and many in between is heavily based on the genuine events in Montreal in 1997. Vince McMahon, who really is an authority figure, really did manipulate a match outcome against the wishes of a “competitor”, a move done because McMahon believed it would help the promotion. It was a legitimate event that has significantly changed the narrative options available to wrestling storyline writers, but it is far from the first time that a doublecross — that most fundamental breach of the basis on which the wrestling business operates — has had a long-term effect on the industry. For that we must go back almost a century.
Although there has been some speculation about Frank Gotch taking advantage of an injured George Hackenschmidt in their two famed bouts that arguably kicked off modern pro wrestling, the first widely-accepted double-cross came in 1925. At this stage promoters Billy Sandow and Joe ‘Toots’ Mondt, along with champion Ed ‘Strangler’ Lewis dominated the business and helping popularise the idea of building-up long-term rivalries with the way they booked finishes.
The trio took a chance by having Lewis drop world title to new star Wayne Munn, a successful college football star who’d attracted media attention. Munn was the first major world title claimant without a background in legitimate wrestling, which proved his downfall when he was soundly defeated — against the script — by a 46-year-old Stanislaus Zbyszko, apparently acting at the behest of rival promoters.
It took nearly three years for promoters to settle their differences and clear up the confusion. That fell apart again in 1931 when Lewis pulled his own double-cross, informing reigning champ Ed Don George at the start of the bout that the title would be changing hands contrary to the planned the finish. He famously explained that they could do it “the easy way or the hard way” and the inferior grappler Don George opted for the former option. It was a line that was used in a real sense at least one more time afterwards (by Lou Thesz in 1963 when he finally got a reluctant Buddy Rogers into the ring for a booked title change) and has been used in storyline numerous times in both WWE and TNA.
Karma appears to have been particularly rapid for Lewis, who lost the title to Henri DeGlane in Canada barely three weeks later. While some historians consider the events of the match to have been a worked storyline, others point to it as the original ‘Montreal Screwjob’.
At the time, a two-out-of-three-falls match would see wrestlers return to the dressing room between falls, giving another opportunity to sell food and drink to the audience. DeGlane won a controversial first fall with a disputed pin (which may have been a planned finish). Although Lewis won an equalizing fall, DeGlane then protested to the referee that he had been bitten, showing off teethmarks. The story goes that DeGlane had either bitten himself or had an associate bite him between the first and second falls.
Lewis denied the move but was promptly disqualified and lost the title. Whether or not this was a genuine doublecross, it certainly gave promoters food for thought about the possibility of a title unexpectedly changing hands through similar shenanigans or a (genuinely) crooked referee. As a defensive measure, promoters eventually adopted the custom that a title cannot change hands on a disqualification (nor a countout), something that today is firmly established as a booking tool.
Several more years of confusion finally wound up with promoters making peace and unifying the various title claims, figuring having a single champion would be better for marketing and credibility, particularly given athletic commissions were showing an unwanted interest in the inner workings of the business. Lewis even wrestled against the hugely popular newcomer Jim Londos in a match openly (and falsely) billed as the “last great shooting match in history”, a tactic that capitalised on those fans who believed they had inside knowledge and attracted a then-record 35,000 spectators.
The peace ended in 1936 with the last of the great pre-war doublecrosses. The title unification matches wound up with the belt around the waist of Irishman Danno O’Mahoney, a performer chosen more for his look and ethnic appeal than for his limited wrestling skills. In a match at Madison Square Garden, Dick Shikat took advantage of his own shooting abilities to take the title by force and began offering himself for title defenses on shows run by independent promoters.
Not only did the Shikat title win create mass confusion about the title (the New York Athletic Commission naturally saw no reason not to recognise him as champion), but it blew apart the partnership between promoters. The resulting disputes wound up in an embarrassing court case that revealed secrets about how wrestling really operated. This, combined with previous revelations by disgruntled promoter Jack Pfeffer (who’d been locked out of the main promotional peace agreement), led to a significant decline in the popularity of wrestling across the country, with New York suffering particularly. The Shikat-O’Mahoney crowd was not beaten at MSG for another 14 years.
The effects lasted even beyond the downturn in business, however. While promoters hadn’t learned their lesson with Munn, the O’Mahoney disaster made the point effectively: world champions had to be able to defend themselves against the risk of a double-cross. That meant champions with a legitimate background in amateur wrestling or some form of grappling and submission training. The philosophy was a key part of the National Wrestling Alliance, whose champion toured from promotion to promotion, until the late 1970s.
Legitimate combat techniques were at the heart of pro wrestling’s development in Japan, which has seen its own share of double-crosses. It began with the first two stars of Japanese wrestling, both with a martial arts background: sumo star Rikidozan and Masahiko Kimura, one of the greatest judo competitors in history. Kimura had made his name taking on martial artists from other disciplines and, in 1951, beat jiu-jitsu legend Helio Gracie in Brazil with an armlock that, thanks to this bout, is now known simply as a Kimura. It was the last significant defeat by a member of the Gracie clan in an MMA-style bout until Kazashi Sakuraba began a series of victories over family member in 1999.
