I wonder how many of my readers remember the heyday of Hulk Hogan. In truth, I missed the best part of it myself, partly due to being too young and not having cable.

However, I did get to see some of his later years, and what a showman he was! That’s why I decided to give this a watch.

Bryan Storkel’s four-part Netflix docuseries Hulk Hogan: Real American, released shortly after Hulk Hogan’s (Terry Bollea) death in July 2025, aims to peel back the layers of one of wrestling’s most iconic and polarizing figures. Featuring Hogan’s final interviews, it promises an unfiltered look at the man behind the bandana and 24-inch pythons. The result is a nostalgic, WWE-adjacent tribute that delivers plenty of feel-good Hulkamania moments but often pulls its punches on the controversies, resulting in a glossy, uneven portrait.

The series shines brightest when it leans into Hogan’s larger-than-life persona and cultural footprint. Archival footage of early WrestleManias, the body slam heard ’round the world on André the Giant at WrestleMania III, and the explosion of Hulkamania is pure dopamine for ’80s kids. Those segments capture why Hogan transcended wrestling—he wasn’t just a wrestler; he was a marketing machine who helped turn the WWF into a global juggernaut.

Hogan’s charisma still leaps off the screen, even in his later, frailer years. The home movies and personal reflections add a human touch, showing the Florida musician who became a superstar. Moments like his honest (if self-serving) admissions about backstage politics—such as his role in derailing Bret Hart’s push—provide rare glimpses of accountability. Werner Herzog’s cameo offering philosophical musings on reality vs. performance is a weirdly compelling highlight. For fans craving nostalgia, these elements hit hard and deliver emotional payoffs, especially in the context of Hogan’s passing.

Where Hulk Hogan: Real American falters is in its reluctance to truly grapple with the man’s flaws. It’s frequently labeled a “hagiography” or PR exercise—and for good reason. Darker chapters (the Gawker sex tape scandal and leaked racial slurs, family turmoil from Hogan Knows Best, steroid admissions, and political associations) feel rushed, sanitized, or spun in Hogan’s favor. The series avoids deep dives into specifics, omits key voices (notably a full Vince McMahon presence, despite audio clips), and sometimes shifts blame (e.g., scapegoating the reality show for marital issues).

Hogan himself sabotages some redemption arcs by dodging full vulnerability—excuses abound, and raw emotion is shut down quickly. The heavy emphasis on his later-life redemption (faith, third marriage, Trump friendship) comes across as agenda-driven rather than probing. Donald Trump’s appearance feels more like celebrity name-dropping than insightful commentary.

Structurally, the four episodes can feel disjointed, especially the finale, which rushes through the “downfall” era. It celebrates the myth without fully interrogating how the Hulk Hogan persona consumed Terry Bollea, or the physical and personal toll of the wrestling lifestyle that contributed to his health struggles.

Three stars out of five from me.