I first saw Rocky in the theater when I was a little kid back in the 1976 and remember liking it, though being a bit bored during the whole Adrian romantic subplot. If it inspired me to want to be a boxer, which it no doubt did for many young boys of that era, it soon got swamped in my imagination by more kid-friendly fodder like Star Wars, War Games, and Raiders of the Lost Ark.
Like all classic movies it's easy to take Rocky for granted. But watching it again this weekend I was reminded that it is an extraordinary film. Never mind that Stallone has not come close to repeating its success (artistically) since then and his name has long ago become a punch line. His screenplay for Rocky is exquisite, and his performance unforgettable. It's no wonder that critics compared him to a young Marlon Brando. And in fact, Rocky has much in common with Brando's similarly iconic Terry Malloy in On The Waterfront. A couple of boxing bums wrestling with redemption.
It's funny how unreliable memory can be. For the last, oh, 30 years or so, I've been operating on the assumption that, of course, Rocky won his first epic fight with Apollo Creed by knocking him out in the last round. So I was shocked to discover that it actually ends in a split decision. I was also amazed that Rocky is in reality a gritty, soulful, kitchen-sink drama bookended by two boxing bouts which has more in common with Paddy Chayevsky's Marty, for instance, than other underdog sports films such as director John Avildsen's later The Karate Kid.
There are so many smart, pitch-perfect, gutsy little choices in Stallone's screenplay where he pours honest emotion and breathes real life into scenes instead of following some stale formula. The long take of him staring slack-jawed at the picture in the mirror of himself as a boy. No words, just the soul-searching look on his face and the silent eloquence of his sorry apartment all around him. Another long take of him dragging himself out of bed before dawn, cracking precisely six raw eggs into a glass and gulping it down. (Is that really healthy? Doesn't matter. You buy it because it's sold so well.) Then willing his tired bones out the door and lumbering around Philadelphia in what passes for a morning jog. The pet-shop scenes where he babbles like a lovestruck schoolboy at the virtually unresponsive Adrian. Huffing after ice-skating Adrian in the otherwise empty rink in his loafers, the ill-tempered owner counting down the lousy 10 minutes he grants them off-screen as Rocky desperately attempts to make a connection with her. (It would have been so easy to have Rocky lusting after some beautiful blonde, or perhaps trying to reform a sexy stripper or hooker, but, no, he chooses mousy, introverted Adrian. I didn't get it when I was a kid, but I get it now. They match. They "fill each other's gaps.") Another long, quiet take of Rocky alone in the giant empty arena the night before the fight. (Note to screenwriters everywhere: don't be afraid of strategically placed long takes, even wordless ones – they can accomplish just as much as dialogue, often more).
But the most extraordinary scene is between Rocky and grizzled, miserable old trainer Mick in Rocky's apartment. Mick finds out Rocky is getting the chance to fight Apollo, knows he's been a bastard to Rocky all these years, but pathetically tries to make nice so he can share a bit of the limelight as Rocky's trainer. Rocky resents the hell out of the two-faced little front runner for it, but grudgingly hears the old man out. He bites his tongue, tries to hold his emotions in check, until Mick gets the message that he's not wanted and exits. And then Rocky erupts in an electrifying tirade, unleashing all the hurt feelings and blows to his pride he's kept inside for years in the now empty apartment while Mick listens meekly at the bottom of the stairs. But it doesn't end there, lamely and predictably, with the underdog more determined than ever to go it alone. If Rocky is going to have a shot, any shot at all, with Creed, he knows he NEEDS Mick. Pride be damned. He races after Mick and catches up to him at the end of the street in a beautiful, silent, unbroken long shot. An arm around the shoulder. A handshake. I've done my venting. All is forgiven. Let's roll.
Rocky also boasts perhaps the second most memorable film theme music by Bill Conti, right behind John Williams' score for Jaws, and fine supporting performances from Talia Shire, Burgess Meredith, Burt Young, Carl Weathers, and Joe Spinnell, not to mention inspired direction from Avildsen. So Stallone didn't quite become the next Brando. How's the old saying go? Better to have been compared to Brando once than to have never been compared to Brando at all. Rocky remains Stallone's shining hour.
