No franchise has overcome so many apparent knock-downs as the Rocky saga. Biffed punch-drunk in Rocky V, the series took years to struggle to its feet with the fine Rocky Balboa before re-establishing full fighting strength for Ryan Coogler’s excellent Creed, in 2015. A fine sequel appeared three years later.
The legs look to be getting a tad shaky again with this ninth – and first Stallone-free – episode in the series. Michael B Jordan, who bossed the previous two rounds as Adonis Creed, shuffles behind the camera for a film that intersperses soapy sentiment with first-class acting duels. As we begin, Creed is settling into prosperous retirement. Comfortably positioned in a mansion above Los Angeles, he is dealing with indifferently fleshed-out domestic issues – his daughter (Mila Davis-Kent) is in trouble at school; his mom (Phylicia Rashad) has a worrying amount of dialogue about blood pressure – when an old pal, recently released from the jug, turns up to remind him of tougher times.
Since his breakout performance in The Last Black Man in San Francisco, Jonathan Majors has been saddled with the near-unsupportable challenge of living life as “the next Brando”. Astonishingly, his performance as Damian Anderson, convicted for an offence that obliquely involved the young Creed, comes close to justifying the hype. The burly Californian, communicating in a cluttered mumble, is in danger of overshadowing even an actor as strong as Jordan. It would be unfair to say it is like setting Brando against Roddy McDowell, but we will allow Brando against, say, Rock Hudson.
Anyway, the opening act finds Damian, a Golden Gloves champ before incarceration, persuading his old friend to give him a chance in his gym. Creed III honours the Rocky narrative with increasingly vigorous nods towards familiar plot twists from earlier episodes. A protege of Creed, recently crowned undisputed champ, is deprived of a challenger and – spirit of ’76, baby! – Damian suggests that he get the underdog wild card. Whereas the first film worked hard to make sense of Rocky’s good fortune, the new film lazily expects us, without any wider justification, to believe the authorities would allow an untested, near-middle-aged amateur a crack at the title.
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The succeeding fight is, however, sufficiently crunchy to edge aside any such prosaic worries. As ever, the in-ring action is modelled more on the Rock ’Em Sock ’Em kids’ toy than on anything like boxing reality. But Majors, adopting a bullet-headed Tysonesque bearing, convinces as a force of nature. The air seems to bend towards him as he moves.
It would be unfair to spoil the unexpected turn then taken, but I will say I was surprised to be reminded of a still-popular French novel from the mid-19th century (to such an extent that we seem to be dealing with wry allusion as much as unconscious influence).
The film is at its best when setting Jordan’s sleek charm against Major’s more knobbly persona. Indeed, the acting throughout is excellent, even if the women don’t get nearly enough to do. Rashad’s role in the emotional pay-off is shameless. Tessa Thompson is criminally unchallenged as Creed’s musician wife.
At times Creed III struggles with the legacy. Nobody would argue with the inclusion of a classic Rocky training montage, but the ha-ha shot of Creed tugging a private plane looks plucked from a significantly less sombre film. The least said about the cheesy CGI effects in the final fight – prison bars enclose the ring – the soonest we can get back to anticipating an inevitable, and still welcome, 10th episode.
Those whinges noted, it must be admitted that no movie franchise has lasted so long in such relative good health. Creed III certainly deserves to be seen. And it deserves to be seen on the biggest screen with the largest portions of the most unhealthy snacks. Movies live.
Creed III opens on Friday, March 3rd
