It’s Tuesday at the Arena Mexico. In the front rows that are filled with tourists, phones are raised to film the fighters with commentary in English, French and Japanese. In the stands, there’s a torrent of insults and cheers typical of local long-term fans. The scene reflects a recent change: once the poor man’s sport in Mexico City, lucha libre — a popular form of wrestling in Mexico — has become a tourist and cultural attraction with a global reach. The more diverse audience has boosted profits and transformed the way people fight, as well as hiking prices and shutting out regular fans. Wrestling along with the neighborhoods themselves is being gentrified and the fight against it is on.
Rodolfo Hernández runs the taco stall located in front of the wrestling venue in the Doctores neighborhood: “It’s madness,” he says. “Before, it was ordinary people, but now it’s foreigners, celebrities and important people who arrive with bodyguards.” Outside his business stands the double-decker bus in which the foreigners to whom Hernández refers arrive: Europeans, Asian people and North Americans get off wearing lucha libre masks. Between photos, the guide introduces them to the art of shouting and whistling and asks them to make a choice that should not be taken lightly: “Good guys or bad guys?”
Seven years ago, the Mexican Wrestling Council (CMLL) managed to have its sport declared an intangible cultural heritage of Mexico City, which turned it into a tourist attraction. Ernesto Ocampo, editor-in-chief of the specialized portal Superluchas, explains that lucha libre emerged as entertainment for the lower classes in neighborhoods where there were no cinemas or theaters, but that today it is recognized as a national symbol “on a par with mariachi or tequila.”
Among the crowd outside the Arena, are Francisco and David, from Spain. They recognize that the sport is not exactly their bag but were told it was unmissable. “It’s very different from anywhere else in the world,” David says.
But there’s a flip side. Ulises Torres, a specialist in social studies at the National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM), states that luch libre is going through a process of cultural gentrification. “This implies the appropriation of designs and masks and the transformation of the spaces where the fights take place,” he says.
José Ángel Garfías, a research professor at UNAM specializing in entertainment, agrees: “Ticket prices have risen by up to 50% in some cases, premium services are multiplying and interaction with the public, which was an essential part of the environment, is being lost,” he explains.
Both Torres and Garfías believe that the gentrification has shut out the original fans. Torres draws a parallel with other sports such as boxing, which left neighborhood gyms to become an industry based in Las Vegas; or baseball, which is increasingly exclusive due to the cost of tickets, and soccer shown mainly on paid platforms.
Wearing a mask and cape, Edmundo complains about the gentrification and the prices before entering the arena. “It was a working-class sport that was ignored and now it’s become so fashionable it’s hard to get in,” he says.
Edmundo is with his six-year-old son Javier, who has caught the bug from him as he did from his own father. Edmundo believes that the boom could be positive, but he hopes that watching the fights will not become an activity for the privileged few. “I want to keep bringing my son,” he says.
Tickets for a lucha libre show at the Arena Mexico vary depending on the location and range from 150 pesos ($8) in the highest stands to more than 800 pesos ($43) for the front rows. On special dates, they can double and reach 1,500 ($80). At the Arena Coliseum, prices are lower. A ticket ranges between 100 ($5) and 400 ($21) pesos. The Turiluchas tourist experience, which includes the trip and the show, ranges from 700 ($37) to 1,600 ($85) pesos, depending on the event.
The current boom is due to a combination of factors, according to Ocampo. Social networks have helped promote the masks. But the CMLL says that the boom is the result of years of work. “These are cyclical phenomena, and we cannot deny the convening power that the wrestler Místico has, coupled with the alliances we have with countries such as the United States, Japan and England,” he says.
For example, on September 25, CMLL will present a spectacle in collaboration with Pokémon, in a bid to attract foreign audiences. But the crowds are not just made up of tourists; they also include the wealthy. “People who didn’t come before are coming,” the wrestler Máscara Dorada pointed out in a controversial interview recently. “You see well-dressed people in the front row; wrestling is having an impact and they are drawn to it.” Social networks slammed him as classist.
Beyond the imagery, the magic of lucha libre has been around for 90 years. Behind the masks there are men and women who start from scratch, train hard and reach unexpected heights. Garfías explains that fans identify with the wrestlers because they represent the fight against impossible odds and the desire to overcome hardship that is so ingrained in Mexican culture.
“El Santo and Blue Demon created Mexican wrestling cinema and built an image of real and accessible superheroes that their followers could see for themselves when they went to the ring on Sundays,” says Garfías.
But those days are long gone, and now lucha libre is an international business. In Garfías’ analysis, AAA — the other major development within the Mexican industry — is already “completely gentrified,” while El Consejo is moving more cautiously under market pressure. Last April, the World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE) from the U.S., the largest wrestling company in the world, absorbed AAA and, according to experts, may also be interested in buying CMLL. “When people come along who don’t understand wrestling, there are profound changes,” Garfías says.
Garfías does, however, recognize that the sport is more profitable these days. There is more economic spillover, better salaries for the wrestlers and greater visibility. Street vendors outside the Arena Mexico agree. Their profits have skyrocketed, and they welcome the arrival of tourists.
Foreign visitors and longtime fans together shape the new face of Mexican lucha libre, as emotions, micheladas, and languages blend. Some celebrate the sport’s rise to a new cultural status, while others lament the loss of authenticity. Torres insists this isn’t a battle of good versus evil — or técnicos versus rudos — but calls for preserving its popular tradition.
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