Like all classic movies it's easy to take Rocky for granted. But watching it again this weekend I was reminded that it is an extraordinary film. Never mind that Stallone has not come close to repeating its success (artistically) since then and his name has long ago become a punch line. His screenplay for Rocky is exquisite, and his performance unforgettable. It's no wonder that critics compared him to a young Marlon Brando. And in fact, Rocky has much in common with Brando's similarly iconic Terry Malloy in On The Waterfront. A couple of boxing bums wrestling with redemption.
It's funny how unreliable memory can be. For the last, oh, 30 years or so, I've been operating on the assumption that, of course, Rocky won his first epic fight with Apollo Creed by knocking him out in the last round. So I was shocked to discover that it actually ends in a split decision. I was also amazed that Rocky is in reality a gritty, soulful, kitchen-sink drama bookended by two boxing bouts which has more in common with Paddy Chayevsky's Marty, for instance, than other underdog sports films such as director John Avildsen's later The Karate Kid.
There are so many smart, pitch-perfect, gutsy little choices in Stallone's screenplay where he pours honest emotion and breathes real life into scenes instead of following some stale formula. The long take of him staring slack-jawed at the picture in the mirror of himself as a boy. No words, just the soul-searching look on his face and the silent eloquence of his sorry apartment all around him. Another long take of him dragging himself out of bed before dawn, cracking precisely six raw eggs into a glass and gulping it down. (Is that really healthy? Doesn't matter. You buy it because it's sold so well.) Then willing his tired bones out the door and lumbering around Philadelphia in what passes for a morning jog. The pet-shop scenes where he babbles like a lovestruck schoolboy at the virtually unresponsive Adrian. Huffing after ice-skating Adrian in the otherwise empty rink in his loafers, the ill-tempered owner counting down the lousy 10 minutes he grants them off-screen as Rocky desperately attempts to make a connection with her. (It would have been so easy to have Rocky lusting after some beautiful blonde, or perhaps trying to reform a sexy stripper or hooker, but, no, he chooses mousy, introverted Adrian. I didn't get it when I was a kid, but I get it now. They match. They "fill each other's gaps.") Another long, quiet take of Rocky alone in the giant empty arena the night before the fight. (Note to screenwriters everywhere: don't be afraid of strategically placed long takes, even wordless ones – they can accomplish just as much as dialogue, often more).
But the most extraordinary scene is between Rocky and grizzled, miserable old trainer Mick in Rocky's apartment. Mick finds out Rocky is getting the chance to fight Apollo, knows he's been a bastard to Rocky all these years, but pathetically tries to make nice so he can share a bit of the limelight as Rocky's trainer. Rocky resents the hell out of the two-faced little front runner for it, but grudgingly hears the old man out. He bites his tongue, tries to hold his emotions in check, until Mick gets the message that he's not wanted and exits. And then Rocky erupts in an electrifying tirade, unleashing all the hurt feelings and blows to his pride he's kept inside for years in the now empty apartment while Mick listens meekly at the bottom of the stairs. But it doesn't end there, lamely and predictably, with the underdog more determined than ever to go it alone. If Rocky is going to have a shot, any shot at all, with Creed, he knows he NEEDS Mick. Pride be damned. He races after Mick and catches up to him at the end of the street in a beautiful, silent, unbroken long shot. An arm around the shoulder. A handshake. I've done my venting. All is forgiven. Let's roll.
Rocky also boasts perhaps the second most memorable film theme music by Bill Conti, right behind John Williams' score for Jaws, and fine supporting performances from Talia Shire, Burgess Meredith, Burt Young, Carl Weathers, and Joe Spinnell, not to mention inspired direction from Avildsen. So Stallone didn't quite become the next Brando. How's the old saying go? Better to have been compared to Brando once than to have never been compared to Brando at all. Rocky remains Stallone's shining hour.