Well Done, Cockroach: “My Dad is a Heel Wrestler” and the Fan Experience

I’m not quite sure what I expected when I sat down in the movie theater to watch “My Dad is a Heel Wrestler,” the new movie starring Hiroshi Tanahashi and a host of other NJPW wrestlers. Considering it had NJPW’s official stamp of approval, I was fairly certain it wouldn’t be pulling the curtain aside to show wrestlers calling their matches and bookers deciding who was going over whom. And it was a children’s movie, so I think I expected it to embrace the simpler, fictional side of wrestling, to be set entirely within the world of wrestling: that the results of the matches would be unknown to the wrestlers and the events in the ring would be spontaneous and un-booked. What I got was, instead, something much more complicated: a movie that embraces the strange twilight limbo of modern wrestling fandom, in which reality and fiction are mingled in ways impossible to untangle. It’s a movie that captures with uncanny, affectionate accuracy not the reality of wrestling, but the reality of being a wrestling fan, with all of its joys and pains.

If you’re an English-speaking wrestling fan, the odds are fairly good you won’t get a chance to see this movie with subtitles, at least not for a while. So until then, if you choose to continue, this review is a spoiler-filled look at “My Dad is a Heel Wrestler”–leaving out a lot of various subplots, but looking especially at how it captures the experience of being a wrestling fan in this modern age.

Ten years ago, the Ace of Lion Pro Wrestling, Takeshi Omura, won the Z1 Climax tournament and a chance to main event for the heavyweight championship. However, shortly after that win, he badly injured his knee. He swore that he would return to reclaim his position as the Ace of the company, but when he discovered that his knee was too damaged to let him do his flashy high-flying moves, he despaired. The doctors told him that he could no longer wrestle at the same level without ending his career, that he could either burn out at the top or stay in the midcard. Too ashamed to wrestle under his real name, yet unable to quit the job he loved, he donned a bug mask and came back as Gokiburi [Cockroach] Mask, a midcard comedy heel act.

And he never told his newborn child what his job was, because he couldn’t accept the humiliation of being a heel and being a… well… a jobber. When his son, Shota, discovers that his beloved father strangles people and blinds them with bug spray for a living, his horror sets in motion the events of “My Dad is a Heel Wrestler.”

“My Dad is a Heel Wrestler” does a few really interesting things right off the bat. The first is that it leaves very much undetermined whether the matches are choreographed, deliberately dancing around in the odd limbo of modern pro wrestling on the topic. We get to see backstage scenes, but we never see any that would settle the issue–there’s no scene where Omura is told how a match must end, for example, but on the other hand, there’s never a moment where Omura seems surprised or disappointed at his failure to win a match. We’re not privy to those key moments from the wrestlers’ perspective; we are limited, even in our glimpses of backstage or home life, to what a fan would plausibly know. What this does is capture almost perfectly the blurry lines that a modern wrestling fan experiences, where we do see backstage, we do see personal lives, but never enough to give the game away.

There’s an intuitive level at which I think we’re expected to accept that the adult fans all know it’s booked and planned, while the children in the movie are unaware of this and take the events in the ring as real. This is supported by the fact that the children never use the word “heel” (the word borrowed from English) to describe a bad-guy wrestler; they only use “warumono,” or “bad person.” The adults, on the other hand, use “heel” when talking to each other (“Why do you enjoy being a heel?” Omura asks his friend and partner, Bluebottle Fly), hinting that they’re acting. The tension between “warumono” and “heel” is the source of the conflict between Shota and his father, as he begs his father to stop being a “bad person” and Omura writhes in agony, wishing he could go back to being the hero his son could be proud of.

(The entire movie could have been wrapped up in ten minutes if someone had just said “Shota, your father is basically an actor.” But that would violate the charming magical-realism vibe of the movie; it would bring the movie down on one side or the other, and its appeal is in keeping that issue unresolved–and indeed, unresolvable, just as it is for us in the audience.)

The second fun thing about the movie is, of course, the cameos. NJPW wrestlers pop up everywhere. Some get extended matches—Trent Baretta wrestles a whole match as “Joel Hardy,” complete with Hardy-style arm-sleeves, and Makabe gets to be “Sweet Gorilla Maruyama,” who is… exactly the same as Makabe. Others flash by—Kojima as a former champion in flashbacks, Kushida as a rising star who gets injured three minutes after we learn his name, and most charmingly, Tetsuya Naito and Hiromu Takahashi coming into a restaurant together only to get shoved aside by the protagonist rushing out the door. “Tranquilo!” Naito scolds, and the audience sighs wistfully at the glimpse of Hiromu. Again, this replicates some of the fun and frustration of being a wrestling fan: delighted at seeing your beloved favorite show up for just a few minutes to support someone else’s story, wishing there would be more.

