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WrestleMania IX: Building a Spectacle, the latest WWE-produced documentary now streaming on Peacock, is an interesting deep dive into WrestleMania IX, making a new case for its importance in the pantheon of WWE history.
Not as monumental or beloved as other WrestleMania installments, WrestleMania IX featured uneven match quality, bizarre creative decisions, one of the worst Undertaker WrestleMania matches, and an over-the-top Roman theme. Indeed, WrestleMania IX is probably remembered more for its aesthetics than its substance. But this nearly two-hour documentary challenges that perception by revealing how much blood, sweat, and chaos went into transforming a Caesars Palace parking lot into the world's "largest toga party."
Clocking in at 1 hour and 48 minutes, the documentary is more than just a nostalgia trip. It’s a surprisingly candid, often funny, and occasionally poignant look at a moment when the WWF (now obviously WWE) was caught between eras—desperately trying to move on from Hulkamania while still being tied to its shadow. It's the story of WWE trying to spread its wings and truly go for an over-the-top theatrical presentation in a way it had never attempted before, not even with Hollywood celebrities tied into the Mania DNA.
For all the debate about who should’ve held the belt or why certain matches flopped, Building a Spectacle is at its best when it's not about the matches at all. Instead, it shines when spotlighting the men and women who worked tirelessly behind the scenes to build the most visually daring WrestleMania up to that point.
If there's a central thesis to this documentary, it's this: WrestleMania IX was not just a wrestling show—it was a turning point in how WWE approached large-scale production. Shot outdoors in the shadow of Caesars Palace in Las Vegas, the event marked WWE’s first open-air WrestleMania. With no precedent, the team faced an avalanche of challenges, from unpredictable acoustics to animal wrangling.
The footage is gold—production meetings, ring ropes being taped black and gold to match the motif, Bobby Heenan preparing to ride a camel backwards while in full toga regalia, Bam Bam Bigelow palling around with an elephant, actors cast as Cleopatra and Caesar, and perhaps most hilariously, the worry of The Undertaker that his supernatural character—so perfectly crafted—was about to be ruined. Not at the hands of Giant Gonzalez, but by a vulture being used for his entrance—because if it poops on The Undertaker, it's all over.
The documentary captures it all, showing the sheer madness of putting together a show this outlandish in a time before advanced graphics, drones, or LED screens became commonplace. '
For once in a WWE doc, the stars are not the names who have ascended into the WWE Hall of Fame. Nope, it's the grunts who did all the work allowing the talents to even have a stage to get into and ropes to bounce off. It's the lighting technicians, directors, producers, set builders, production managers, and Caesars Palace staff who worked around the clock to pull off a live broadcast in a literal Roman-themed parking lot. Bruce Prichard recalls, “We really were like a family,” as they noted that everyone pitched in on everything no matter their responsibilities. That sense of camaraderie comes through clearly and gives the film its emotional heartbeat for the first half.
The film focuses on the partnership between Caesar's Palace and WWE, bringing lots of execs from that time period from each company in for memories and stories that range from talents being given money to gamble to create a stir at the casino and what happened when the casino listed WWF bets "for entertainment only" publicly. It also dives into how different the wrestling and boxing audiences were live and how Caesar's and WWE execs had to jump in themselves to help rip tickets to get fans into the makeshift venue in time. There's also a great story about what happened when VIPs didn't arrive in time for the start of the show - and the insane request that was made after the show was on the air. These nuggets added some fun insights into the show.
Of course, the documentary doesn't ignore the PPV broadcast itself. The last third of the film shifts toward a more familiar retrospective format, as the wrestlers discuss their performances, creative direction, and how things unfolded both in front of and behind the curtain. Some are brutally honest. The Undertaker admits that his match with Giant Gonzalez was beyond rough. Bruce Prichard echoes the sentiment, admitting it simply didn’t work and there are still days Undertaker won't speak to him for booking that feud.
