By Stinger | October 17, 2026
It might be hard to imagine today, but there was once a time when pro wrestling didn’t need a gigantic LED screen, an elaborate entrance ramp, or enough pyrotechnics to launch a small military invasion to make a pay-per-view feel like a big deal. Sometimes all you needed was a wrestling ring, a collection of larger-than-life personalities, a few thousand screaming fans, and the promise that somebody was probably going to get his ass kicked before the night was over. Throw in some Halloween decorations, an allegedly electrified steel cage, and Terry Funk behaving like an escaped mental patient, and you’ve got yourself one hell of a Saturday night.
Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the inaugural edition of Superstation Saturday, our occasional, and I stress the word occasional, journey into the glorious, ridiculous, and frequently misunderstood history of World Championship Wrestling. And what better way to launch this new Titanquisitor feature than by traveling back to October 28, 1989, for the very first Halloween Havoc?
Broadcast live from the Philadelphia Civic Center before approximately 7,300 fans, Halloween Havoc 1989 carried the subtitle Settling the Score, and WCW certainly had a few scores to settle. Ric Flair was still the NWA World Heavyweight Champion, Sting was rapidly becoming one of wrestling’s biggest stars, and Terry Funk and The Great Muta had spent much of the year making their lives miserable enough to warrant the tag team main event. Meanwhile, the undercard featured a fascinating mixture of established stars, rising talent, and future legends who had yet to become household names.
This was WCW before Monday Nitro, before the New World Order, before Goldberg’s undefeated streak, and before Hulk Hogan helped transform the company into something almost unrecognizable from its Southern wrestling roots. Technically operating under the National Wrestling Alliance banner, WCW in 1989 remained a promotion where championships mattered, personal grudges drove ticket sales, and getting your hands on somebody who had wronged you was frequently considered a perfectly reasonable justification for a pay-per-view main event.
I miss that kind of wrestling.
The Atmosphere: Halloween Before Halloween Havoc Became a Spectacle
One of the reasons I’ve always had an affection for early Halloween Havoc is the atmosphere. The later events eventually became famous for elaborate seasonal entrance sets, massive pumpkins, and some spectacularly ridiculous production decisions, but the inaugural show belongs to a different world entirely.
This was the era of old-school wrestling presentation, where the atmosphere came as much from the building, the personalities, and the sense of occasion as it did from the decorations. There’s something wonderfully charming about a wrestling promotion embracing Halloween without completely transforming itself into an amusement park. The seasonal theme gives the event its identity, but the wrestling remains the central attraction.
That doesn’t mean the production was particularly impressive. Some of the backstage interviews were so poorly lit that the participants practically disappeared into the shadows. Evidently, somebody in WCW’s production department decided Halloween was the perfect excuse to save a few bucks on electricity.
Then there’s the commentary team of Jim Ross and Bob Caudle, two men who could make a headlock feel like a serious athletic struggle. Ross was already demonstrating the passion and attention to detail that would eventually make him one of the most recognizable voices in wrestling history, while Caudle brought a traditional Southern wrestling sensibility that fit this particular version of WCW beautifully.
The backstage interviews featured Gordon Solie and Chris Cruise, giving the broadcast an additional layer of old-school credibility. Solie, in particular, was practically a walking institution in professional wrestling, and hearing that unmistakably authoritative approach to the business reminds you of a time when wrestling announcers were expected to sell the action as something important rather than constantly reminding viewers that they were watching entertainment.
You could almost smell the cigarette smoke and concession-stand hot dogs through the television.
But enough about the atmosphere. Gary Michael Cappetta, one of the finest ring announcers in wrestling history, says it’s time to get this show started!
Tom Zenk vs. Mike Rotunda
The evening begins with Tom Zenk, better known as the Z-Man, taking on Captain Mike Rotunda of the Varsity Club. While this isn’t exactly the sort of match that’s going to have wrestling historians arguing over its greatness thirty-seven years later, it’s a perfectly reasonable introduction to the evening.
