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

World War Z (2013)

Against all odds -– based on an episodic novel seemingly impossible to adapt straightforward, and a production history rife with massive re-shoots and enough upheaval to make James Cameron wince -– actor/producer/Robert Redford-blessed Brad Pitt has performed a miracle. He’s made a fun, smart, summer popcorn thriller with “World War Z.” (Max Brooks -- son of Mel -- wrote the cult novel, for which TV sensation “The Walking Dead” likely owes its existence.) 

Pitts plays Gerry Lane, a former United Nations special investigator of human rights abuses now a stay-at-home dad. Quickly in the film, Gerry and his doting wife (Mireille Enos) are driving their daughters in Center City Philadelphia when radio news pops of a rabies outbreak among humans, and then traffic around the family pops and booms as the city falls into mysterious chaos. (The editing in these scenes is jittery with fear and gripping as hell.) Gerry catches a glance: Deranged people attacking each other, biting arms and faces and legs, and spreading the inhuman malady, with eyes bulging and bones cracking with sick unnatural movement. 

Of course Gerry is needed for his wonder-boy skills, and the U.N. calls and saves him and family, before tasking our hero with the impossible: Find the origin of the outbreak and any possible cure before the humanity flat lines. With that, Gerry globetrots to South Korea, then Israel, then onward and outward, all the time thinking of his family. He’s a good dad first. (Debate the moral choices made here later, on your own time.)

Pitt and director Marc Forster, and a long gang of writers, including several “Lost” alumni, and some replacement director unknown, have nailed not just an undeniably cool version of the Brooks’ book, they also have cleared one other hurdle: Breaking from “Walking Dead” and other zombie horror classics, “Shaun of the Dead” among them. How so? They drop the “every man” angle and make this a mystery film from the top down, the world’s “police” attempting to beat a clock to save all of humanity. You can practically hear the “Law & Order” ka-klum! noise. And it works. 

Yes, the lack of any gore and guts for the PG-13 rating and the preordained knowledge that no one we care for, or Gerry cares for, will be chomped liver, breaks the dramatic weight, but the finale with Pitt staring down a zombie with an overbite is marvelous, chilling fun. Also kick-ass: A scene set inside a jumbo jet with a female Israeli soldier (Daniella Kertesz) saving our hero’s ass, plus the fall of Jerusalem is beautifully-played, large-scale CGI work seen from the eye of God. (Speaking of, the politics pitched here seem like a dare to the real world, and may be worth a second watch on their own.) 

If you need a hint of the behind-the-scenes “Z” chaos, look quick for actor Matthew Fox (also from “Lost”) as a helicopter pilot. He appears for only a few frames. In an original cut, he was a major character. But that I did not fully pick up on that in the theater? That’s as cool as taking out a zombie with a kro-bar and drinking a Pepsi to celebrate. And, yes, that happens. B+

42 (2013)

The story of Jackie Robinson -– the first African-American to cross the color line in baseball and swing a bat at a bunch of white guys –- needs no embellishments. It is one of the greatest of American stories, a man finding love, fame, strength, and most vital of all respect after sustaining unspeakable hate. But in Hollywood, every story needs a rewrite. OK, writer/director Brian Helgeland (he co-wrote “L.A. Confidential”) has a good film with “42,” and I cheered on newcomer Chadwick Boseman as Robinson, despite knowing every outcome, but the “clap here!” music score deafens, Robinson is treated like Jesus, and the go-capitalists! whack-off vibe reeks. Never mind the stock side characters: The gold-hearted mentor (Harrison Ford), the bus loads of reject bigots, and the one guy who must be reborn. “42” hits high marks, though, when it shows baseball as a, yes, glorious American pastime (long past?), but one marked with sin, as is all of America. Check the scenes across the American Northeast –- not just the South -– that show the extent of prejudice, and awe when rage overtakes Robinson. In Philly. Well done that. The title, and all its meanings, is simple brilliance. B

Silver Linings Playbook (2012)

Is there a better actress right now of the under-30 set than Jennifer Lawrence? She co-leads “Silver Linings Playbook,” a damn good comedy/drama about two troubled adults making a connection over -– of all things -– ballroom dancing. David Russell directs and wrote the screenplay (based on a book), and similar to his hit “Fighter,” rests the story on wondrous and maddening families. The lead is Bradley Cooper, giving a jaw-dropper performance unlike anything before, as Pat, a man near-disabled by bipolar disorder. Back home with his over-protective mom (Jacki Weaver) and over-bearing/OCC father (Robert De Niro), Pat crosses paths, via friends, with Tiffany (Lawrence), a young widow with her own set of issues, mainly sexual. Their relationship begins toxic, but there’s a romantic spark, they each have leapt over the cliff of sanity. If the finale is awkwardly, overly upbeat, refer back to the title: In a “Lord of the Flies” reality, we crave stories with silver linings. De Niro, after a long bout of sell-out performances, is marvelous. Lawrence (“Hunger Games” and “Winter’s Bone”) is the reason to see “Silver.” She’s 21, playing a slightly older unstable woman, flawlessly upstaging her co-stars. A-

Rocky (1975)

