There were, in retrospect, so many more things wrong with Chris Benoit than his speaking voice that it seems almost childish to point out just how bad the Rabid Wolverine was on the mic but were not here to talk about the last few days and weeks of his life. From all reports Benoit wasnt much of a talker amongst friends and family either: a mans man and a wrestlers wrestler, he kept his own counsel for the most part. Intense and private, Benoit was a stiff, snug technical wrestler and mat guy, oozing believability from every pore. If you wanted twenty minutes of hard-hitting, credible action, you went to Chris Benoit. If you wanted a sarcastic, charismatic promo, heel or babyface, you went to his best friend Eddie Guerrero. You went to Triple H. You went to Chris Jericho. You went to everyone and anyone, and if there was no one left to go to except Chris Benoit, you went all the way back to Eddie again. Bland, clumsy and sounding overwhelmingly Canadian, Benoit didnt know how to pace a promo, how to hit the right beats in someone elses writing, and his facial expressions looked like someone backstage was operating him with a remote control. It wasnt the content of the promos, either: while some wrestlers falter when acting out a writers lines but shine when improvising, Benoit clearly wasnt capable of putting together his own material either. It just wasnt his thing: with a single-minded drive characteristic of the man, Chris Benoit wanted to wrestle, and wrestle hard and that was it.
Professional writer, punk werewolf and nesting place for starfish. Obsessed with squid, spirals and story. I publish short weird fiction online at desincarne.com, and tweet nonsense under the name Jack The Bodiless. You can follow me all you like, just don't touch my stuff.