Rotunda was an accomplished technical wrestler with legitimate amateur credentials, and his ability to work a fundamentally sound match was never in question. The problem, as was often the case throughout his career, was finding a presentation that could consistently make audiences care about him beyond his wrestling ability. This was before his later transformation into Irwin R. Schyster in the WWF, when the company somehow decided that an angry tax collector was precisely what professional wrestling had been missing.
Zenk, meanwhile, represented the athletic, good-looking babyface archetype that promotions were always trying to develop into something bigger. He possessed the physical tools and enough ability to make a solid contribution to the card, although he never quite became the major singles attraction that some expected. Despite entering the evening undefeated in WCW, Zenk wasn’t exactly receiving a hero’s welcome from the Philadelphia audience.
The match goes a little over thirteen minutes, with Zenk securing the victory after the momentum of a reverse crossbody attempt leaves him on top of Rotunda for the pinfall.
It’s a straightforward wrestling match, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Not every opening contest needs twelve finishing moves, three false finishes, and a dramatic stare into the hard camera. Sometimes two competent wrestlers can simply go out there, establish the competitive tone of the evening, and get things moving.
A respectable opener, even if it isn’t the reason anybody remembers Halloween Havoc 1989.
★★☆☆☆
The Midnight Express & Steve Williams vs. The Samoan Swat Team & The Samoan Savage
Now we’re getting somewhere!
On one side we’ve got Bobby Eaton and Stan Lane, the Midnight Express, accompanied by that magnificent loudmouth Jim Cornette and joined by the legitimately intimidating Dr. Death Steve Williams. Across the ring stand Samu, Fatu, and the Samoan Savage, accompanied by Sir Oliver Humperdink.
Just look at the collection of personalities involved in this thing. Bobby Eaton was one of the greatest tag team wrestlers the business ever produced, Stan Lane was an excellent partner, and Steve Williams looked like somebody who could dismantle an automobile with his bare hands. Opposite them, the Samoans brought an aggressive, physical style that made them dangerous opponents for anybody unfortunate enough to cross their path.
Fatu, of course, would eventually become better known to WWF audiences as part of the Headshrinkers and later as Rikishi, which makes this match particularly interesting to revisit with the benefit of hindsight.
And then there’s Jim Cornette. Good Lord, wrestling needs more managers like Jim Cornette. You could put that man at ringside during a chess tournament and he’d somehow have the audience ready to riot before somebody captured a bishop.
Granted, this was during that strange period when Cornette and the Midnight Express were babyfaces, which still feels fundamentally wrong to type. There are certain things in professional wrestling that simply aren’t supposed to happen, and Jim Cornette being somebody the fans are expected to cheer is pretty damn high on that list.
The match runs more than eighteen minutes, combining traditional tag team wrestling with occasional bursts of six-man chaos. Unfortunately, despite the talent involved, the action isn’t nearly as exciting as the lineup might suggest. There are extended stretches where the match seems content to exist rather than accomplish anything particularly interesting, and shaving ten minutes off the running time might genuinely have improved the experience.
The finish comes when the Samoan Savage strikes Stan Lane from behind with a running headbutt, sending Lane into Cornette, who has climbed onto the apron after attacking Humperdink with his infamous tennis racket. Savage capitalizes on the collision to score the pinfall.
It’s a fittingly messy conclusion to a match involving two teams that weren’t exactly known for their respect for the rulebook.
The Midnight Express were masters of making opponents look dangerous while keeping the audience invested, and a match involving Eaton, Lane, and Dr. Death should have been considerably more entertaining than this one turned out to be. There are some enjoyable moments, but eighteen minutes is an awful long time when the action never really finds another gear.
★★☆☆☆
Tommy Rich vs. The Cuban Assassin
Every classic WCW card seems to contain at least one match that feels like it was transported directly from a smoky Southern television studio, and Tommy Rich against the Cuban Assassin certainly qualifies.
Rich was a former NWA World Heavyweight Champion, having enjoyed a brief reign in 1981, and although his career never again reached those heights, he remained a recognizable name to longtime fans of Southern wrestling. His popularity had been built during an era when emotional connection with the audience mattered every bit as much as athletic ability.
The Cuban Assassin, meanwhile, was the sort of dependable veteran heel who could make his living anywhere that had a wrestling ring and an audience willing to boo him.