“Rocky” is near religion to me. No, it is religion. I grew up in Philly, and Rocky Balboa, played by Sylvester Stallone, was our god. These were not just “movies” to us kids back then. They were documents of our home. Rocky was one of us. Enough sentimentality, onto the film itself: Rocky is 30, piss poor, working for a “second rate loan shark” in Kensington, boxing on the side to make a couple bucks. He hates his life. Then he’s plucked from his rut to box Heavyweight Champ Apollo Creed for a set-up, bullshit New Year’s Day 1976 fight to marks the U.S.’s 200^th anniversary. The fight is fixed. Rocky does not stand a chance, and knows it. He cares not. He wants to prove to himself, his shy pet shop girlfriend Adrian (Talia Shire), and anyone who is ignorant of where Kensington is, that he matters, that he can go the distance, as he says. It’s hilarious that conservatives see “Rocky” as their film, when in fact this story is about the people left out of the American dream, pushed and punched around a boxing ring in a match where the rich always win. Always. One of my favorites. A+

Witness (1985)

I was raised in Philadelphia and spent a portion of every summer in or near Lancaster County, so watching Peter Weir’s “Witness” as a child was quite natural. I well knew the oddness of traveling from Philly’s concrete to Lancaster’s farms. That change is the heart of this thriller. Harrison Ford is John Book, a gruff Philly homicide detective suddenly in charge of an Amish boy (Lukas Haas) who witnesses a murder. The killers: Higher-ups in Book’s own department. Ambushed and wounded, Book books it for Amish Country, boy and his mom (Kelly McGillis) in tow. There, Book heals and immerses himself into the culture of a religious sect determined to ignore modern culture. Ford is great here, no sly winks as in “Indiana Jones.” Haas steals the film, all saucer–eyes full of curiosity and innocence that Book and the killers (led by Danny Glover) can’t even fathom. The climax has Philly’s violence coming hard to the country, and it is tense with one of the nastiest film deaths: Death by corn grain. Weir presents the Amish with awe and reverence, but still capable of prejudices and sin. The sexual content -- still controversial in Lancaster -- still pulsates. A

Rocky IV (1985)

I’m biased on any “Rocky” film. Back in Philly during the 1980s, when a “Rocky” movie was released, work, school, transportation, and pretzel-eating stopped. It was our civic duty in the City of Brotherly Love to watch the latest pounding and last-minute triumph of Rocky Balboa, patron saint of boxing, American flag boxers and Sylvester Stallone’s enduring career. Here, Rocky fights Russian behemoth Ivan Drago (Dolph Lundgren) who towers over our hero like a father to his toddler son. There is death (so long Apollo), there is Survivor (“Eye of the Tiger” never gets old) and training montages galore, before the grand finale. Stallone, also writing and directing, serves up the best storyline since the First Chapter, I mean the 1976 and Genesis, and a kick-ass rock-hard Cold War flick that seems genius now. Lundgren by sheer force takes the film, starting when he throws Carl Weathers across the ring as if he were a grocery sack. A true jaw-dropper scene even now. The fight scenes are bloody fantastic. Stallone was a god of my youth, I cannot criticize him. Everyone together: “Aaaddrriaaan!” A-

A History of Violence (2005)

David Cronenberg returns to his seemingly favorite theme of fraternal rivalry in “A History of Violence.” Here, a small-town diner owner Tom (Viggo Mortensen) kills with scary precision two psychotic murderers – possibly father and son -- who mean harm. Tom, injured in the melee, becomes a national hero. TV news crews visit. So does a black car with a grisly-scarred face thug (Ed Harris, never creepier) in the backseat. Creepy Ed says Tom ain’t Tom, he’s Philly mob man Joey, and brother Richie (William Hurt) wants him back in -- irony alert -- The City of Brotherly Love. Shockingly violent, critics hailed this as some mirror of American values. That’s a bit too deep. This is about family, brothers and fathers and sons, and the cold stone fact that if one is bred in violence, he will never, ever, escape it. History always repeats itself. Where ever you are. The wife’s (Mario Bella) horror and then carnal desire of her violent hubby is raw, as is the son, who learns that a fist and a gun will get you further than a book and a joke. Fascinating throughout, the final silent scene is a beaut. A

Devil (2010)

How long can a guy dig on a movie’s credit sequence without coming off as a bore? At the opening of “Devil,” a quickie horror film about Satan wrecking havoc in an office-tower, the camera races toward a topsy-turvy Philadelphia. Buildings hang above dark blue sky. The effect is gloriously spooky to a guy who calls The City of Brotherly Love home. Bravo! We quickly jump to the story: A cop (Chris Mencina) is nun-slapped by his AA sponsor into reaching out to God, just before the former is sent to investigate an odd death. We then jump to a stopped elevator, where five people – including a former Marine and a jerk salesman -- are trapped, Satan among and in one of them. The cases quickly cross paths as the audience and Detective AA race to figure out who is Number 666. M. Night Shyamalan (“The Sixth Sense”) provides the story, although he neither directs nor scripts. “Devil” is more giddy fun than scary, and has several dumb plot ticks, none more so than its treatment of religion. Non-believers are portrayed as blowhards destined to fail, while the sole Christian is played as a pansy who babbles like a whiny child. Still, better than I expected. B-

