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“Richard Fliehr was just someone who made it through one year of college. After that it was the Naitch.”

That one line, spoken by Ric Flair himself, sums up both the tragedy and the intrigue of ESPN’s latest 30 for 30 doc, Nature Boy. Ostensibly, director Rory Karpf set out to chronicle the decades-long career of a bulky no-name wrestler who survived a plane crash and went on to become the near mythic Nature Boy Ric Flair, the jet ridin’, Rolex-wearin’ son-of-a-gun who worked marathon hour-long matches with Ricky Steamboat and Dusty Rhodes across the country, leaving a trail of beer cans and broken hearts in his wake. Flair is undoubtedly one of the most influential wrestlers of all time; larger than life before Hogan, brash before Steve Austin, electrifying before The Rock. But that’s also why the documentary—crafted from two interviews Karpf conducted with Flair—has such a uniquely infuriating flaw that it could only come from the world of pro wrestling: It’s impossible to tell when Ric Flair is being genuine and when he’s putting on a show. Working the marks, as they say.

Make no mistake, this is completely on Flair. Over the documentary’s frustratingly short 90-minutes, a picture is painted clear of a performer who got completely lost in his character. An attempt to get into the mind of Richard Fliehr is a lost cause, because Richard Fliehr was consumed by sequin robes and championship gold sometime in the late 1970s. When Flair tells Karpf that he drank at least 14 drinks a day for decades, or that he’s slept with 10,000 women over his career—while also masturbating twice a day, mind you—are these the confessions of an aged athlete at the end of his career, or just more promo-fuel from a character whose entire gimmick lived and died by the boasts he yelled into a mic?

“Ric is a consummate liar,” says Paul “HHH” Levesque, former wrestler and current COO of WWE, who also happens to be Flair’s close friend. “He’ll only tell you what he wants you to hear.”

Or, if you want it way more bluntly, take it from Leslie Goodman, Flair’s first of four wives, who gives an extraordinarily candid interview in the first quarter of Nature Boy: “He’s truly a wrestler. He’s not a family man. He loves his kids. But don’t trust him.”

“I love my kids, but they know him, too,” she continues. “He’s just…he’s Ric Flair.”

The divide between performer and character is one of the most fascinating aspects of any medium. It’s the reason Jared Leto’s method-acting gets more coverage than the actual role he’s playing, why no one really noticed when Johnny Depp just became an asshole pirate in real life after three or four Pirates of the Caribbean movies. With pro wrestlers, that divide is murkier; not only are they performing a medium that presents itself as reality, but they’re doing so not only on-screen but in airports, between shows, during interviews. That divide is confusing. It’s messy. It’s the difference between Hulk Hogan’s ten inch penis and Terry Bollea’s less impressive package.

Where Nature Boy officially becomes a tragedy is the moment it becomes clear that, for Ric Flair, that divide doesn’t exist at all. “Ric doesn’t love Richard Fliehr. I don’t know that he’s ever taken the time to get to know him or to find out who in the world he is,” says former wrestler Shawn Michaels. Michaels famously “retired” Ric Flair at WrestleMania 24 with an “I’m sorry, I love you” and a kick to the face.

It was the sort of moment that makes pro wrestling beautiful. With football, or baseball, you can’t guarantee perfect stories; you can’t promise an odds-defying comeback or desperate last-second Hail Mary. Wrestling is a competition that’s able to script perfect moments. Or, in this case, perfect endings. The send-off for Ric Flair, the character, in front of 74,000 people is one of the most fitting endings to a story in pro wrestling history.

But the documentary doesn’t end there, because life goes on after the bell rings. And that’s the thing: The wheelin’ dealin’, kiss stealin’ Nature Boy is only sustainable inside the squared circle. In real life, the Nature Boy ages; the flashy robes lose their sparkle and the money to buy entire bars a round of shots stops flowing. “Diamonds are forever, and so is Ric Flair” is a great line, but that’s also all it is. A line.

The only clearly genuine moments of Nature Boy come toward the end, in the rare jarring moments we watch Ric Flair confront the things life—not the heightened reality of pro wrestling, but life—threw at him. At the age of 25, Flair’s son Reid died of an overdose while en route to following in his father’s in-ring footsteps. Reid’s sister Ashley currently competes in the WWE, fulfilling the dream her brother never got to.

The most affecting portion of the documentary is three concurrent clips of the three Flairs—Ric, Reid, and Ashley—performing the signature Figure Four Leg Lock across generations. Reader, I wept. But after the emotions died down I felt less enthused about what came next, what closed the documentary: A 68-year-old Flair, adorned in his patented robe, striding to an empty ring. It’s an uplifting ending that underscores a darker point. Even after everything—every broken relationship, every health scare, every “retirement”—Ric Flair is never going to stop being The Nature Boy. For better or worse.

“Wrestling was his lady. Wrestling was his love. That was his number one love,” Hulk Hogan, of all people, correctly concludes. “And I might be out of line saying this but, in my opinion, it still is.”

Vinnie Mancuso writes about TV for a living, somehow, for Decider, The A.V. Club, Collider, and the Observer. You can also find his pop culture opinions on Twitter (@VinnieMancuso1) or being shouted out a Jersey City window between 4 and 6 a.m.

Watch 30 For 30: The Nature Boy on Watch ESPN