CHICAGO — I met Mr. T in the late 1970s, before he became one of the most recognizable people on the planet as a star in film and TV, a cartoon character in books and TV, pitchman for a shelf full of products from socks to cereal, smiled as first lady Nancy Reagan sat on his lap, and tore down a bunch of trees in Lake Forest.

I first met him when he was a doorman and bouncer at a bygone nightclub disco named Dingbats, a place where he adopted the bejeweled look and distinctive hairdo that started his road to stardom.

Seeing him again over the 48-some minutes of “Untold Mr. T: I Pity the Fool,” the latest in Netflix’s “Untold” documentary series, is to be reminded what a massive star he was and learn of his life after the spotlights dimmed. It’s a relatively scandal-free journey and one that makes it almost impossible not to admire this one-of-a-kind persona and appreciate his resiliency and, frankly, soulfulness.

It premiered Tuesday on the streaming platform but started making news days before. By news, I mean such screeching headlines as “Mr. T slams new Netflix documentary about his life as ‘garbage’: ‘It pissed me off.’” The seed of this media avalanche of disdain was an interview he gave to the Guardian, the British newspaper.

Mr. T’s reaction came as a great surprise to the director of the documentary.

“Yes, that did get a bit of attention,” said Scott Weintrob. “I will tell you that when Mr. T and some of his relatives and friends walked out of the first screening of the film, he said he loved it. He was hugging everybody. I was pleased that he was pleased.”

Understandably, after the Guardian story, planned interviews with Mr. T were canceled, and so I will wait for him to be available. When and if that happens, I will happily tell him that I am sorry he didn’t like what is an interesting and entertaining film. Of course, 48 minutes is not enough to capture every detail of his busy life, but what it does, it does well.

Before Mr. T became one of the most recognizable people on the planet, he was born Laurence Tureaud on May 21, 1952. He was the youngest among his seven brothers and four sisters, raised primarily in a three-bedroom apartment in the then-new Robert Taylor Homes, that bygone housing project that hugged the Dan Ryan Expressway. “Poor Black people on top of each other,” he says.

By the time he got to Dunbar High School, he was a muscular kid. From there, the documentary skips such details as his winning city wrestling championships; playing football so proficiently that he had a scholarship to play at Prairie View A&M University; and returning to Chicago to work in the housekeeping department of a downtown hotel.

The film does tell of his toting a shotgun back to the old neighborhood to take revenge on two “thugs” who had robbed his mother. “I had to do what I had to do,” he says.

The film doesn’t mention a three-year-long job with Operation Impact as a gym instructor. He then enlisted in the U.S. Army. While stationed at South Carolina’s Fort Jackson, he served in the Military Police Corps. After his discharge in the late 1970s, he tried out for the Green Bay Packers but failed to make the team.

It was around this time that he became “Mr. T,” the reason why being one of this film’s most uplifting stories and also began nurturing what he called “my style,” which consisted of three-piece suits, a derby hat, cane and the hairstyle inspired by that of Africa’s Mandinka warriors.

The film does give us his start in a career defined by the business card, “Mr. T Bodyguard Extraordinaire. Next to God there is no better protector than I.” He wound up working for a large number of people, which included most prominently the boxer Leon Spinks. This work was supplemented by his duties at Dingbats.

The meaning behind his gold chains and other jewelry is interesting, as is the fact that most of it consisted of items customers had lost or left behind at the club.

In the early 1980s, he participated in an NBC-TV show titled “America’s Toughest Bouncer.” Sylvester Stallone was watching and arranged for him, along with 1,500 other Black men, to audition for the role of boxer Clubber Lang in “Rocky III.”

He got the part, of course, and was terrific. Stardom came quick, TV interviews ensued (Letterman most prominently), and a couple of film offers. He was cast in the NBC series, “The A-Team,” starring George Peppard. But Mr. T was the real star, heading a ratings winner that was shown in 70-some countries.

There was a Saturday morning cartoon show and product endorsements aplenty (“I pity the fool who don’t eat my cereal!”). The film fails to mention that he admirably turned down millions to promote a booze brand because he did not want children to see him do so.

He was part of public service announcements of the “stay in school and don’t do drugs” sort in the company of then-first lady Nancy Reagan (sitting on his lap and kissing him on the forehead).

The international frenzy and fame only increased with his 1985 participation in WrestleMania with Hulk Hogan at Madison Square Garden. (His hero, Muhammad Ali, served as referee).

The money, of course, poured in, and there were a few familial lawsuits, and locals with long memories will be disappointed that the film doesn’t mention what happened after he purchased a 10,000-square-foot mansion in Lake Forest in 1986. Remember? He angered neighbors and made national headlines by cutting down more than 100 oak trees on the 8.5-acre estate. He claimed to have done so because the trees bothered his allergies.

It’s a dizzying life, but one slowed in 1995 by his long but successful battle against T-cell lymphoma. That also, he says, “(Made me) put everything in perspective. I asked myself, ‘What impact have I made on society?’”

That has taken the form of his visits to fan expos and autograph shows, where he has sincere interactions with old fans. It also is part of his relationship with and outreach for his longtime pastor, Rev. Henry Hardy of Cosmopolitan Community Church on the South Side, who says of Mr. T, “Once he became successful he never forgot where he came from.”

Commentary from actor and TV host Terry Crews and local sports columnist Scoop Jackson is smart and lively. Mr. T’s daughter, Erica Clark, one of his three children, is pleasant enough, but I wish the film had offered some of her routines from her successful stand-up comedy career, which contain quite funny stories about growing up as Mr. T’s daughter.

I could have done without his former agent, Peter Young, who adds very little. Mr. T obviously felt the same way, telling the Guardian, “We told (director Weintrob) ‘Don’t put Peter in my doc,’ but he did.”

Mr. T is 74 years old now. He lives here and in New Mexico. He may not be happy with the documentary about his life, but he can be proud of the life he has lived so far.

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(Rick Kogan is a columnist for the Chicago Tribune.)

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