Art of the Steal (2010)

My hometown of Philadelphia takes a beating in “Art of the Steal,” a documentary on how the City of Brotherly Love snatched a $25 billion art collection from its “over-my-cold-dead-body” owner. Alas, Albert Barnes is cold and dead. His detractors? Alive and powerful. They want his art. The collection? Chock full of Van Gogh, Cezanne, and Matisse. Swoon. Stuff to make an art lover weep. The problem: Barnes wanted the works outside the city in a rural estate, surrounded by tranquility. He hated the Philly tourist zoo and the rush-job visit so many take at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Director Don Argott absolutely takes Barnes’ side and pisses on Billy Penn’s well-shined face. And … so what? This tale has fascinating talking heads, a gripping pace that left me wondering what happens, even though I knew, and leaves room to scream, “No!” and take the side of the city commissioners and nonprofit Godzillas. Just to see the art on camera is a treat. I want to see the real deals pronto. A

Big Fan (2009)

What a time to watch the dark comedy “Big Fan.” It follows an obsessed and unhinged New York sports fan with no life outside of rooting for his home team and dumping on the city he loathes: Philadelphia.

This isn’t baseball, though. It’s football. And Paul Aufiero (Patton Oswalt) is a mid-30s parking deck attendant who only lives and breathes for his New York Giants with no cares for women, family or career. His bedroom walls are adorned with a poster of his idol -- the Giants lead QB (Jonathan Hamm). Paul sleeps -- and jerks off -- under a football-themed blanket from childhood. He scribbles fifth-grade-level “slams” into a notebook that he’ll later use for “impromptu” late-night calls to his favorite radio sports chat show. Flag on the play, he’s about to pop.

I won’t divulge writer-director Robert Siegel’s hilarious, creepy and strangely fascinating story, except to say that this filmmaker plays off the audience’s knowledge of “Taxi Driver” and “King of Comedy” – the loner obsessive finally snapping. The ending perfectly fits Paul, even as it slyly undermines audience expectation. A hint: Paul paints his face green and white in the City of Brother Love, wincing as he applies the makeup. Priceless.

Siegel knows his sports fan territory – he’s listened to the sports chat shows and seen the worshipful fans camped outside a stadium watching a game on TV because they can’t cop tickets. If you’ve lived in a sports town – and I have in Philly and Tuscaloosa – you know two or a dozen Pauls, the dream fan who’s made himself a slave to what he loves.

I wish Siegel had laid off the tired New Yawk stereotypes (the over-bearing mother, the older brother who’s an ambulance chasing lawyer with the crass wife) that heavily grate, having delivered a true-to-life screenplay about south New Jersey in “The Wrestler.” These play as well as any Southern barn dance stereotype in, say, “Sweet Home Alabama.”

Oswalt, permanently scarring any memory of his work in “Ratatouille,” brilliantly portrays a pathetic obsessive who sees nothing wrong with his life, lived under a child’s blanket, one ear to the radio, one hand down there, looking up at the poster image of the man he wishes he could be. B+

Baby Mama (2008)

Riding on the charisma of its leads, "Baby Mama" is a good comedy. It follows a single woman (Tina Fey) who can't bear childre and instead relies on a surrogate (Amy Poehler) for a baby. The rub comes from Fey being a neat freak career-minded Philadelphia businesswoman, while Poehler plays a South Philly ditz. Maybe I'm biased to like this film with its references to cheesesteaks, birch beer and Tastykakes, which made up a lot of my Philly-bred youth, and if so I can't help it.

Fey and Poehler work wonders together, carrying over charisma from "SNL." Steve Martin, Greg Kinnear and Siqorney Weaver round out the cast, who more so than the writing, make this film shine. It's not one to watch repeatedly. But for a quick laugh, it's solid. The way-happy ending is forced, but it goes with the territory. One final note: It could have been a grade A had the actors switched roles. B

The Happening (2008)

"The Happening" is another toneless dud from M. Night Shyamalan, who made the brilliant "The Sixth Sense," the under-rated "Unbreakable" and then crashed, floundered, and sank respectively with "Signs," "The Village" and "Lady in the Water." Sold as old-school Hitchock horror, "Happening" follows a Philly science teacher (Mark Wahlberg) and his wife (Zooey Deschanel) as they flee from an unknown apocalyptic force rendering people suicidal. But it's really neither horrific nor suspenseful as Shyamalan fumbles much of the gore (a man feeding himself to lions at the Philly Zoo and another feeding himself to a lawn mower seem more Monty Python than Stephen King) while also revealing his mystery far too early. It's the wind. Wind! Leaves blowing! Ahhh! Boo. He kills every small morsel of grace with clunky stabs at comedy and two leads who seem bored, and why not when Whalberg plays better off a houseplant than his "wife." It's a weak liberal "message" film about the environment that would make Greenpeace turn red. "You deserve this!," a home realty sign screams as our heroes flee past it. Just in case you weren't paying attention. I see a dead career. D