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

Fantastic Four (2015)

With its over-long look inside 5^th grade life to the tacked-on CGI-heavy finale, the latest big-screen version of Marvel stalwart “Fantastic Four” is a joyless, suspense-free dud from frame one. Oh, there have been worse superhero film appearances on the big screen.

But never one so lazy. Never one so dedicated to being mediocre. This is a superhero film with exactly one action scene. A crammed, confusing limp punch that fails to ignite the pure joy of cracking open a comic book spine and digging those panel jumps.

Not a single vibe of geekery hit my veins. 

Nothing hit me. Except fatigue of superheroes on film and battles to save Earth and huge craters, and I say that as a massive comic book nerd of old. Indifference is the word. 

I pitied the actors. I pitied the production crew who must have busted ass, to no avail. I didn’t pity director Josh Trank, who publicly disowned the film opening night. The faults start quick, not at the end where he says the film went all wrong, out of his hands. 

Plot: Our four heroes -– high school students, in a change up from the original comic -- gain incredible powers when a scientific experiment involving inter-dimensional travel goes wrong. Miles Teller’s Reed Richard stretches, Kate Mara’s Sue Storm turns invisible, Michael B. Jordan’s Johnny Storm bursts into flame, and Jamie Bell’s Ben Grimm turns into a rock monster. Each power seems tied to personality trait. Reed’s smarter-than-everyone else nerd is stretched, see? Ben is a tough guy, all rock and closed off feeling. Johnny is a hot head. Traits. These aren’t fleshed-out characters. 

Only vague ideas.

I collected the book for a while and loved it. This reboot, following two other attempts within the past 10 years, reminded me why some printed material cannot go to the live screen. Here, Reed is a boring smug character. Sue? Boring. And not just here, but in the earlier films as well. Boring. (Storm as Human Torch and Grimm as The Thing do hold some interest. But they get short-shifted on screen. To the point of awkward hilarity.)

The whole smart outsider thing is too cliché now to even make a dent. Not when nerds can push a film toward $1 billion, hello “Avengers,” or stay home and kill a studio’s entire fiscal year, oh, hey, this movie. The “Avengers” movies saddle its heroes with woes, their heroic acts landed. This lot sulks by. Or maybe the books would read dull to me now.

The actors can’t fill the void. Not the paper-thin parts, the dull action, nor the forced relationships. Sue and Johnny are adopted brother and sister, Reed and Ben are best pals since childhood; they all whiff of people who don’t even keep in touch on Facebook. 

(Sue isn’t even allowed to make the big leap to that extra-dimensional Earth. It’s a boy’s only party. That’s less progressive than even 1961, when the comic book started. Think about that. She gets her powers when the guys return and ... how the hell?!?!?!) 

The setting is too constrained. In the books, New York City was the heroes’ playground. I loved that, being a city kid. Near every moment here takes pace in an underground bunker that makes Sam’s Club seem like heaven; or an alternate, unformed Earth –- green screen set -– that I can find on any low-ball episode of “Doctor Who.” Trank strangles his characters in every scene with shit lighting and low ceilings, and all CGI everything else. 

Post powers, half the film focuses on a Big Brother O'Brien U.S. military type (Tim Blake Nelson) sending Thing -- that's Ben -- out to attack enemies. We see on monitors this Hulk-like beast of rocks tearing tanks apart and throwing enemy combatants around, who are they? Does Ben get a thrill from this action? Does he hate it? No idea. We never get a close up. This is the product of studio managers who gave up on the film midway through.

Woe Toby Kebbell -– dig him in last year’s “Apes” movie, he is excellent -- as Victor Von Doom, one of Marvel’s best villains, reduced here to an angry geek who’s just discovered Rage Against the Machine lyrics. And maybe retweets Anonymous. On a bad day. 

Lost on that first inter-dimensional trip and thought dead, his absence from the screen is so I stopped caring. When he *finally* appears as a metalized maniac with every power Trank and his writers can throw on screen, screw continuity, Doom has nothing to offer. His look is ridiculous, a rigid metal/plastic face with bulging blank eyes, his voice dubbed in, all ringing a bad 80s film, maybe “Superman III.” That lady robot at the end? Crap.

Add in glaringly bad editing and on-screen errors (blonde wigs!) and this is a doomed film on every level, and no amount of studio/actor spin can save it. It is a dud. Watch that finale, listen to Teller's voice, struggling to sell lines such as “We have to stop him!”  and babble on about “we are stronger together.” He cannot sell it. Look at that panic. 

Several years back, Trank made the rousing low-budget “FF”-inspired “Chronicle.” It followed four different, desperate high school boys with new-found super powers. Not a best-of moment here equals any of that film’s worst-of moments. Is he a one shot wonder, did the studio kill him, or is the material just not workable in 2015? I have no idea. There is zero vision or voice or even clarity here, and that has to fall on his head.

Can we guess how soon the next reboot “FF” is coming?  D

Fruitvale Station (2013)

I cannot recall a more timely film in recent years. Seemingly every week in some U.S. city, police and vigilante pricks (Zimmerman) are gunning down unarmed black men at a clip not seen since … pre-1960? It just happened in Charlotte, and it’s the cold plot behind true story “Fruitvale Station.” We open with cell phone footage: 22-year-old Oscar Grant is shot point blank in the back New Year’s Day 2009 by a transit cop. He dies hours later. We then flashback to Oscar’s (Michael B. Jordon) final day as he desperately steers away from peddling drugs, works his way back into the graces of his girlfriend and daughter, and helps celebrate his mother’s (Octavia Spencer) birthday. It is she who suggests Oscar and his pals take the train that night. Writer/director Ryan Coogler’s drama is full of gut-puncher tragic moments like that, but also too syrupy scenes where Oscar plays chase with his tot in slo-mo magic hour light. The best moments come when they show Oscar as just a guy, any guy, struggling to correct course, thinking he has time, not knowing he does not. One day, maybe, films like this will be of the past. A-