Shawn Michaels reflects on his Intercontinental Title match against Tatanka, noting how different outdoor acoustics impacted crowd reaction. Lex Luger speaks fondly—if a little wide-eyed—about his official in-ring WWF debut as “The Narcissist,” recalling how a spot with Mr. Perfect went awry when Curt Hennig forgot a sequence mid-match.
Bret Hart, as always, provides the most emotionally resonant reflections, saying that losing the title to Yokozuna—only to have Hulk Hogan immediately win it seconds later—was the most betrayed he ever felt by Vince McMahon. Yes, even more than Montreal. Let THAT sink in.
This part of the documentary may be more traditional, but it’s made better by the unique personalities involved. Whether it’s Rick and Scott Steiner discussing their match against the Headshrinkers, Rikishi (Fatu) looking back at what being in the main event meant to the late Yokozuna or Kofi Kingston and Sam Roberts offering modern reflections on the 1993 broadcast, it’s a healthy blend of old school and current day voices.
The doc also digs into the persistent rumor that Randy Savage gave Hogan the black eye he sported at the show. Hogan, predictably, denies it—saying it was a jet ski accident. Brutus Beefcake backs that version up, but the reactions from others, including Scott Steiner and longtime WWE ringside fan Charlie Adorno, are priceless. “Macho Man did it,” Charlie shrugs, “but I can't prove it.” Steiner says that he heard directly from Savage that he was responsible. Hogan claims he never fought Randy. The fact that the documentary even addresses this long-standing urban legend earns it points for transparency, although its glossing over of why Hogan disappeared in 1992 does hurt it for those who know the story of that era's WWF scandals.
The film also touches on the backstage unrest around the creative decisions at the time, especially Hulk Hogan winning the belt and killing the momentum of Bret Hart and Yokozuna at the same time. Wrestlers including Savage and Bret were openly unhappy about the direction of the title picture. That kind of candor—rare in WWE’s often self-congratulatory documentaries—adds needed weight to the narrative.
One of the standout moments comes near the end, when the documentary freezes on a frame from backstage footage of Howard Finkel doing an interview. In the background: a young usher in a green Caesars Palace polo shirt. That usher? Nick Khan, the current WWE President. The clip is presented as a powerful example of how WWE’s ecosystem has always had room for dreamers—whether they were in the main event or just helping fans find their seats.
There’s a similar moment with Charles Wright (Papa Shango), who talks about how much it meant to him to wrestle on the show—even if it was in a dark match no one saw on the PPV broadcast. His family was there, and so were his people. He was from Vegas. “That’s all I wanted,” he says, with a smile that says it all.
If you come into Building a Spectacle expecting another WWE-produced highlight reel, you’ll be pleasantly surprised. It’s still polished, sure—but for the most part, this is no propaganda puff piece. It’s earnest, detailed, and genuinely funny at times. There are a few factual stretches (Brutus Beefcake didn’t retire right after this, although he says this was his last WWF match), and some names—like Luna Vachon—are mysteriously absent from being mentioned even when she's on screen during Michaels vs. Tatanka. Nothing is ever perfect, but the heart of the film is certainly in the right place.
For longtime fans, the true joy will likely be the never-before-seen backstage footage—talents awkwardly wondering why they are being filmed, Gorilla Monsoon and Randy Savage, among others, joking around, crew members hauling statues and setting up props. It’s a rare look behind the curtain that captures a moment in time when WWF was still evolving, still rough around the edges, and still figuring out what it wanted to be during a transitional period where Hulkamania wasn't good enough anymore, but the company wasn't yet ready to truly bet on Bret.
If WrestleMania III was the moment WWF proved it could fill a stadium, and WrestleMania X was the moment it ushered in a new generation, then WrestleMania IX was the messy, wild, wonderfully weird bridge between the two. This documentary finally gives it the credit it deserves—not for being perfect, but for trying to do something different—and certainly reshapes the narrative of what that event meant to WWE history.
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