It’s Official: The Supernatural Has No Place In WWE

Lilly is not just a doll. The play toy of Alexa Bliss is very much capable of murder...

By Michael Sidgwick /

WWE

Wrestling can be what it wants.

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It's an artist-driven industry, or at least it should be. Much of the joy is in the range. Wrestlers working a match with an invisible wrestler or an inanimate object works in a specific, heightened context, so long as that context is outwardly aware of itself. An invisible hand grenade spot worked in peak years Pro Wrestling Guerrilla, and did not jar with the more serious heat angles, because PWG was established as the promotion with an identity of total unregulated expression.

It was the self-styled renegade underground that played with convention because it knew it offered the best conventional wrestling on the planet when it wanted to: taking the piss out of the establishment was equally as potent a punchline as taking the piss out of itself. There was a bratty streak running through Reseda that simply just worked. Similarly, The Japanese Dramatic Dream Team promotion nestles the silly alongside the serious with inexplicable success, possibly because each jarring component is also executed very well.

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Nothing spoils a meta comedy match in a nightclub because it is promoted for the amusement of a drunken, in-the-know crowd. There's no universe to ruin, just a good, ephemeral time to be had.

But WWE?

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