Netflix's Untold: The Liver King is a riotous, 70-minute documentary exposing the raw truths behind Brian Johnson's primal persona, blending comedy and critique with savage precision.
In a world dominated by curated gym selfies and hypermasculine influencers, few have leaned into the absurd quite like Brian Johnson, better known as The Liver King. With his caveman ethos and a diet that defies medical advice, Johnson has become the latest subject of Netflix’s uproarious new installment in its Untold series, out Tuesday 13 May. Directed by Joe Pearlman, the documentary is an uproarious, often grotesque exploration of modern masculinity, influencer culture, and the fine line between satire and sincerity.
For those unfamiliar with Johnson, his doctrine of ancestral living involves shirtless yelling, pulling trucks with chains, and the daily consumption of raw animal organs—including, yes, a shocking number of testicles. He insists this lifestyle fosters virility and power, and his viral persona has amassed millions of followers and a supplement empire raking in over $100 million annually. But as Untold: The Liver King reveals, behind the screaming and sinew lies a meticulously manufactured myth, propped up by steroids, staged virality, and some truly disturbing parenting choices.
The Performance of Primal Power
The film opens with a surreal image: Johnson, half-naked and roaring, drags a truck across a suburban landscape. Behind him, his crew—other muscled men in primal cosplay—cheer and push. This isn’t a scene from a parody; it’s Johnson’s daily reality, broadcast to a phone-addicted audience he claims to disdain.
According to the documentary, Johnson’s success is no accident. He collaborates with marketing professionals to craft stunts designed for maximum viral impact, all while denouncing modernity’s supposed emasculation. As Untold peels back the veneer, we learn Johnson spends over $11,000 a month on steroids, despite his public denials. The irony? He delivers this confession directly to the camera, embodying a paradoxical honesty amid a sea of lies.
His mantra, “Why eat vegetables when you can eat testicles?”, encapsulates the bizarre humor of the documentary. Yet beneath the laughter is a critique of the very masculinity Johnson preaches. His sons, Rad “Ical” and Stryker “the Barbarian,” are subjected to the same lifestyle. They eat 15 raw eggs a day and avoid painkillers—even when injured—for fear of appearing weak. One scene shows Johnson encouraging them to dissect a still-warm bull in a field. The camera doesn’t flinch, and neither does the audience, likely out of morbid fascination.
A Masculinity Carved in Flesh
Pearlman’s documentary doesn’t just chronicle a man’s descent into self-parody; it investigates the cultural forces that allow such figures to thrive. Johnson is presented not as a freak anomaly, but as the logical endpoint of a culture obsessed with dominance, virility, and spectacle.
According to The Guardian, the film draws parallels with iconic exposés like Tiger King and Spinal Tap, combining humor with genuine unease. The Liver King, in this context, becomes a mirror reflecting society’s glorification of toxic traits disguised as empowerment. He is as much a product of Instagram algorithms as he is of his own trauma, notably the early loss of his father—a grief he now projects onto his children through relentless regimens and anti-modern posturing.
Despite his bluster, Johnson’s delusions unravel in intimate moments. His sons mock his outbursts, protective services make regular visits, and even he begins to crack under the weight of his contradictions. The film doesn’t ask us to pity him, but it does challenge viewers to reconsider how online fame and masculine ideals are constructed and consumed.
Is The Liver King a Joke, a Tragedy, or Both?
Clocking in at a lean 70 minutes, Untold: The Liver King is a taut, protein-packed tale that leaves viewers both horrified and howling. Its brevity enhances its impact, sidestepping the bloat of multi-episode docuseries and landing each absurd moment with surgical precision.
Joe Pearlman’s direction is key. His sly comedic touch keeps the tone buoyant even as the subject matter veers into the grotesque. As the sun sets on Johnson’s empire of raw meat and misplaced testosterone, we are left questioning how much of our media diet is as manufactured as his abdominal muscles.
So, is Brian Johnson a villain, a victim, or a symptom of a larger cultural sickness? Untold: The Liver King doesn’t offer a tidy answer—and that’s precisely what makes it so compelling.
