Rocky is a touching boxing drama, carried by Sylvester Stallone’s awkward charm and John G. Avildsen’s patient direction. The supporting characters deserve more room, but the film earns its big emotional appeals.
Rocky is a good-hearted boxing drama that earns most of its sentiment, and we recommend it with a reservation: Stallone the writer is rather too generous to Stallone the star. John G. Avildsen gives the underdog story time to establish how someone with little confidence gets through an ordinary conversation. The boxing matters, but so does the effort of getting a sentence out without making a fool of yourself. That patience is the film’s chief strength.
Stallone plays Robert ‘Rocky’ Balboa with a mumbling awkwardness that could easily become a collection of lovable habits. What makes it work is the impression that he has not rehearsed how to present himself to another person. The dialogue lets him be funny without making him a joke, and Stallone resists the temptation to tidy up every exchange. We can see why a more impatient viewer might tire of his manner, but the performance makes his need for respect convincing.
The ice-rink sequence shows how well Avildsen judges the smaller scenes, allowing an encounter to be charming without making it smooth. Talia Shire’s Adrian gives Stallone someone to respond to, and the film improves whenever we can attend to both of them. There is pleasure here in watching people make an imperfect attempt at company. Burt Young’s Paulie and Burgess Meredith’s Mickey also give the drama some life beyond its central performance, though the writing does not always leave them enough room.
James Crabe’s cinematography gives the streets and gym a rough, ordinary look that helps Avildsen avoid making hardship picturesque. William J. Cassidy’s production design makes those surroundings feel used, giving the gym a purpose beyond supplying a suitably gritty background. Their work helps us believe in the effort required of Rocky, even when the story makes its intentions obvious. Avildsen gets considerable value from spending time in these places, where the familiar underdog plot feels less ready-made than it might on paper.
Richard Halsey and Scott Conrad’s editing is particularly effective in the training sequences, making repeated effort exciting without losing the sense of work involved. Bill Conti’s emphatic music encourages the response without much disguise, and the film would be weaker if it pretended to be above that sort of encouragement. We were moved by the training, because Stallone had made Rocky’s need to feel worthwhile so clear. The shift from hesitant conversation towards physical action feels welcome, and the editors judge that change of pace well.
The limitation is in Stallone’s screenplay, which gives its central character so much attention that the others sometimes seem short-changed. The supporting performances suggest complicated people, yet too much of their value is measured by what they bring to Rocky’s story. Shire and Young make us want to follow them further than the script will go, while Carl Weathers’s Apollo Creed has the difficult task of holding our attention in a film so committed to its leading man. This is where the familiar underdog formula becomes restrictive.
Within that formula, Avildsen is shrewder than the film’s blunt emotional appeals might suggest. He understands that a boxing drama cannot get by on physical exertion alone, and spends enough time with talk, discomfort and everyday company to make us care who is doing the work. At 120 minutes, Rocky allows its people to be awkward before asking them to be stirring. Give it an evening when there is time for the conversation as well as the training.
