This was probably the last moment wrestling sports entertainment fans remember from The Before:
Edge/Adam Copeland was forced to retire from wrestling in 2011 after neck injuries and a spinal stenosis diagnosis. WWE managed to do an exceptional job — broken clocks, blind squirrels and the sort — keeping his return at the 2020 Royal Rumble secret, hence one of the loudest crowd pops in recent memory.
From there, Edge renewed an old feud with Randy Orton, got his arm ripped up at Backlash, returned in 2021, won that Royal Rumble, hung around the main event echelon, feuded with Roman Reigns, Seth Rollins and Miz and even popped up in NXT a handful of times to cut some promos.
I’ve written about heels and faces here before: the kid in me still can’t help but root for the babyface, while the late-teenager/young adult in me has learned to love to hate wrestling’s bad guys. Edge’s return, not entirely unlike Daniel Bryan Danielson, the grayed beard, everything was set for a run as WWE’s elder statesman. Referencing his past as an opportunist, even leaning into some of that guile as part of his inmatch storytelling, made for a compelling, full-circle character.
Last month, Edge — who spent a good portion of his salad days as a heel — turned as part of a switcheroo with AJ Styles (himself a heel for way too long) setting up their match at Wrestlemania.
A week later:
*fart*
Granted, Edge’s promo-cutting and legitimate acting chops are on display, but this is the flattening of a nuanced character with a complicated past. And this is WWE creative on full display: taking developed characters — even characters drawn in large part from their real-life sitz im leben — and steamrolling them into cold and/or crazy villains.
Bear in mind that this is the same Edge who was part of a storyline with Rollins just a few months ago that involved Rollins’ knock-off Riddler with Joker’s cackle invading and roaming around the Copeland residence. Of course wrestling storylines and angles aren’t supposed to make sense, but even the second, willing naievete of an experienced wrestling fan is challenged to make the logical leaps necessary toward narratival coherence.
Edge’s run (at least up to recent developments) reminded me of Clint Eastwood’s Will Munny in Unforgiven — the viewer waits the entire film for Eastwood’s penitent protagonist to tap into that which built Munny into a Wild West legend. When the scene is over, so too is the legend. Evil destroying evil in the way that only evil can. The man remains haunted by his sins but is no longer bridled by it.
But we’re not talking about big screen icons or Campbell’s hero’s journey. We’re talking about professional wrestlers and, if anything, wrestlers and their bookers are utterly unable to help themselves against their own worst instincts.
Edge didn’t need to turn heel to permit AJ Styles’ return to a babyface persona. It does not make the story more compelling, quite the opposite. Those two could have a killer match without pretext and fans could move on to complain about the next match on the card. Ric Flair was a caricature when Shawn Michaels put him out to pasture long after he should have. Hulk Hogan recently said he’s physically unable to wrestle again. No one is asking him to. If Chris Jericho is still wandering around in a sequined jacket sans shirt trying to put people over in 2030, the lament will be the same.
But that’s not Flair, or Hogan or, more to the point, Vince McMahon: it always has to be more. Stupendous, even. And in that blind pursuit of more, fans get less. Stupendous is, after all, an extension of stupid.
If anything, Edge deserves better. So do those who watch.