Now, here’s the third fascinating thing about the movie. “My Dad is a Heel Wrestler” may not be a great movie in the abstract. It’s probably not even a great movie about professional wrestling. But it is a great movie about being a wrestling fan. It gets so many little emotional beats and details right: for example, a moment when Shota has sneaked into his first wrestling show in search of his father. At the halftime intermission, he comes across the champion, Dragon George (Kazuchika Okada), signing autographs. Confused and overwhelmed by the crowds and the noise, Shota stands and stares at this golden avatar. When Dragon spots him, he decides to toss the bewildered child a signed tin of official Dragon George candy. The tin arcs through the air toward Shota in slow motion, glimmering as if it were passing from one world into another, as if it were falling from the heavens into Shota’s hands, leaving him stunned at this moment of connection. From that instant, he’s smitten with the babyface champion. Most of us can remember that first instant, that shock of recognition that I’m in the same world as this demigod, and the movie captures it deftly. We all know how Shota feels, that childlike wonder.

If tiny Shota represents the brand new fan, absolutely certain that what they’re seeing is reality, Michiko Oba stands for the adult fan who cares as much about the real people as the characters. Michiko is a reporter at the local newspaper who lives and breathes professional wrestling. Here’s her face when she discovers, in the middle of her rant about how important the Z1 Climax is, that her co-worker has never even heard of the Z1:

Michiko’s favorite wrestler was Takeshi Omura, and she has been a loyal Cockroach Mask fan for ten long years (because while the children are clueless, the adults all know his true identity), waiting for Omura to rise up in glory and take his place at the top of the card once more as he swore he would. Although she never uses language that would betray the fiction, it’s pretty clear that she’s a fan who pays attention to who’s getting a push, to who’s being buried. When an injury creates an opening in the Z1 tournament and Cockroach Mask enters it, she is overcome with joy, shaking with excitement. Since Omura’s injury, he has never been in the Z1, and now she sees the future unfold before her eyes: this is his comeback story at last. She starts feverishly writing a huge in-depth article about Omura and Cockroach Mask, detailing all of the history, all of the reasons a win at the Z1 would be the capstone and triumph of his career.

“I’ve waited,” she tearfully tells Shota as she tries to explain why she loves the Cockroach despite his bad deeds, despite his losing record. “I’ve waited for Omura! I don’t care how long it’s been, I don’t care that he’s become the Cockroach, I’ll wait as long as it takes until he returns and fulfills his promise.” The scenes where she watches him wrestle, decked out head to toe in Cockroach merch, her face alight with love, are basically sonnets to the passionate wrestling fan.

One great thing about “My Dad is a Heel Wrestler” is that it argues, basically, that there is no wrong way to love wrestling. Dragon George is not revealed to be a secret asshole, and his fans are good people. The only actual villains in the movie are the bullying children who don’t like wrestling—and the promoter, of course, because wrestling promoters are always evil. As long as you love wrestlers, the movie implies, you’re good. But the movie has a special soft spot for a particular type of fan. At its heart, the movie is about the pains and joys of loving the bad guys, the losers, the comedy acts who always seem to take the pin, the aging superstars whose prime is behind them. Underdogs, in all their beautiful variety. This movie is a tribute to the fans who love the potential of wrestling, the anticipation and the hope for a beloved favorite to triumph, as much as they love the peak moments and the victories.

Michiko, our intrepid reporter, our passionate historian of Omura’s life, doesn’t need to learn to love heels like small Shota does. She knows it’s fiction and revels in it: “If all wrestlers were heroes, wouldn’t it be awfully boring?” she says to the baffled and distraught child. But she isn’t resigned to the Cockroach, either; she burns with the desire for Omura to rise up again from the midcard, to take his rightful place at the top of the card. To prove his greatness to everyone. It’s not about the title per se for her, but about seeing Omura–who’s been phoning it in as the Cockroach, dispirited and hating his role for a decade–wrestle at the top of his game one more time. “Wrestling isn’t about winning or losing!” she howls at her co-workers when they mock her for loving the Cockroach. “It’s about perseverance!” (Then she puts one of them in a standing armlock while screaming incoherently, and friends, I have perhaps never empathized with a movie character more).

Even though she says it’s not about the wins and losses, when Omura finally does get his title shot and her co-workers redeem themselves by covering her workload so she can get to the match, she rushes to the arena with her heart in her eyes, desperate to see him rise to the top and win the title off Dragon George. Omura wrestles not as the Ace, but–inspired by his son’s love and the in-depth story of his life Michiko wrote and gifted him with–he comes out as Cockroach Mask and finally gives it his all in the ring. He heels with gusto, but he also breaks out Omura’s daring moves, dazzling the audience. Finally, he gets a chance to do his old finisher, the one he hasn’t done for ten years, a soaring splash called the Fly High. The camera cuts back and forth between Shota and Michiko, their faces ecstatic as he hits the Fly High and pins Dragon George. Dragon kicks out, and Omura goes back up to the turnbuckle to do the Fly High one more time.

Time slows down. The crowd noise fades out as the souls who love Omura leap up in joyous celebration along with him. He lifts into the air, bright against the lights, triumphant.

And then Dragon George jumps up and counters the Fly High with a dropkick. He gives Omura a thunderous Dragonmaker. Pins him. Three count.

Omura loses. He loses, he loses, he loses.

