“Rocky Balboa” a depressing capper to warhorse series

“Ain’t nothin’s over ‘til it’s over.”

“Where’s that from? The ‘80s?”

“That’s probably the ‘70s.”

So says former heavyweight champ Rocky Balboa (Sylvester Stallone) to current champ Mason “The Line” Dixon (Antonio Tarver), and it’s probably the most interesting moment of “Rocky Balboa,” at least in a metaphorical sense: it comes as a fascinating admission that Stallone’s/Rocky’s best years are far behind him, and that his finest hour was contained in that decade with 1976’s “Rocky” and 1979’s “Rocky II.” More than just feel-good cinema, those two films are vitally important companion pieces of American film when considering Rocky as a mentally challenged man who proves that he is a contributor to society, demanding and worthy of respect. (With this in mind, if “Rocky” is about moral victories and developing self-respect, then “Rocky II” is about finding your niche.) Compare that to the condescending pat on the head that Hollywood offers its retarded characters these days and understand the difference. But Stallone overplayed his hand as the years and sequels passed, so to see him finally admit to the steady decline of the series—from the flashy “Rocky III” to the commie-blastin’ “Rocky IV” to the lazy “Rocky V”—is witnessing a man survey his life with brutal honesty. But “Rocky Balboa” is so mired in that overwhelming nostalgia that it finds no time to actually take a step forward.

“Rocky Balboa” (presumably named so because few people would see “Rocky VI”) finds Rocky in his late 50s, still living in the slums of Philly; lifelong love Adrian has died several years ago of “woman cancer” and he has opened a restaurant in her memory. Paulie (Burt Young) is still a bitter old racist working at the meat packing plant; Rocky Jr. (Milo Ventimiglia) is long estranged from his father. Out of nowhere, a computer simulation on SportsCenter posits Rocky in his prime against Mason Dixon; Balboa is declared the hypothetical winner by knockout. With Mason’s career in the toilet and Rocky aching for one last fight, can you guess what happens next? Don’t get me wrong—when you’re dealing with Rocky, there’s some comfort in familiarity. Stallone is the same as he ever was, shifting his shoulders and slurring his words with that ingratiating charm; and there’s real interest in middle-aged Marie (Geraldine Bridges), the little girl who cussed out the champ in “Rocky” and returns to offer moral support. But despite its protestations, all that “Rocky Balboa” has to offer is that same sense of hearkening back to better times, clutching a beer and ready to tell a story or two to whoever will listen. It’s certainly not as maudlin as “V” was, but this entry only seems like a half-hearted effort to collect a bunch of old buddies together for one last go around the camera. Most disturbingly, the trademark “Gonna Fly Now” montage is reduced to a dispassionate collection of images, treated with the willingness of “well, let’s get this over with.”

However, it’s impossible not to feel that twinge of excitement once Rocky actually steps into the ring, that compulsion to chant his name along with the crowd. Because, come on, it’s been 16 years since you last saw this man up on the big screen; are you going to pass up the opportunity? Sadly, the feeling fades once the film skips over the middle rounds in another montage; this time around, it features in a nauseatingly slick black-and-white cinematography splashed with isolated colors, less resembling the grittiness of “Sin City” than those “is it in you?” Gatorade ads. Such a commercially minded segment serves as a casual reminder that Rocky Balboa hasn’t been an underdog, per se, since he won the title all so many years ago—Stallone, and indeed the entirety of sports cinema, cannot allow even the possibility of defeat, moral or otherwise.

The worst moment of the film, however, would be the end credits, which features a montage of tourists and children recreating the character’s most famous moment, running up the Rocky Steps in Philly and throwing their fists into the air. It’s either a reminder that Rocky has become an American icon or a plea to return the Rocky statue to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Both concepts are ridiculously moot at this point: no one needs to tell you that Rocky is a pervasive figure in popular culture; and the statue was brought from the Spectrum to the bottom of the museum’s famed staircase this past September. Incidentally, that statue is ugly as sin, which I always thought was the point of “Rocky III,” where it was introduced: a warning about the shallow culture of fame and celebrity. But with Stallone advancing in years, I suspect that it’s become a depressing nostalgia piece to him, not unlike “Rocky Balboa” itself. No one can blame the man for making the film, I guess, but he’s so overcome with wistfulness that he’s forgotten that a lot of things beyond his physical self have changed in the 30 years since he burst onto the movie scene.