Unfortunately, Philadelphia wasn’t particularly interested in either man.
This match was a bit of a wreck, with the crowd making its displeasure abundantly clear through chants of “boring.” And while wrestling audiences can occasionally be unfair to perfectly respectable matches, it’s difficult to argue that these two were giving the fans much reason to become invested.
The contest lasts a little over eight minutes, with Rich winning after countering a crossbody attempt and delivering a Lou Thesz Press for the pinfall.
There’s a place for traditional Southern wrestling on a show like this, but the performers still need to connect with the audience. Here, they simply didn’t, and the result is eight minutes that feel considerably longer than they actually are.
Not every match needs to steal the show, but it would be nice if the crowd at least appeared interested in watching it.
★☆☆☆☆
Before the next contest, Chris Cruise interviews WWWF legend Bruno Sammartino about his upcoming role as referee for the Thunderdome cage match. It’s still amusing to hear Bruno enthusiastically discussing an allegedly electrified steel cage, considering how outspoken he’d been about the direction professional wrestling had taken in the WWF.
Apparently, questionable wrestling spectacle was considerably more respectable when somebody else was promoting it.
The Fabulous Freebirds vs. The Dynamic Dudes
Ah, yes. The Dynamic Dudes.
Shane Douglas and Johnny Ace were supposed to represent the future. Young, athletic, energetic, and presented as the kind of cool, relatable babyfaces who might appeal to a new generation of wrestling fans. Unfortunately, somebody apparently decided that carrying skateboards around was all it took to make two professional wrestlers cool.
They weren’t convincing as skateboarders, and the entire presentation felt like somebody in management had heard that skating was popular with the kids but had never actually met one.
In short, the gimmick sucked, and the Philadelphia audience wasn’t shy about letting everybody know it.
Across the ring stood Michael Hayes and Jimmy Garvin, the Fabulous Freebirds, defending the NWA World Tag Team Championship. Hayes was one of the most naturally charismatic performers of his generation, a man who could swagger down to the ring, shake his hips, run his mouth, and have a crowd reacting before he’d even touched an opponent. Garvin was no slouch in the personality department either.
And naturally, the crowd loved them.
Whether WCW genuinely expected this particular Philadelphia audience to embrace the Dynamic Dudes is anybody’s guess, but the fans were relentless in their rejection. The Freebirds might have been the villains on paper, but nobody bothered telling the people who had actually bought tickets.
That’s one of the eternal lessons of professional wrestling, and promoters still haven’t completely learned it. You can dress somebody up as a good guy, give him an upbeat presentation, and tell everyone he’s supposed to be popular, but the audience ultimately decides whether the character works.
Jim Cornette accompanies the Dynamic Dudes, adding another strange wrinkle to a situation already overflowing with questionable creative decisions. Eventually, the Freebirds retain their championships when Hayes interferes with the Dudes’ attempted double-team maneuver, allowing Garvin to land on Shane Douglas and score the pinfall.
As a wrestling match, it’s serviceable. As an example of a promotion struggling to understand what its audience actually wants, it’s considerably more entertaining.
Shane Douglas and Johnny Ace would both go on to carve out significant places in wrestling history. Just not by pretending to be skateboard-loving teenage heartthrobs.
★★☆☆☆
Doom vs. The Steiner Brothers
Now THIS is professional wrestling!
Rick and Scott Steiner against Doom, making their debut under masks with Woman accompanying them to the ring. Behind those masks were Ron Simmons and Butch Reed, two tremendously powerful athletes who were more than capable of matching the Steiners in a physical confrontation.
And believe me, matching the Steiner Brothers physically was no small accomplishment.
Rick Steiner possessed that wonderful combination of legitimate wrestling ability and a personality that made him instantly recognizable, while Scott was developing into one of the most extraordinary young athletes in the business. Long before Big Poppa Pump was screaming about percentages and insulting everybody within microphone range, Scott Steiner was a breathtaking combination of power, agility, and technical wrestling ability.
Watching early Scott Steiner reminds you just how remarkable he was before injuries and an entirely different presentation transformed his career.