When Japan developed its own pro wrestling scene in the 1950s, Rikidozan and Kimura were quickly established as the headliners, most notably teaming against the Americans Mike & Ben Sharpe in the first nationally televised bouts. The stage was set for the pair to wrestle one another in a series of bouts designed to cement both as legends. But while the initial clash in 1954 was booked to be a time limit draw, things didn’t work out that way. It’s not clear if Rikidozan intentionally set out to double-cross Kimura or was simply angered by an accidental low blow, but he unleashed a violent assault including kicks on the ground and concluding with a series of full-force chops to the side of the neck that knocked Kimura out.
Perhaps unsurprisingly there was no rematch and Kimura was relegated to an offshoot promotion while Rikidozan’s Japan Wrestling Alliance became established as the dominant body with himself the star. On the back of the victory, Rikidozan went on to become a genuine icon in Japanese culture: a bout with Lou Thesz was reportedly seen by 87 percent of Japanese TV owners, while a match with the Destroyer had a smaller 67.0 rating but, thanks to population growth, a large number of viewers, reported at 70 million.
Although he died aged just 39 at the hands of the Yakuza (Japan’s equivalent to the Mafia), Rikidozan’s influence was huge: his protoge Antonio Inoki became the next big star and followed the theme of wrestling competitors from other combat sports. For the most part these went to the script, though when Pakistani wrestler Akram Pahalwan tried a double-cross, Inoki was forced to take a legitimate win by breaking his arm.
It was Inoki’s own heir apparant Akira Maeda who pulled off the next major double-crosses, again with major consequences. Maeda had left Inoki’s New Japan group in the early 80s to wrestle in the upstart UWF promotion which favoured a more legitimate looking, martial arts influenced style. When the group folded and Maeda returned to New Japan, behind the scenes tension grew as Inoki refused to allow him to ascend to the top of the cards, despite vocal support from younger fans tired of the same old guard on top.
The problems first started when Maeda refused to co-operate with Andre the Giant, leading to a bizarre, but deathly dull stalemate. The real explosion came in a six-man tag match when, as Inoki colleague Riki Choshu had an opponent in the Scorpion Deathlock, Maeda took advantage and kicked him full-force in the face, breaking his orbital bone.
Maeda quickly departed the group and restarted the UWF with even more of a “shoot style” emphasis, even dropping pinfalls after the first few shows and having all matches end with submission or knockout. It proved an amazing success, with shows selling out in a matter of minutes despite the group having no television, largely because hardcore fans who’d seen the doublecross wrongly believed the Maeda and the UWF were the real deal rather than “fake” pro wrestling.
When the promotion eventually splintered, offshoot group Pancrase began holding legitimate contests under pro wrestling rules, predating the Ultimate Fighting Championship by a couple of months and creating what would eventually become the Japanese mixed martial arts scene, highlighted by the Pride promotion.
The Maeda double-cross and the rise of the UWF had an equally momentous effect on traditional pro wrestling. New Japan’s biggest rival, All Japan Pro Wrestling, had for years relied on cheap finishes such as double disqualifications and double countouts to protect major stars. The success of the UWF, with every match having a clean finish and the likes of Maeda putting over fresh talent, inspired All Japan owner Shohei Baba to change his policy. Not only did main events now have clear winners and losers, but the established main eventers began putting over a new generation, spearheaded by Mitsuharu Misawa getting a dramatic and shocking pinfall victory over Jumbo Tsuruta, then just as surprisingly forcing him to submit in a tag bout the following year. The result was a six year streak of more than 200 straight sellouts in Tokyo, including consistent gates around the $1,000,000 mark at Budokan Hall.
A submission finish was of course at the heart of Montreal, albeit hardly a clean one. For the few who are unaware, the screwjob involved Bret Hart defending the WWF title against Shawn Michaels at the Survivor Series. Vince McMahon had decided the company could no longer afford Hart’s contract and encouraged him to make a deal with WCW, which he had done. That left the issue of when and how Hart would drop the title.
Thanks to a summer-long on-screen rivalry between the US and Canada, and a legitimate backstage rivalry between Michaels and Hart that at one stage descended into a physical fight, with Michaels going on to make clear he was unprepared to lose to Hart, the “Hitman” imposed just two limits on booking (which he was legally allowed to do under his contract terms): he would lose to anyone but Michaels in any location, and he would lose to Michaels at anytime outside of Canada.
McMahon eventually resolved the issue by agreeing to an inconclusive finish in Montreal (either a double disqualification or a no contest), but the match actually ended with Michaels putting Hart in his own sharpshooter hold and referee Earl Hebner calling for the bell (with the vocal encouragement of McMahon) and claiming Hart had submitted.
It didn’t, as some people wrongly recall, lead to the immediate creation of the Mr McMahon character. McMahon actually spent several weeks using WWF television to try to portray Hart as the villain of the piece and himself as justified. Eventually though he embraced the genuine disgruntlement of a large section of the audience and began portraying the malicious authority figure role on TV, meshing perfectly with the rise of the anti-hero Steve Austin to the top spot.
