Please Don’t Wait till Rambo Dies
The year was 2009. Back then it was cool to love Barack, our first Black president. Eminem was still a rebel, and 50 Cent still had street cred. Same sex marriage was a touchy subject, legal marijuana was a myth, and the internet was here to stay. Marvel had just paved its way with Iron Man, and no one could have dreamed what that meant for movies, let alone the career of Robert Downey Jr. Fast forward to now. Pot is coming on strong, 50 is bankrupt, Eminem is a recovering addict. Marvel is a juggernaut like Juggernaut and the internet has spread like the discovery of fire. Michael Jackson, in 2009,was what we hastily forget to remember. Jackson was still alive….and still considered a perv. He was a pedophile. A joke at the water cooler. His highly publicized sexual allegations from 2005 still haunted his legacy. It was no longer heard of to rep the inventor of Jesus Juice, forget about proudly blasting “Billie Jean” from your new lipstick style Ipod. Save for the company of our closest friends and family, we fans were stuck “In the Closet”. “I used to love him”, we’d say, “but God is he a weirdo.” I’ll get to where this relates to Stallone in a quick minute.
I was never a fair weather fan. Not when it came to Mike. I have 3 kids and they mean everything to me. I take it as a job to make my children aware of pure art and pure talent. If that means I’ve sheltered them to the reality of media assassinations and cultural agendas when it came to the artists I encouraged them to appreciate at a young age, so be it. I wanted my toddlers to enjoy the works of Van Gogh before they were persuaded by the fact that he was a suicidal manic depressant who cut off his ear and shot himself in the stomach. Most of us do the same. So I exposed them to the works of Michael Jackson, from ABC to Z, and from the Thriller album to the transformation of his face in the “Black or White” video. And I remember 2009. My kids, then 7, 5, and going on 3, were already superfans. My USB white Ipod would crank Michael at work, to the envy, enjoyment, and covert mocking of my co-workers. I didn’t care. That was Mike. Don’t worry….I’m getting to Sly.
One day in June of 2009, my blue Nokia phone wouldn’t stop blowing up. Mike was in a coma, some say close to death. Co-worker after friend after loved one, upon hearing the news, needed to know I knew. Michael was dead. My kids and I mourned for the loss of our icon, and I should’ve foreseen the fair weather fandom that ensued. America finally was ready to let go of its popular outward perception. It was cool to like Mike again.
This is where I’m getting to Stallone, and don’t worry, he doesn’t look anywhere near death. I remember him in 2009, though. Sly hadn’t made a successful movie since Demolition Man, not counting his prolific performance in Copland. Everyone in America had lived through the Rocky and Rambo decade and grown out of it. Every hack comic and Monday morning quarterback could boast a crappy “Yo Adrian” impersonation and guarantee a laugh at the same water cooler that championed the Michael Jackson sucking the kid out of the Pepsi bottle joke. But I’m not going to wait until Stallone dies to come out of my closet. I remember Stop or my Mom will Shoot. I own an original VHS copy of Rhinestone. I saw Cliffhanger at the theater with my 10th grade girlfriend, and I’ve almost suffered through Judge Dredd in its entirety. I’m well aware of Stallone’s minimalist approach to acting, I know he’s never done any method character development. What I love about Sly, is his existence as a singularity in Hollywood. An original. One of a kind. Period. Here’s why: There is no other leading man in Hollywood that consistently writes their own screenplays, and sees through the vision from concept to release. Mock if you will, but Arnold and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson don’t seem to be in any danger of straying into that category. In fact, in 1977, the film Rocky saw Stallone become just the third person to be nominated for an Oscar for BOTH acting and writing. The other two–Charlie Chaplin and Orson Welles.
Stallone weathered through a rough patch in the new millennium, when I’m sure it seemed like Hollywood had betrayed him, and maybe Judge Dredd or Spy Kids 3 had something to do with that. So he gave up. Oh wait no, I’m thinking of Rob Schneider, cause neither Rocky nor Sly ever gave up. You know what he did? He rebooted both the Rocky and Rambo franchises successfully (Oh and by the way just picked up a Golden Globe Award and Oscar nom for Creed), and decided to write direct and star in 3 Expendables movies, and most of us hope four. It was really after The Expendables that I started to truly understand my bromance. Stallone could hear the critics, he could read the bad reviews, and I’m sure he’s seen enough “yo Adrian” shout outs to wish he’d written that line as anything else. But, he….don’t….give a damn. That’s why he’s amazing. He said, ‘you know what? I’m going to bring back 90’s action the way the fans want it. And I’m bringin back all of my washed up 90’s cohorts with me. All dirty thirty dozen of them. And Jason Statham. Cuz he’s bad ass.” Now he never said this, but that’s what I know he was thinking more or less. And it worked. And it will keep working as long as he is breathing. That’s why I love him.
'Well, uh, for Paulie, I really want to get him a snow cone machine. You like snow cones, don'tcha?'- Rocky Balboa