Doom, meanwhile, represented exactly the sort of imposing opposition the Steiners needed. Rather than another team that would simply bounce around the ring for their impressive offense, Reed and Simmons could stand toe-to-toe with them and deliver punishment of their own.
The match develops into a physical battle, with Woman ultimately making the decisive difference. She slips a foreign object into Butch Reed’s mask, allowing him to deliver a loaded headbutt to Rick Steiner and secure the victory.
It’s old-school heel wrestling at its finest. Introduce a dangerous new team, establish that they can compete physically with established stars, and then let them steal a victory through underhanded tactics.
I particularly appreciate the presentation of Doom. The masks, Woman’s involvement, and the immediate confrontation with one of WCW’s most popular tag teams make their debut feel important. Wrestling used to understand how much mileage you could get out of a little mystery, particularly when the performers underneath those masks actually possessed the talent to deliver once the bell rang.
This is one of the most interesting matches on the card, not simply because of the action, but because of what Doom would eventually become. Ron Simmons and Butch Reed would establish themselves as a formidable tag team, and Simmons would later make history as WCW World Heavyweight Champion.
A strong outing that helps establish a new threat in an already competitive tag team division.
★★★☆☆
Lex Luger vs. Brian Pillman
If there’s one match on this card that particularly deserves attention from fans who primarily remember the Monday Night Wars, it’s Lex Luger defending the NWA United States Heavyweight Championship against a young Brian Pillman.
In 1989, Luger was still one of wrestling’s most impressive physical specimens, combining a tremendous physique with the sort of arrogant heel persona that made audiences desperate to see somebody humble him. The Total Package was certainly a fitting nickname, although whether Luger always possessed the charisma and psychological instincts to match his physical presentation is another argument entirely.
Pillman, on the other hand, was pure excitement.
This was years before the Loose Cannon character, before the Hollywood Blonds, and before the tragic circumstances that cut his career short. Flyin’ Brian was an athletic young babyface whose speed, agility, and willingness to take risks made him stand out in a promotion dominated by heavyweights.
The contrast between Luger’s power and Pillman’s athleticism gives this match a compelling foundation. Pillman enters with an opportunity to establish himself against an established champion, while Luger needs to prove that his superior size and experience are enough to overcome the young challenger’s determination.
And for much of the contest, that contrast works beautifully.
Pillman brings the energy, Luger brings the power, and the match feels like a genuine championship encounter between two performers occupying very different positions in their careers. It’s exactly the sort of matchup that can elevate a young challenger even when the outcome doesn’t go his way.
After nearly seventeen minutes, Luger catches Pillman with a Hot Shot, dropping him throat-first across the top rope after avoiding a missile dropkick, and retains the United States Championship.
There is, however, one particularly ridiculous moment worth mentioning. Luger takes a bump from a missile dropkick that doesn’t come particularly close to connecting, and the miss is so obvious that even Jim Ross acknowledges it on commentary.
When Jim Ross can’t bring himself to pretend your move connected, you’ve got a problem.
Still, that little piece of awkwardness doesn’t ruin what is otherwise the strongest match on the show to this point. Pillman loses, but he looks like a young star who belongs in the ring with an established champion, and that matters considerably more than simply collecting another victory.
For my money, Luger and Pillman deliver one of the highlights of Halloween Havoc 1989. There’s a natural story, an obvious stylistic contrast, and enough good wrestling to remind you why both men occupied prominent places in WCW’s plans.
★★★★☆
The Road Warriors vs. The Skyscrapers
If you wanted to convince somebody that professional wrestling in 1989 was populated entirely by dangerous lunatics who should never be allowed near ordinary civilization, just show them the entrances for this match.
On one side stand Hawk and Animal, the Road Warriors, accompanied by Paul Ellering. Across the ring are Sid Vicious and Dan Spivey, the Skyscrapers, with Teddy Long managing them.
That’s four enormous men who look like they could tear down a building because somebody parked in their favorite spot.
The Road Warriors were one of the most intimidating tag teams wrestling ever produced, combining an unmistakable visual presentation with overwhelming physical offense and an aura of invincibility that made them special attractions wherever they appeared. Their spiked shoulder pads, face paint, and entrance music were practically enough to win a match before the bell rang.
