Promising with its title the three things true-crime junkies most crave, Tiger King: Murder, Mayhem and Madness is perhaps the wildest series to ever premiere on Netflix—a statement that will only sound hyperbolic to those who haven’t yet checked out Eric Goode and Rebecca Chaiklin’s seven-part tale of feral animal insanity, and the murder-for-hire plot it eventually begat. Blessed with a cornucopia of jaw-dropping characters, details and developments, it would be totally unbelievable if it weren’t verifiably true.
Consequently, I can’t remember ever laughing so hard, and consistently, at a work of non-fiction.
Filmed over the course of five years by Goode and Chaiklin, Tiger King (debuting March 20) is the rare multi-part streaming offering that wholly justifies its extended length. Quite simply, there’s way too much craziness to condense here, and it all begins with the individual after whom the proceedings are named: Joe Schreibvogel, better known to the world as Joe Exotic, the self-proclaimed Tiger King. A gay meth head polygamist with a bleach-blond mullet, a healthy collection of piercings and tattoos, a Fu Manchu ‘stache, and a holster belt around his waist for some of his innumerable firearms, Joe Exotic looks like something out of Mad magazine. What makes Joe truly special, however, isn’t just his appearance, or his endless profanity, or his severe narcissism; it’s his love of wild cats (tigers, lions, panthers, etc.), which he owned by the thousands, breeding and displaying them for all to see (and interact with!) at his private G.W. Zoo in Wynnewood, Oklahoma.
“He was like a mythical character living out in the middle of bumfuck, Oklahoma,” says Rick Kirkham, the veteran tabloid journalist who eagerly accepted a job producing Joe’s internet TV show (while simultaneously filming a reality show about Joe). Somehow, even that feels like an understatement. Joe is a bonkers parody of a motormouth redneck cartoon, and at his farm, he ruled like, well, a king. He also documented his entire life for his online programs, although his daily episodes soon became not only a means of promoting his business—and the cause of protecting and caring for endangered animals—but a vehicle for targeting his chief critic, Big Cat Rescue’s Carole Baskin. To Carole, Joe was an exploiter of animals, profiting off them in an immoral fashion (this despite the fact that his trade was, somehow, not regulated by law). To Joe, Carole was a hypocrite who also monetized her cats (a claim supported by footage of her volunteer-staffed operation), as well as, to put it mildly, the antichrist.
Which is why he eventually tried to hire a man to kill her.
Amazingly, that turn of events seems bonkers only when viewed out of context, since by the time Tiger King gets around to covering that crime—and Joe’s prosecution for it by the federal government—one realizes it was, in fact, the inevitable conclusion to a wacko feud and set of personal and subcultural circumstances, stoked by hate, greed, and ego. Joe’s vitriolic social media campaign against Carole included incessant accusations that she murdered her first husband, Don Lewis, and Goode and Chaiklin dedicate an entire episode to the strange mystery of Don’s disappearance, strongly suggesting there’s some validity to Joe’s hypothesis. To Carole, however, such allegations were merely part of Joe’s ceaseless online harassment, and she eventually won a $1 million settlement from him in a copyright-infringement lawsuit. To save himself from financial ruin, Joe got into bed with Jeff Lowe, a disreputable businessman and big-cat lover with a fondness for swinging and, it appears, stabbing people in the back. Through a combination of inane scheming and treachery, Jeff eventually swindled Joe out of control of G.W. Zoo.
And then Jeff and his cohort James Garretson become confidential informants against Joe, providing evidence to the Feds about the Tiger King’s plans to have Carole offed—namely, by paying Jeff’s handyman Allen Glover $3,000 to do the dirty deed.
Deducing who played what role in this conspiracy is part of the fun of Tiger King—if, ultimately, somewhat beside the point, since Joe, Jeff, James and Allen were all involved to some degree, not to mention guilty of being ridiculously shady clowns. Yet directors Goode and Chaiklin don’t confine their focus to simply this homicidal plot, instead branching out to present a wider view of an underground scene of private wild-animal entrepreneurship built on giving average citizens the opportunity to pet, play, and cuddle with ferocious creatures. In that milieu, few figures stand as tall as Bhagavan “Doc” Antle, the ponytailed founder and operator of Myrtle Beach Safari. According to the docuseries, Doc is a veritable cult leader (he’s a doctor of “Mystical Science”) with multiple wives and girlfriends whom he controls as stringently as he does his ferocious four-legged beasts. Riding elephants down the street, exploiting his sexy female consorts both professionally and personally, and generally doing whatever the hell he wants in his own fiefdom, Doc is an eye-opening subject on his own, and it’s no wonder that Joe saw him as a mentor and model to emulate.
To its hysterical credit, Tiger King feature an avalanche of additional lunacy. Joe using expired Walmart meat to feed his tigers and his employees. Joe going on CBS This Morning and saying that if someone tries to take away his animals, “It’s going to be a small Waco.” Travis Maldonado, one of Joe’s two husbands (the threesome got married in a joint ceremony), killing himself just off camera as another man watches in horror. Joe running for president, and then Oklahoma governor, and promoting the latter campaign with condoms decorated with his face. Joe illicitly embezzling funds from the zoo to pay for said campaign. Joe covering up his crimes by having someone commit arson by torching his recording studio (which also contained an alligator pen). Joe confessing, in an offhand comment that’s both stunning and, somehow, not stunning at all, that he’s had a Prince Albert since he was 18.
And did I mention that Joe also fancies himself a country music star, and that Tiger King is chockablock with clips from his cornball music videos—including one about Carol’s supposed crime?
Shrewdly assembled so that each mind-boggling bombshell flows naturally from the one that came before it, Tiger King proves to be a portrait of a fascinatingly unhinged impresario; a commentary on the desperate need for regulation of private wildlife ownership; a rip-roaring yarn of amateur-hour criminality; and a reminder that there’s never any honor among thieves—especially when they’re drugged-out morons.
It’s the definition of must-see train-wreck TV.
