Creed (2015)

By God, Rocky is back and so is the gritty, haunted, beautiful city Philadelphia that I still call home –- though I’ve long been gone and live in the sticks –- in “Creed,” the seventh “Rocky” film. 

Let’s not talk about parts 5 or 6. This is Creed’s story, not Apollo (Carl Weathers), but his illegitimate son’s, Adnois, played by Michael B. Jordan (“FruitvaleStation”). 

Adnois was born after his father died (killed by Drago in “IV,” recall?) yet has the burn to fight, and as a child he does that in juvie cells until the wife of his father, not his mother (Phylicia Rashad), saves him. Now an adult, Adnois fights bloodspots in shit Mexican rings at night and plays L.A. banker at day.  Until he quits the legit gig and goes to Philadelphia. Money? Not interested.

He wants to escape his father’s shadow, but goes to the one man who knew his father best, Rocky Balboa (Sylvester Stallone), the former champ, now a restaurant owner facing mortality.

Rocky refuses Adnois at first, but soon relents, training Adnois as Mickey (Burgess Meredith) did for Rocky 40 years ago. 

It all could be cliché, Ryan Coogler’s film, but it’s not. Coogler is a man who gets “Rocky,” never a film about the American Dream, but all those on the outside, the pissed upon in our Trickle Down Economy. I love the film “Rocky,” watch it yearly, and remember those Kensington streets well, my childhood church is there. I was baptized in Kensington. My grandparents are from there.

Rocky’s neighborhood. I know ’El, and Coogler knows Philly is as much a part of “Rocky” as the Italian Stallion, that the city is fucked and amazing, and that Rocky was a fuck up going nowhere until he found Mickey and Adrian (Talia Shire), the former who trained him, the latter who saved him. Otherwise Rocky would have ended up dead or in prison. 

Adnois is of the same cloth. A fuck up, stearing wildly who rejected easy success, he is trained by Rocky, and saved my neighbor Bianca (Tessa Thompson), a musician going deaf. That could be melodrama bullshit, but Coogler plays it real: No matter how hard you work, life will fuck you, that’s reality. 

I will not divulge the rest of the film. Yes, a big bout happens against a world-renowned portrait, but Coogler paints in all grays. Villains? None, just uneasy ethics and wrong choices, and men seeking redemption, fighting inner demons. 

Jordan is magnetic in this film, as he was in “Fruitvale.” And Stallone here is better than he has been in decades, back to the average guy in a rowhouse in “Rocky,” not the superhero bullshit that came in the later flag waver films. Fame, money, all the capitalistic is shit, fake, the golden calf. Adrian was Rocky’s life and glory.

That final scene in “Rocky,” him defeated, but defiant, kills me now, because all he wants is Talia. To hold her. 

She’s gone now, and Rocky is slipping fast, and those Philly Art Museum stairs are now near impossible. You have seen the trailers. You will cry here. (Stallone, you beautiful bastard, you are forgiven for “Grudge Match.”) 

This is the story of a rising star indeed in Jordan and Creed, off screen and on, but it’s also the story of one guy and one city that will cling on, and walk on. Grit and shit and beauty, and contradictions, and Coogler plays those contradictions beautifully, his hero a man who refuses his father’s name, but plays projected video of the man’s 40-year-old boxing clips, fighting him on screen, he in the place of Rocky, punching and lunging at his own past, his dead father. Best scene of the film.

What an incredible film. Ludwig Goransson’s score is riveting and borrows motifs beautifully from Bill Conti’s original. Coogler deserves all the credit. He’s made a film that’s no franchise reboot, but a love letter that floored me. Jordan will be a star. Coogler a legend. Stallone could retire triumphant, hands raised in the air becuase he has finally given his character eternal greatness. 

This is the series I love, the city I love, and damn it did my hear good t see this. I need to get back home. Coogler, thak you. Jordan, thank you. Cinematographer Maryse Alberti, I thank you. A

The Hunger Games: Mockingjay, Part II (2015) and one more Movie Round Up

Don’t let any of this let you think I don’t bow to the acting power that is Jennifer Lawrence … or Donald Sutherland, the latter one of my favorite actors, whether he’s saint or sinner. But, barely 400 pages, The Hunger Games: Mockingjay did not deserve two films. Yet here we are, me watching a two-hour-plus film of the back half of a slim YA novel that was a quick dystopian read, but can’t sustain 4-plus hours of film. Serious time suck. You know the plot? Teenage hero Katniss Everdeen (Lawrence) lives in a “Nineteen Eighty-Four” world with Sutherland as a fascist dictator who hosts annual war games on TV with kids killing kids, for fun. Rebellion hits. This is the final (final) fight-the-power war film, but a slog; limp where it ought to bite. Author Suzanne Collins never had the drama for this much movie. Katniss suffers a devastating loss midway through. On page, it killed. On screen, it whimpers. Two films one year apart, the tension vaporizes. “Mockingjay” ought to leave a viewer restless, dizzy, hungry. This third sequel, coupled with its cringing long first half left me tired, listless. RIP Philip Seymour Hoffman in his final film. B-