McMahon certainly wasn’t the first heel authority figure — for example, WCW chief Eric Bischoff had turned heel a year earlier — but the run inspired countless imitations, to the point that the role became a cliché. By 2013, when you see such a storyline it’s usually a sign of one of three things: the creative forces have run out of ideas; they began following the business after Montreal and simply cannot conceive of wrestling without a heel management character; or the on-screen character really is in charge and the writers are more concerned with appealing to his or he ego than with putting on a good product.
The case of Daniel Bryan is a rare example of a storyline that failed in two seemingly contradictory ways: it contained too many elements of reality but fans did not believe in it. The latter is an inevitable result of the way the audience is now not only aware (as opposed to merely suspicious) of how wrestling works, but that creative staff pay too much attention to those viewers for whom behind-the-scenes intrigue holds as much interest as on-screen storylines.
The result is that when a babyface is thwarted once or even twice, fans can buy into it as a step in a dramatic journey, aiming their ire at the fictional villains and awaiting their comeuppance. When the babyface is screwed three or four times in a row, the ire turns towards the promotion itself.
The distinction between those two positions can be a difficult one when, as here, the people genuinely in power not only portray the fictional authority figures, but aim to make that portrayal more realistic by capitalising on the audience’s knowledge of their real actions and feelings. That creates a situation where the likes of HHH and the McMahon family can not only dismiss criticism of their genuine decision making, but see it as a sign that their storyline is working because fans are “marking out” for their characters.
In the case of Mr McMahon and Austin, the story worked because it had a rare dose of reality. In the case of Daniel Bryan, it failed because it was too real. Contrary to his on-screen character, McMahon believed in Austin as the top guy in the promotion and wanted nothing more than him to succeed. In the case of Bryan, while management certainly wouldn’t have complained about boosting revenues, making him into a genuine superstar was neither an expectation nor a goal.
That led to ill-conceived and counterproductive storytelling, with the on-screen verbal attacks arguably more a problem than the outcome of matches. While Mr McMahon had plenty of criticism to throw at Austin, it centered on qualities such as rebelliousness, uncouthness and a fondness for alcohol: all factors that the audience of the day was encouraged to see as positives. With Bryan, the repeated jibes about his height, looks and lack of traditional charisma simply drew attention to shortcomings in a way that would have been misconceived even if he had later been portrayed as proving the doubters wrong.
With a genuine double-cross such a monumentally unusual happening, it’s no surprise that such events have regularly had long-term ramifications, but those effects have been a mixed blessing. In the case of Rikidozan and Akira Maeda, cowardly selfishness has led to business booming, sometimes even for rival promotions. Contrastingly some of the 30s double-crosses brought unwelcome attention to the business and led to paranoia:. Whereas Maeda’s actions led to more decisive finishes, the likes of DeGlane led to bookers having more opportunity for lazy, unsatisfying outcomes.
Sixteen years after the event, it’s clear that the changes brought about by the doublecrossing of Bret Hart in Montreal, specifically the creation of the wrestler vs authority storyline as a key dramatic form (alongside traditional tropes such as personal rivalries, avenged wrongdoing and the quest for championship glory) have become a negative.
The fallout of a double-cross has always had a powerful effect on wrestling because it is so shocking. But the fact that Daniel Bryan has become no more of a star after two title wins and several months atop the WWE proves that the artistic legacy of the Montreal double-cross is now so familiar as to be damagingly mundane.
They Too Were Screwed
Gorgeous George vs Don Eagle, 1950
Just three days after winning the American Wrestling Association title, Native American star Don Eagle wrestled George in Chicago. Apparently encouraged to do so by Fred Kohler, a promoter in the area who felt rivals were encroaching on his territory, George gripped Don Eagle tightly for an unexpected three count. Although George never appeared with the belt nor was billed as the champion, his subsequent defeat by NWA champion Lou Thesz helped spell the end of the original AWA title as a major championship. Some historians remain suspicious the entire scenario may have simply been a storyline, but Kohler later told a wider Justice Department investigation that he had indeed ordered the doublecross.
Mick McManus vs Peter Preston, 1967
As previously discussed in the pages of FSM, Northern based promoter Norman Morrell encouraged Preston to make a name for himself in a TV match at Lime Grove, requesting only that McManus be left in good enough shape to make his scheduled dates. Preston took full advantage, repeatedly blocking McManus’s attempts to score an equalising fall. A frustrated McManus eventually resorted to a low-blow to ensure his unplanned defeat — his first ever on the small screen — would be mired in controversy.
Spider Lady vs Wendi Richter, 1985
Formerly the darling of the Rock ‘n’ Wrestling era, Richter had fallen out with Vince McMahon and company over a contract dispute. Richter became suspicious when she got into the ring and quickly realised her masked opponent was in fact former long-time champion the Fabulous Moolah. That suspicion proved justified when Spider Lady locked in a tight small package and, despite Richter legitimately forcing her way out, the referee continued counting to three. Richter left Madison Square Garden that night and did not return to the promotion until her Hall of Fame induction 24 years later.
