The things in the basement – Reflection on Rocky Balboa
It’s been part of the Philadelphia landscape, part of us for so long, reflecting both our stubborn spirit and our shame that it’s become some kind of cliché that we trot out on occasion and sheepishly hide the rest of the time. But few here would join in the savagery with which the world greeted the news last year that Rocky Balboa was back for a veritable swan song. Charges of overwrought ego and welcomes staying longer were mixed with geriatric jokes as nearly every would-be screen scribe gleefully settled in on the impending ship-Rock. Some, like the Newsweek critic, saw the big picture and got it right. And in the end, Rocky Balboa -our Rocky- couldn’t have been better served. Us neither. now we all know
As much as anyone or anything, Rocky sounded the wake-up call for an entire generation to shed the stupor of mere existence and grab life by the shorts: take a shot. Much more than coding the “I” greeting, driving countless young people to abuse raw eggs, and immortalizing the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art for millions of people around the world who couldn’t care less about the things inside the building, the wise fool in grimy gray sweats reviewed for us some useful lessons. The circumstances of our births are not decrees from the Almighty to match life scripts. Believers ultimately have more fun than skeptics. The final fights are worth it regardless of the result. It’s not over until it’s over. Right now it’s a good starting point like any other.
Thirty years later, many of us coming of age with the Italian stallion are freaking out too, sharing his anguish over unfulfilled hopes and the coming twilight. This is happening at a time when “Sixties is the new Forties” defies F. Scott Fitzgerald’s grim reminder that “there are no second acts in American life,” so perhaps we could have expected more respect. and a less ridiculous salute to the resurrection of Stallone/Rocky. On the other hand, for a skeptic-killer to have maximum impact, this disregard for the real world couldn’t be more appropriate, as it reflects the disbelief of the film’s populace.
The improbability of a sixty-year-old fighting the world champion, let alone surviving the experience, doesn’t matter. Neither does the questionable viability of that insane strongman/bodybuilding pre-fight regimen (as much as it might lure untold thousands off their treadmills and ellipticals to the weight room). There’s been enough similar magic in real life: Ali vs. Forman, Wepner v. Ali, Forman vs antiquity- to allow us some room to believe. And even if you can’t believe in magic, here’s a very visible and immediately relevant truth: At sixty, Stallone, in his burly, chiseled glory, not only looks infinitely more impressive than his adversary, he does his original 1976. incarnation look like a lump. You don’t have to worry about boxing, or Rocky, or even physicality for that to matter. It’s about possibility, redemption, and the brightness of whatever we may still have in the basement. Even when the door closes gracefully and gratefully in the Rocky saga, those things are ours to keep. Thanks, rock!