Dwayne Johnson battles an angry Earth in San Andreas (2015), a goofy earthquake drama that matches endless CGI to 1970s disaster flick kicks. Millions die. Johnson saves his family. F those other people. A film made to endlessly mock, safely from the East Coast. B

In The Swarm (1978), a regretful-looking Michael Caine plays a scientist battling a massive bee attack on America. The bees aren’t the threat. It’s the dialogue: “By tomorrow there will be no more Africans,” a hero says. Seriously. A white guy says that. One wonders how this movie ever saw the light of day. D-

Gaslight (1944) is so famous a mind-fuck film, the title has become its own phrase, Gaslighting. Ingrid Bergman plays a young wife driven mad by her husband (Charles Bergman) in a mystery plot that still burns. Fantastic photography and a great performance by Bergman, with Angela Lansbury, too. Watch it, with the lights out. A

Matt Damon goes to Iraq in The Green Zone (2010), a war drama that takes on the great WMD FUBAR by the Bush Administration, but with such a heavy lib hand of self-righteous finger-waving, Michael Moore might weep. Paul Greengrass directs. Less is more, guys. B-

I re-watched Casino Royale (2006) weeks before new Bond film “Spectre” came out. I post out of order. Forget that film. This is classic. Daniel Craig’s first outing sticks (kind of) close to Ian Fleming’s book with untested 007 taking on an arms-dealing crook (Mads Mikkelsen) at a poker table. Brutal, thrilling, and constrained, this is near Bond’s best. A

Robert Mitchum is one of my favorite actors. He sells everything he ever did with seemingly no effort, a guy who has done more off screen than most heroes and villains have on. In Yakuza (1974), Mitchum is a WWII vet who returns to Japan as a private dick to do private dick stuff, and gets roped in a conspiracy dating back 30 years. The clunky swords-and-guns finale is way much, the thump chopping way way much, but there’s a pulse of haunted, ragged blood in this Sydney Pollack film that can’t be faked. B+

Tim Burton’s best film remains Edward Scissorhands (1990) a satire and love story about a misfit boy (Johnny Depp with little dialogue, but perfect) left incomplete by his kindly creator (Vincent Piece, in his final role). Instead of fingers, Edward has long sharp scissors that can slice his own face and slice others. Taken in by a Florida family (Alan Arkin and Diane Wiest) with a teen daughter (Winona Ryder), Edward learns the American Dream is lovely, as long as you never question the American Dream. Burton has rarely worked with a more soulful, playful screenplay, and he is given a masterpiece score by Danny Elfman. Ryder dancing in a storm of ice iBurton’s best moment, ever so brief, as she is cut deep, and accidentally, by Edward and blood spills. As remarkable as when I first saw it. A

Midnight Run (1988) -– never saw it until now, imagine that -– is part of the 1980s staple of buddy flicks, mismatched characters played by marque actors bicker and fight ’ti they have be friends. “48 Hrs.” “Lethal Weapon.” “Trading Places.” Y’know, right? Here, Robert De Niro is an ex-cop turned bounty hunter taking Charles Grodin’s thieving mob accountant with a heart of gold to jail. Cross county. By car, train, biplane, and foot. Funny. Smart. With an edge. Grodin driving De Niro nuts is great, great fun. B+

Spectre (2015)

James Bond returns and so does another “B” name guy in “Spectre,” Daniel Craig’s fourth 007, starting were 2012’s bloody “Skyfall” ended, with Sam Medes again as director. We open on Mexico City on Dia de Muertos with Bond, silent, glaring, and donning a skull mask as he stalks a man in a white suit. A religious parade blares on the street as Bond creeps on rooftops. “Godfather, Part II” vibes bounce hard. Bond takes his shot. Boom. Shit hits. Roll song. It’s down hill after. The song’s a shrieky-dude bust, and the movie that follows has great moments –- Craig fights a silent, giant killer (Dave Bautista) aboard a train as in “Russia With Love,” but when we get to the big bad in this big data flick, “Spectre” turns into a goddamn joke. And Christoph Waltz -– he of “Inglorious Basterds” fame –- is the punchline. He plays He Who Should Have Remained Unnamed with the lamest motive I’ve seen in years. It’s not “Quantum of Solace” or some other series duds –- what’s the one with Halle Berry? -– but this one flick trashes four. Even new-era champ “Casino Royale.” B-