The Skyscrapers offered a rare physical challenge. Spivey was a legitimately imposing veteran, and Sid possessed an extraordinary presence even at this early stage of his career. He may never have become one of wrestling’s greatest technicians, but anybody who claims Sid didn’t look like a professional wrestling superstar needs to have his eyesight examined.
The appeal here is simple. Four monsters are going to hit each other until somebody falls down.
And while that isn’t necessarily a recipe for a technical masterpiece, it certainly makes for an entertaining spectacle when the personalities involved are this imposing.
The match lasts a little under twelve minutes before things break down into the sort of chaos you’d expect. Teddy Long introduces Norman the Lunatic’s enormous key as a weapon, which eventually finds its way into Spivey’s hands and results in a disqualification victory for the Road Warriors.
Because apparently a match involving Hawk, Animal, Sid Vicious, and Dan Spivey wasn’t sufficiently dangerous until somebody introduced an oversized metal key.
The finish protects the Skyscrapers from suffering a decisive defeat while preserving the Road Warriors’ credibility, although it also denies the audience a truly satisfying conclusion.
That’s the frustrating thing about matches like this. You spend the entire buildup promising a collision between two nearly unstoppable teams, only to finish with outside interference and a disqualification.
Still, I can appreciate the logic. Neither team was somebody you’d necessarily want to sacrifice cleanly at this stage, and the spectacle of seeing these four enormous men sharing a ring carries considerable appeal on its own.
Sometimes professional wrestling is about sophisticated storytelling, subtle character development, and carefully structured psychology.
And sometimes it’s about four gigantic bastards beating the hell out of each other. There’s room for both.
★★☆☆☆
Ric Flair & Sting vs. Terry Funk & The Great Muta — The Thunderdome
Now, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve arrived at the reason this pay-per-view exists.
The Thunderdome.
Ric Flair and Sting against Terry Funk and The Great Muta, inside an enormous steel cage, with the legendary Bruno Sammartino serving as special guest referee. Ole Anderson and Gary Hart stand outside as their respective teams’ designated representatives, with the contest ending only when one side’s representative throws in the towel.
If that doesn’t sound like a proper late-1980s professional wrestling main event, I don’t know what does.
To understand why this match mattered, you have to appreciate the atmosphere surrounding Ric Flair and Terry Funk in 1989. Their rivalry was deeply personal, violent, and built around the sort of hatred that made professional wrestling feuds feel genuinely dangerous.
Funk had attacked Flair following his victory over Ricky Steamboat at WrestleWar, culminating in the infamous piledriver onto a table that helped ignite their feud. The rivalry would become one of the defining stories of that year, eventually producing an extraordinary I Quit Match at Clash of the Champions IX.
Sting and The Great Muta had their own history, with Muta emerging as one of the most mysterious and exciting performers in the promotion. Managed by Gary Hart, Muta combined spectacular athleticism with an unsettling presentation, while his green mist and distinctive appearance made him feel unlike almost anybody else on American wrestling television.
And that’s what makes the pairing so damn good.
Flair was the established champion, the Nature Boy, the consummate professional wrestling performer whose reputation had been built upon years of classic matches. Sting was the rising star, the colorful and charismatic young hero whose popularity threatened to eclipse nearly everybody around him.
Funk was the unpredictable veteran capable of turning a wrestling match into a street fight at a moment’s notice, while Muta was the mysterious international attraction whose offense felt years ahead of its time.
Four completely different personalities, two overlapping rivalries, and an enormous cage designed to keep them together until somebody surrendered.
What could possibly go wrong?
Well, for starters, the damn cage catches fire.
Before the match even begins, a small fire breaks out near the upper portion of the Thunderdome structure, prompting one of the most wonderfully absurd images in WCW history as The Great Muta sprays his green mist toward the flames.
Only in professional wrestling could a production malfunction somehow become perfectly consistent with a wrestler’s supernatural gimmick.
The Thunderdome itself is a fascinating creation. Rather than the traditional steel cage surrounding the ring, this structure gives the wrestlers space to battle between the ropes and the cage walls, while the upper portion incorporates the supposedly electrified spectacle that gives the match its name.
