Mr. T Calls Netflix Documentary About His Life 'Garbage' and Accuses Filmmakers of Controlling Black Narratives

He built his name on straight talk, and at 74, Mr. T hasn't lost the habit. The cultural icon born Laurence Tureaud has gone on the record to savage Netflix's upcoming documentary about his life — the very project he agreed to participate in — branding it "garbage" and accusing its makers of attempting to control a Black man's story.

The documentary, Untold Mr. T: I Pity the Fool, directed by Scott Weintrob, is set to premiere on Netflix on 8 September 2026. It promises a whistlestop tour through Mr. T's extraordinary life: from a poverty-stricken childhood on the south side of Chicago, to global superstardom as BA Baracus in The A-Team, to a cancer diagnosis and his subsequent withdrawal from the spotlight. But according to Mr. T himself, the finished film falls wildly short of telling his real story.

Speaking to the Guardian ahead of the premiere, Mr. T made no attempt to soften his verdict. "The documentary pissed me off, because they didn't cover a lot of stuff," he said. "When I saw it I was like: 'What the heck?' It's garbage. You build me up, then you try to punk me out."

His central complaint is one of omission. Filming began last Easter, and Mr. T says he gave extensive access — yet the finished product focused almost entirely on his Hollywood and professional wrestling career, glossing over the pillars he considers most important to his identity: his Christian faith, his family values, and his charitable work.

It's a pointed grievance from a man for whom faith is non-negotiable. When this writer connected with Mr. T ahead of publication, he explained his lateness to the call with characteristic bluntness: "You caught me in my devotion, and nothing comes before God. So I won't say I apologise for the delay. I just want you to know that God comes first in all my life." A man who opens an interview like that will not take kindly to seeing his pastor reduced to a footnote.

Beyond the editorial frustrations, Mr. T raised a deeper and more pointed objection — one rooted in race and representation.

It's a charge that carries weight. Mr. T's life story is, in many respects, a quietly radical one. Born Lawrence Tureaud, he grew up in poverty on Chicago's south side, one of 12 children raised by his mother after his minister father left when he was five. Aged 18, enraged by the disrespect shown to Black men in his family — including a brother who returned from Vietnam in uniform only to be called "Boy" by white strangers — he legally changed his name to Mr T. "I self-ordained myself Mr T," he has said, "so the first word out of everyone's mouth would be Mr."

That act of self-naming was a statement, not a gimmick. And it speaks to exactly the kind of substance Mr. T feels the documentary has flattened in favour of wrestling clips and A-Team highlights.

What makes Mr. T's fury particularly compelling is the broader context of his life. It is more than 32 years since he last appeared in a wrestling match, 35 years since a significant acting role, and 39 years since The A-Team ended its original run. By any conventional logic, he should be a distant memory. Yet here he is — still a household name, still capable of making headlines, and still, evidently, capable of astonishing candour.

Despite his frustration, Mr. T has been clear that his displeasure is aimed at the documentary's execution, not at his life itself. He remains proud of what he has achieved, and — true to form — shows no sign of retreating into dignified silence.

Netflix has not publicly commented on Mr. T's criticisms ahead of the 8 September premiere. Whether the documentary's portrait of the man matches the man himself is something audiences will now be able to judge for themselves. Given his verdict, they may find the gap more interesting than the film.