Confession time: this is the first Rocky movie I’ve ever seen. Sure, I know the “iconic moments” or whatever, but I came into this not knowing a lick about the Italian Stallion. Fortunately for me, there was a handy montage half an hour or so into the movie that DEFINITELY wasn’t padding it for time to help explain previous fights Balboa had been in. It’s always the same story arc anyhow, far as I can tell: scrappy fighter overcomes the odds to put up a fight (even if he doesn’t win, like in the first one—I know that, too!). Sylvester Stallone’s ego had passed that point by the fourth iteration, so of course Rocky here has to completely defeat the Soviet mindset. This fight is so much more than just a bout of boxing, as a song reminds the viewer. It’s you against you. East versus West, or man against man? Such are the deep thoughts of this writer-director-actor-mumbler.
Among other things, this movie is certifiably the least gay piece of cinema ever to grace the silver screen. Dudes frolicking on the beach as the song lyrics “Hearts on fire / Strong desire” play? Straight af. Cameras panning lovingly over sweaty male bodies? Someone dial 1-800-HETERO-STUFF. The protagonist showing up late to a birthday because he’s too busy with punchy foreplay with aforementioned beach frolicking partner and then abandoning wife and son to avenge his death? Top 10 Things Oscar Wilde Definitely Would Never Have Written. Sports movies always seem to flirt with the not-gays, but not every movie features such lavish explorations of the trope as this.
Montages. Holy fucking shit. The montages on this thing. It must be at least a third just dudes working out as music plays. Stallone must have heard about that whole show-don’t-tell thing and taken it to its logical extreme, layering sequence after sequence that contrast the laboratory precision of Ivan Drago’s workout routine (complete with glaring red lights, because, y’know, he’s a Commie) against the homespun ingenuity of Rocky Balboa sawing longs and chopping down trees. There’s even a recap montage over the credits for those with the attention span and recall ability of goldfish.
Intense nationalism is also at the fore, and fault can be found on both fronts. Make no mistake, the film is ‘merican and works double overtime to remind the viewer of that in back-to-back montages contrasting Rocky’s scrappy wilderness training routine against Ivan’s cocktail of anabolic steroids and precision-science-stuff gym workouts, all culminating in potentially the worst helicopter shot of all time as Rocky bellows Drago’s name from a mountaintop. But in the ring, shallow showmanship is king. Before Apollo Creed’s doomed exposition match, the lead-up to the American combatant’s introduction borders on farce: this is the American excess that Soviets so stereotypically despise. An Uncle Sam’ed up Creed flounces among hordes of showgirls as James Brown belts “Living in America.” It becomes almost embarrassing to witness this athlete skirting that border between confidence and hubris as Drago stares on, a mixture of confusion and cultivation of hatred. But the Russian athlete isn’t free of guilt: the USSR national anthem features a massive poster of Ivan Drago, their new golden god, in a less showy but more politically effective demonstration of mastery. The moments very clearly parallel in their “pride goeth before the fall” sentiment. Rocky states everyone can change in a closing speech, but perhaps some things remain constant.
A song begins. HEARTSSS ON FIIIIIIRE
Dolph Lundgren has really pillowy lips.
Rocky pushes Ivan in the ring.
Hammer and sickle imagery in a scene.
LIVER TRANSPLANT WAITLIST MODE
Sip every time Sylvester Stallone is just impossible to understand. He’s like the proto Vin Diesel.
