The Unmasking: How The Compelling Drama Of Lucha Libre Transfixed An Entire Nation

There are myriad historical moments in live that have shaken up popular culture and made their way into the history books (what we might call memes in today’s social media parlance). The Beatles on “The Ed Sullivan Show” in 1964; Michael Jackson’s moonwalk in 1983 on live TV; Kanye West interrupting Taylor Swift’s acceptance speech at the 2009 MTV VMAs are just a few of many brief snippets from live events that altered career trajectories and disrupted our culture.

Mexicans experienced one such moment on Jan. 26, 1984, when El Santo (The Saint) — a lucha libre legend who captivated audiences for four decades — made an appearance on TV and removed his iconic silver mask without warning, revealing three-quarters of his face to the nation for the first time. It left everyone breathless as they processed what they were viewing. It’s a moment not only etched in the annals of wrestling but also in Mexican history with audiences getting an unwanted glimpse of the man behind the iconic mask that became a national symbol of hope. El Santo, aka Rodolfo Guzmán Huerta, would die a week later. His funeral was one of the largest in Mexican history and, aptly, he would be buried in his mask.

How is it that a 5-foot-9-inch, 200-plus pound grappler transcended Mexican wrestling to become a cult film star (with delightful B-movies like “Santo vs. The Vampire Women” in 1962), a comic book hero (his illustrated series ran for over three decades) and a national icon?

It’s the power of la mascara (the mask), a significant disguise in lucha libre that helps create the illusion of wrestlers being superhuman mythic (or villainous) figures and draws millions of fans every year in Mexico and across the globe.

The stylized, colorful luchador mask has become a staple in lucha libre (which translates to free fight) and has entered the mainstream as a symbol of Mexican pride alongside the charro outfit and sombrero. Though the mask was exported from the U.S. — Mort Anderson is credited as the first wrestler to mask, calling himself the Masked Marvel, in 1915 — it has evolved to include designs harkening back to indigenous people’s history, including ancient warriors, deities, animals and religious rituals.

But for luchadores, the mask represents much more than where they came from — it is an identity forged with their own blood, sweat and tears as well as those of their opponents.

Unlike U.S. wrestling, which partially relies on pre-match and post-match verbal spats to heighten drama (which is also fun), the charm of lucha libre lies in the garish spectacle that is masked men in tights punching each other and flying across the ring to perform insane stunts. The mask adds an element of mystery, allowing fans to forget the fact that what they’re watching is scripted (spoiler alert) and to project their own feelings and aspirations onto these alluring faceless figures.

It’s a notion anthropologist and author Heather Levi mentions in her book, “The World of Lucha Libre: Secrets, Revelations, and Mexican National Identity,” in which she wrote that “the mask changes the relationship between the wrestler, the wrestler’s ‘script,’ and the wrestler’s character in a material and visual form.”

The mask certainly plays a significant role, so much so that some carry more weight than a title belt. On many occasions, the lucha de apuesta (bet match) takes top billing over championship bouts and features wrestlers who wager either their mask or their beloved hair, and the vanquished athlete must shed the one characteristic that helped them create their squared-circle persona.

“The masked wrestler is taking a genuine risk when he or she agrees to lose, for loss of a mask might mean loss of charisma, loss of the ability to move the public,” Levi wrote in her book.

Hair can grow back, but once a mask is removed, the wrestler’s connection to the audience is severed with some fans reveling in the athlete’s disgraceful defeat and others mourning the death of their favorite character. The power they seemed to possess with every death-defying leap from the top rope suddenly vanishes, marking the retirement of the athlete and/or the character they portrayed.

“In that moment, the wrestler’s future becomes a matter of speculation, and the wrestler’s career is put at serious risk,” Levi wrote. “The ritual of unmasking might reveal that the mask was key to his or her success.”

The powerful iconography of the luchador mask celebrates what is and what was Mexico, and the mystique surrounding figures like El Santo and Blue Demon evoke feelings that anything is possible by channeling one’s identity, inspiring fans of all sizes and colors to overcome their own luchas (struggles).

“The lucha libre mask is not simply a gimmick, not simply an element of costume,” Levi wrote. “On the contrary, the mask has been of crucial importance in the constitution of lucha libre as a signifying practice. … Because it is so central to the performance, and because it is so beautiful, the mask serves a metonym for the genre itself. And because of its centrality, the mask connects lucha libre with other discourses of nation, class and culture in which masks (whether actual or metaphoric) are important.”