It isn’t the sleek, polished structure that later generations would associate with Hell in a Cell. It looks dangerous, excessive, and slightly impractical, which makes it absolutely perfect for 1989 WCW.
There’s just one problem.
This allegedly electrified cage doesn’t appear capable of electrocuting a damn thing.
WCW spends considerable time hyping the danger of the structure, yet throughout the match, wrestlers climb it, grab it, and make contact with various sections without suffering any obvious consequences. Eventually, the explanation becomes that only the upper portion is electrified, which might have been slightly more convincing if people weren’t also hanging from that.
Nobody gets electrocuted. Nobody appears particularly concerned about getting electrocuted. For something billed as the Thunderdome, the supposed electrical danger turns out to be about as intimidating as a household extension cord.
Then there are the ropes suspended from above, which allow Flair and Sting to swing around the cage like they’re auditioning for a Tarzan movie.
It’s an ambitious spectacle, certainly, but the execution leaves an awful lot to be desired.
Fortunately, the four wrestlers involved are talented enough to provide some entertainment regardless of the questionable structure surrounding them. Flair and Funk bring years of experience and an established personal hatred, while Sting and Muta inject athleticism and explosive offense into the proceedings.
Flair’s chops, Funk’s wild aggression, Sting’s power and intensity, and Muta’s unpredictable attacks give the contest an exciting mixture of styles. The cage provides additional opportunities for punishment, and the stipulation ensures that an ordinary pinfall isn’t going to end the evening.
Bruno Sammartino’s involvement adds another fascinating historical dimension. One of the most important champions in professional wrestling history, Sammartino provides an imposing authority figure for a match involving four men who aren’t especially interested in behaving themselves.
There’s something rather wonderful about seeing Bruno, a man who represented an earlier generation of wrestling, trying to maintain order inside a structure that looks as though it was assembled by a mad scientist.
And here’s another remarkable detail: Ric Flair somehow manages to participate in a cage match without bleeding.
Ric Flair. Inside a steel cage. No blood.
What the hell?
There are certain universal truths in professional wrestling, and one of them is supposed to be that if you put Ric Flair inside a cage, the Nature Boy will eventually be wearing the crimson mask. Apparently, even the laws of nature were taking Halloween Havoc off.
The finish is suitably chaotic. Flair traps Funk in the Figure-Four Leglock, Sting adds punishment with splashes from the top rope, and Muta gets into an altercation with Sammartino. Bruno responds by knocking Muta down, while Ole Anderson strikes Gary Hart, sending Hart’s towel flying into the air.
Bruno interprets the airborne towel as the required surrender, giving Flair and Sting the victory.
And there you have it.
An enormous allegedly electrified cage. Four legendary performers. Bruno Sammartino. Green mist. A fire. A Figure-Four with splashes. Two grown men swinging around on ropes like Tarzan. And the decisive moment comes because somebody punches a manager hard enough to send a towel flying.
Professional wrestling, ladies and gentlemen. Ain’t it beautiful?
The finish is admittedly convoluted, and anybody expecting a clean, definitive victory through superior wrestling might find it frustrating. More disappointingly, the central gimmick doesn’t come close to living up to the advertised danger. The Thunderdome looks impressive, but the supposed electricity is largely meaningless, leaving the performers to carry a spectacle that the structure itself fails to deliver.
★★☆☆☆
That’s a shame, because the talent involved deserved a better environment for their confrontation. Put Flair, Funk, Sting, and Muta together, and you’ve already got the foundation for a compelling main event without needing to pretend the surrounding cage is some kind of medieval torture device.
Nevertheless, the match represents a fascinating moment in the evolution of Sting.
He’s standing beside Ric Flair, the established standard-bearer of the NWA, working alongside one of the biggest stars in the industry against two internationally respected opponents. Sting isn’t yet the world champion, but the promotion is clearly positioning him as someone who belongs at the very top.
There would eventually come a time when Sting and Flair stood on opposite sides of the ring in one of WCW’s most important championship rivalries. Here, however, they’re allies, united against a common enemy.
And that’s part of what makes professional wrestling history so much fun. We know where these careers and relationships eventually go, but on this particular October night in Philadelphia, the future is still being written.