The camera cuts to Michiko’s face as her smile of bright anticipation tightens into a grimace of agony, as her applause stutters to a halt.

She falters, her eyes filling with tears as she sinks down onto her chair. Around her, people celebrate the victory of good over evil, and she sits grieving. It’s a perfect capture of that anguished feeling of utter aloneness when someone bright and righteous has defeated your favorite, and your heart is broken.

And then, an epiphany: her jaw sets and her chin lifts. Slowly, she rises to her feet, applauding with all her might. “Well done!” she calls through her tears. “Well done, Cockroach! Well done!” Because wrestling isn’t about winning or losing, it’s about perseverance, and she and Omura have both persevered and will continue to do so. The audience got to witness the full power of the Ace one last time, and she’ll take that gift.

Well done, Cockroach.

Shota’s journey is a little different from Michiko’s. It’s not his father’s languishing in the midcard that agonizes him–he’s barely aware of what the midcard is–but his father’s status as a heel. Out of the ring, his father is kind, gentle, and altruistic (the first time we see him, as a matter of fact, he’s helping a frail old lady up the stairs):

So why is he such a horrible person inside the ring? Shota just can’t accept it. “I’m ashamed of your job,” he whispers brokenly to his father at one point, closing his bedroom door and leaving Omura bereft. Over the course of the movie, Shota comes to understand that his father is not actually a bad person or a weak loser, learns to take pride in his father’s skill and strength in the ring. During the final title match, he finally throws himself into cheering for his father with all his heart: there’s a beautiful little moment where Omura gets thrown into the chairs and lies on the floor, and Shota stands up and calls out “Get up, Cockroach! Get up!” His tiny voice seems to cut through the crowd noise to reach Omura, who–without directly acknowledging his son–staggers to his feet and keeps fighting.

After the match is over, as Omura limps from the ring in defeat, Dragon George grabs the mic and addresses him: “Hey, Cockroach!” he calls. “Tonight I felt your true power. Yes, tonight I felt like I was almost wrestling the Omura of old.”

Omura freezes on the ramp. He turns around and stares at the young, golden champion. Then he changes back toward the ring, grabbing his signature trash can and hurling it at the champ, spitting insults and clawing at him as the crowd erupts into boos. It’s a moment of sideways triumph for Omura, the moment where he commits fully to being a heel and embracing his role, knowing his son loves him and isn’t ashamed of him.

In the stands, his son jumps to his feet as the Young Lions try to restrain the Cockroach, who is refusing to leave, still throwing trash and abuse at Dragon George. Shota’s throat works. He swallows hard and visibly braces himself.

And then he yells at his father to cut it out and boos him.

As if it were the cue he were waiting for, Cockroach Mask immediately cuts off his attack and turns away, striding up the ramp as the fans rail at him.

Shota’s friends stare up at him. “You… you booed your own father,” one of them says, aghast. “Why?”

Shota smiles. “Because…” he starts, and we cut to a flashback of earlier that day, when he and his mother were talking about the upcoming match.

“And what will you do if your father does something that you really don’t like, that you can’t approve of?” his mother asks.

“I’ll… I’ll cheer him anyway!” Shota says staunchly.

“No, no,” his mother says. “You mustn’t do that. Booing is how we show heels that we love them, you see?” This is the first time in the movie that the word “heel” has been spoken to Shota, and it seems like an initiation of sorts, his entry into the full knowledge that his father’s “badness” is fictional–and so it’s okay to boo it.

Cut back to the present, as Cockroach Mask passes by Shota and his friends, limned by the spotlight, larger than life. “Because…” Shota finishes proudly, his head high, “it’s my father’s job.”

“My Dad is a Heel Wrestler” is a fun movie. It’s a weird movie. It’s a frustrating movie, if you want an answer to the question of whether the wrestling in the world is “real” or not. But just like in our world, you have to be willing to gently put aside that question and embrace the emotion from both levels. The movie is a love letter, clear and eloquent, to the fans who care about the characters and who also care about the actors. By the end of the movie I cared about whether Cockroach Mask–not just Omura the character, but the character he was playing–would ever beat Dragon George. Just like we care not just about whether Kevin Owens will ever beat Braun Strowman, but about Kevin Steen’s status in the company. Just like we care not just about Tetsuya Naito’s character arc, but about the man who played the Stardust Genius and re-invented himself in the face of all the odds. Just like we ache and worry not just for Kenny and Kota as characters, but as real people struggling to balance their emotions and their careers. That strange double-vision, that twinned love at the heart of being a modern wrestling fan.

So here’s to all of them: both the Dragons and the Cockroaches, both the bright and glorious and the unsquashable and unstoppable. Here’s to the underdogs and the monsters, the champions and the clowns, the dastardly and the heroic. And here’s to everyone who loves them, to everyone who cheers and boos from the heart, to everyone who perseveres through it all.

In the last scene of the movie, Omura’s wife looks into their room to find him smiling in his sleep. Lying next to him is a championship belt made of paper and tinsel, flimsy and garish: made for him with love by his son. The only prize he needs now.