Rocky Answers the Final Bell
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If you buy a ticket to “Rocky Balboa,” the fifth sequel to 1976’s classic, oft-parodied underdog flick, and you find yourself loathing this tale of an over-the-hill pugilist getting in the ring for one last fight, then it’s your own fault for buying the ticket.
After all, unless you’ve spent the last 30 years meditating atop a Himalayan mountain, you know what to expect: a noble doofus defying the odds, drinking raw eggs, training to Bill Conti’s discoage anthem “Gonna Fly Now.” The only difference between then and now is that writer-director-star Sylvester Stallone (yes, diehards, John Avildsen directed nos.1 and 5) is a ripe 60 years old, and he wants to say goodbye to his most famous character with sentimental style. If you ever found yourself tearing up to the Italian Stallion braying “Adrian!” after 10 rounds of face-pulverizing punishment, then this final entry in the series will recall a time before snark ruled, when it was okay to cheer on a hero whose only victory is going the distance.
More than just a boxing picture, the original “Rocky” was an ode to blue-collar grit and the power of love. It was a love story about a mush-mouthed meatball who wanted a shot at being champion and a painfully shy neighborhood girl (Talia Shire) who never needed the man she loved to wear a belt in order to win her heart. The moral of the original was simple: Life isn’t about proving to everyone you’re a champ, it’s about proving to yourself that you can compete. This might seem like hopelessly naïve hokum — unless you’re a post-post-ironist, which means you’ll love the embarrassing sincerity of it all.
Of course, between the original “Rocky” and now, there were four films of diminishing quality, including 1985’s patrio-erotic “Rocky IV,” in which the hero draped himself in the American flag after taking down the Soviets, and 1990’s instantly forgettable “Rocky V,” in which he retreated back to the poverty-as-honor platitude. This time, Mr. Stallone is reflective and mindful of a legacy; apparently, it is possible to age gracefully, even in Hollywood.
Returning to the gritty streets of Philadelphia, we find Rocky running a small Italian restaurant, shambling around his old stomping grounds, grieving over the death of his beloved wife. His son (played competently by Milo Ventimiglia) is a corporate wonk embarrassed by his father’s working-class aphorisms and has-been celebrity. Lonely and dissatisfied with his twilight years, Rocky plays surrogate father to a down-on-her luck single mother (a charming Geraldine Hughes) and babysits Uncle Paulie, Adrian’s bitter brother, played once again with gravely intensity by Burt Young.
In “Rocky Balboa,” Mr. Stallone takes a sly jab at professional boxing, a borderline corrupt sport that has seen better days. With umpteen associations and conferences and numerous divided titles, the sport is more in need of a hero than it has been in years. Enter Rocky.
Antonio Tarver, the real-life former light heavyweight champion, plays Mason “The Line” Dixon, the reigning champ who is reviled for his pomp, excess, and inability to find a contender who can last more than a few rounds. Dixon’s image is further damaged when ESPN stages a computer-generated mock bout between Dixon and Rocky. The hypothetical match between the champs of two eras inspires an exhibition fight between the two, but while Dixon is only concerned about the publicity, it allows Rocky a chance to fight one last time.
But not before Mr. Stallone ambles along for almost two-thirds of the movie focusing on Rocky’s retirement. Underplayed and heartfelt, these scenes are strangely compelling. As a director and writer, Mr. Stallone takes his time with his creation, as if saying a long goodbye. It’s not until the last act of the movie that we reach the crowd pleasing, fist-pumping parts — at which point they are more than welcome. The training scenes are exciting and, perhaps more important, plausible, and because of the care taken in uncoiling the preceding narrative, they are dramatically earned. Mr. Stallone serves up references to the first “Rocky,” and there’s a sickly warm nostalgia to see, for one last time, the old man hammer a side of beef, or run up those famous steps just to celebrate a small personal victory.
During the unexpectedly rousing climax, Rocky collapses in his corner and the screen momentarily goes black and white, except for streams of red blood flowing from our hero’s battered brow. That odd bit of film-school artistic flair explains Mr. Stallone’s creative attitude toward the final incarnation of his iconic creation: This is a serious finale. Granted, it would make a troop of Eagle Scouts roll their eyes. But like the character himself, Rocky is who Rocky is — no apologies for that fact. You can’t hate on Rocky. Well, actually, sure you can. Hate on him, he can take it. He can take any punch you throw at him. That’s the point.