THE RING, THE STING AND THE ICONIC STEPS

DIRECTED BY JOHN G. AVILDSEN

STARRING: SYLVESTER STALLONE, TALIA SHIRE, BURT YOUNG, BURGESS MEREDITH, CARL WEATHERS, THAYER DAVID and JOE SPINNELL

It’s hard not to like Rocky Balboa. Anthony Gazzo (Joe Spinnell) would agree with me in spite of the fact that his star henchman hands a fair share of pardon votes without consent or consultation. And in that, he fails to be a good debt-collector, while his debt-collecting activities makes Coach Mickey (Burgess Meredith) scorn his talent in boxing. He punches dents on his opponent to make up for his lack of grace in a sort of counter-balance of abilities. He’s modeled on Rocky Marciano in a Chuck Wepner plot, both of which are duly notified – he worships one and quotes the other regarding his duel with the legendary Muhammed Ali, who in turn is personified in Heavyweight champion Apollo Creed (Carl Weathers). It’s astonishing how much consistency in detail that Sylvester Stallone manages to empower the film with, all balanced on the very broad shoulders of his majestic performance.

Stallone the actor and Stallone the writer never try to emulate each other. The writer knows exactly what the actor is capable of doing, while the actor has an impeccable idea on what the writer wishes to channelize through him. Of course, this would be the case with any other writer-actor, right from the inimitable Chaplin through the likes of Woody Allen, down to George Clooney (in ‘Good Night and Good Luck’) and even Seth Rogen (in ‘Superbad’). But Stallone, we see self-satisfaction - he doesn't try too hard. It’s a casual, yet adequate performance in a script where there are no surprises. The emphasis is neither on conceptual intricacies nor in portrayal of the down-on-luck Boxer who corks his anger inside a Samaritan bottle that cracks but just once. Instead, all focus has been directed in making ‘Rocky’ the most stylish film that Hollywood has ever seen, where every sequence would render itself memorable, some even to fever pitch. And it accomplishes that rather royally, without as much as a whiff of anything deliberately provocative. We have a Gangster, but not a gun. We have a charming woman in Adrian (Talia Shire) and there’s Rocky’s relationship with her, without shedding a single garment that her introversion wouldn’t allow. And we have sport – deep, passionate sport – without cheap thrills or a manipulated ending.

In short, ‘Rocky’ does what his cinematic peers from the past, present and future have done, except he does it effortlessly, being full aware of both capabilities and requirements. His strength isn’t showcased, his perseverance flickers, but his sincerity never changes course. He’s human, and he’s got game.

Sports films usually tend to explore the sportsman’s psyche through the game he plays and the way he plays it. Stallone was one of the very first to distinctively focus on his activities off the field to explain his behavior when on the field; to justify his rationale. ‘Rocky Balboa’, the last installment, finessed this to overwhelming proportions. In ‘Rocky’, we catch a glimpse. Stallone captures his suburban grit as well as the lack of it in a package of such boyish charm that his Rocky endears beyond mention. The effect is made even more pronounced by a simplistic background score that keeps its faith (and brilliantly so!) to the single track in ‘Gonna Fly Now’ composed by Bill Conti. And to top it all, there’s a certain rawness in in the film’s friendly locales, which complements Stallone’s down-to-earth rendition, thus making us feel like we’re a part of the town. We root more for the kindhearted bum from the neighbourhood than a representative of anything heroic about cinema and its protagonists. The effect is uncanny.

But ‘Rocky’ is anything but realistic. It’s an exaggerated drama saturated with heroic moments in simple premise. It’s not cinematic, but it’s well-directed. It’s a pure, honest-to-the-core entertainer that banks its success entirely on how endearing its characters turn out to be. And in that, it’s a ten on ten.

A HELL OF A LAST DANCE

DIRECTED BY SYLVESTER STALLONE

STARRING: SYLVESTER STALLONE, BURT YOUNG, ANTONIO CARVER, MILO VENTIMIGLIA, GERALDINE HUGHES, TONY BURTON and TALIA SHIRE

“Ain’t nothing’s over till it’s over.” Sylvester Stallone couldn’t have said more about the film than by just making it. And ‘Rocky Balboa’ could be no clearer than the fight it carries that it’s no last gasp for breath. A striking metaphor, a sweet parallel with the veteran’s distinctively obvious, real-life angst that he’s got enough of the fight in him for one last shot – and that he’s not going to let it be a tease or a soporific recollection, but a full-blooded blow. The stage is set, and the result - obvious; but that doesn't mean one shouldn't take strike, does it?

There really is not much to talk about this film, there’s barely anything new but it’s all in good faith. It’s a return for those who grew up in those suburbs, who ran up the steps with the campaigner and celebrated his leap at the Town Hall. It’s a jab in the gut, maybe even a low-blow for us youngsters who contrive this belief that a shot is only as good as we take it to be – to a generation that’s almost completely lost it in the only genuine human instinct that is to retaliate; to respond to stimulus. It’s a lesson learned, not one forgotten, for no one’s teaching it anymore. And he sensed the void, this man who once taught it, and he’s back not to up the game but to show us how it’s really played.

A sincere exposition of the man behind the man, not to mention the man himself. Rocky Balboa plays the hand he’s got – one of lead, with a solid arm to back it up with. And so does Sylvester Stallone.

But I thought the fight needed more emphasis, it was more or less the whole film. It’s technically both the bang as well as the silence before it, I thought we could have used more detail without touching the time. That’s like ten sets of three with a few minutes in between, and give a few, take a few, I thought we were looking at a half-hour in the bag for sure. Speaking of which, in the forecasted power-game, lasting all ten rounds made me a little too skeptical. We know the horse saves its whinnies for a hard drop-kick, but I couldn’t see it to the finish line, especially since we know it’s not just a horse but a carriage now. And no, I’m definitely not criticizing the victory, which is but the man’s symbolic representation that he’s at ease with those around him and that he was merely grabbing an opportunity that was given to him in the first place, with all respect that he happened to command. Something explained in the pat-on-the-back he gives his competitor in the end, a nice little thumbs-up to carry on with the good work, a ‘thanks for your time’ and a sigh of relief that clearly says “That’s it, I’m done.”

So yeah, that’s it. I’d have liked a shorter, sensible fight, a longer run, a relapse of ‘the Eye of the Tiger’ and he didn’t even jump up the steps this time! Well, maybe that’s a shame, but the film isn’t. Rocky Balboa stands tall amidst the ruins he left himself in, a sculpture at his best but definitely not of body-art. He’s 217 pounds of ‘solid’.