Stinger’s View: The Birth of a Halloween Tradition
Halloween Havoc 1989 isn’t a flawless show, and I’m not about to pretend that every match is a forgotten masterpiece simply because it happened before professional wrestling discovered high-definition television. In fact, a considerable portion of this card ranges from merely acceptable to downright disappointing.
The six-man tag team match features tremendous talent but struggles to justify its running time, Tommy Rich and the Cuban Assassin completely fail to connect with the Philadelphia audience, and the Dynamic Dudes provide far more entertainment through the crowd’s rejection of their gimmick than anything they actually accomplish in the ring.
Even the more interesting attractions have their problems. The Road Warriors and Skyscrapers deliver the imposing spectacle you’d expect from four enormous men, but the disqualification finish leaves the confrontation feeling unresolved. The Thunderdome main event features four legendary performers, yet the supposedly electrified cage proves to be a massive disappointment relative to the hype surrounding it.
Fortunately, there are worthwhile moments scattered throughout the evening. Luger and Pillman provide an appealing contrast between an established champion and an exciting young challenger, while the Steiners and Doom deliver a convincing physical confrontation that helps establish one of WCW’s most formidable future tag teams.
Perhaps more importantly, the show captures WCW at a pivotal stage of its history. The promotion is expanding its ambitions, experimenting with bigger attractions, and attempting to establish an identity that can compete on a national level without completely abandoning its traditional wrestling roots.
Sometimes those ambitions produce excellent wrestling. Sometimes they produce bizarre stipulations and questionable finishes. And sometimes they produce an electrified steel cage that catches fire before the wrestlers even get inside it.
That’s the WCW experience.
The inaugural Halloween Havoc also establishes something that would become increasingly important to the event’s identity in subsequent years: an appreciation for the theatrical possibilities of Halloween. The seasonal atmosphere may be comparatively restrained by later standards, but the combination of unusual match concepts, intimidating characters, and a little carefully controlled insanity gives the show a personality all its own.
And while I wouldn’t recommend Halloween Havoc 1989 to somebody looking exclusively for nonstop five-star wrestling classics, there’s enough here to make it worth revisiting for anybody who loves the history of the business.
Just consider the collection of talent on this card. Ric Flair, Sting, Terry Funk, The Great Muta, Brian Pillman, Lex Luger, the Steiner Brothers, Ron Simmons, Butch Reed, the Midnight Express, Steve Williams, the Road Warriors, Sid Vicious, and the Fabulous Freebirds. That’s an extraordinary amount of wrestling history packed into a single evening, even if the show itself never quite becomes greater than the sum of its parts.
And that, ultimately, is what Superstation Saturday is going to be about.
We’re not here to pretend every old wrestling show was better than everything produced today. We’re here because wrestling history is packed with fascinating personalities, forgotten rivalries, brilliant performances, terrible decisions, and moments of glorious absurdity that deserve to be remembered.
Halloween Havoc 1989 gives us all of those things, even when the wrestling itself doesn’t always deliver.
Stinger’s Verdict: 3 out of 5 Stars — A memorable, uneven, personality-packed introduction to one of WCW’s great traditions.
★★★☆☆
Luger and Pillman provide the strongest wrestling foundation, Doom’s debut offers a glimpse of the promotion’s future, and the Thunderdome delivers plenty of memorable spectacle even if the cage itself turns out to be a tremendous letdown. There are too many sluggish stretches and disappointing finishes for this to rank among WCW’s finest pay-per-views, but its historical significance, colorful personalities, and unmistakable late-1980s atmosphere make it an entertaining time capsule.
And if nothing else, how many wrestling shows can claim that one of their stars tried to put out a fire by spitting green mist?
That alone deserves a little respect.
Next Saturday, our Halloween journey continues with Halloween Havoc 1990, featuring Sting defending the NWA World Heavyweight Championship against Sid Vicious, Stan Hansen challenging Lex Luger, and another collection of wonderfully questionable WCW decisions.
Until then, keep watching, keep remembering, and never let anybody convince you that wrestling history begins and ends with the Attitude Era.
IT’S SHOWTIME!
— Stinger, reporting from the Rafters of Titanquisitor
