Kid gloves and a glass slipper

Rocky Directed by John G. Avildsen Majestic Theatre

The story of Rocky Balboa The Italian Stallion,' a heavyweight who boxes because when you're where he's at what else do you do, and earns his bread as pickup man for the local loan shark. Thirty years old, a loner with a kind heart and a couple of pet turtles, he could have been something, only it was never handed him on a platter — so he didn't chase it. Then it does: the champ wants a big match to celebrate the Bicentenary and no-one wants to fight him, so he rallies behind the great American ideal and gives an unknown a crack at the title.

Sylvester Stallone wrote the script and plays the lead. A bit-part actor specialising in Rocky-type characters without a break for years, in many ways the film is the story of his life. Under Avildsen's wonderfully sympathetic direction he rises to the occasion like a star — even if Dustin Hoffman was much bigger he couldn't do as well. Burgess Meredith and Talia Shire turn in excellent supporting performances; in fact, nothing goes wrong.

Rocky is one of those films the Oscars were created for. In every respect it is right smack in the centre of the American ethos, and intelligently enough conceived to recognise and capitalise on this. Not a moral tale, for moralising, except in government, is a tricky thing for Americans these days. But a good luck story, a love story (perhaps the most important of all), a story of suspense and anguish as man meets man and himself, a story about losers, about individuals. . . Stallone has his finger so thoroughly on the pulse of Hollywood the list is endless. The thing which separates Rocky from, say. Taxi Driver, also nominated in the Oscars, is that with its admirable self-awareness Rocky does nothing new. It is so honest about the theme that no comment can ensue, which is the difference between the Cannes winner and the Hollywood winner.

Rocky succeeds through its humour. The hero himself tells jokes ("What's the trouble with my turtles after I tap them on the back? Shell shock") which fall a little flat, of course. An ironic undercurrent runs very gently against the major theme ("It's very American." "No, it's very smart. . . " "Now who discovered America? An Italian, right?. . . " Rocky with carcasses of meat practising to hit a man.) Best of all are the visuals: Rocky running faster and faster along the wharves with absolutely no Style, and his eventual solitary early morning exuberance above the city.

However rife the sentimentality, there is a fine control in every aspect of the film. The desperation of the characters is not forgotten, but not explored. The music doesn't make anything crass. Camera and cutting work invisibly, skillfully showing neither too much nor too little. The balance is always maintained, and the ending, which could have been ridiculous, is handled exactly as it should be.

The really pleasant thing is that winning or losing, and going from rags to riches, is finally irrelevant. Rocky's rise is emotional, even spiritual. Such a film can never approach the level of greatness but nary a better Cinderella story has graced the screen.

— Simon, Wilson.