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The retired Creed, of all people, replaces Mickey and tries to teach Rocky the new boxing method he must acquire to beat Lang—quick, stylish and black. Rocky is slow to pick it up and agonizes in self-pity. It remains for Adrian to deliver the ultimatum: go for it—the Rocky motto—or give up the rematch.
The final fight, the traditional climax of the Rocky epics, exceeds all earlier matches. Rocky gives and takes blows surrealistically enhanced by Dolby sound. Lang lashes back, growling and gnashing through his rubber mouthpiece. The experience is the nearest thing to being in a seat in Caesars Palace this Friday night that a moviegoer is likely to find. Indeed, the physical damage in the screen version surpasses that of many real bouts.
The screen mayhem, however, gains its authenticity from the heart. Stallone has built his stories on psychic lines that owe as much to myth as to realism. Says Shire, who is Francis Ford Coppola's sister: "Sylvester tapped the American spirit. I think a person who spent so long with his nose pressed against the window sees things in a most interesting way. Despite his success, he's extremely accessible. That's what's so ironic. Stallone is so famous now he has to stay isolated behind those gates to protect himself."
In Stallone's lavish, sprawling house behind a high brick wall and green canvas gates in Pacific Palisades, slightly to the left of Beverly Hills, film memorabilia vie for space with fine art in rooms accented with rich woods and polished brass. A mammoth Leroy Neiman portrait of Rocky hangs near a Rodin sculpture, a boxer's headguard inscribed "To Sly from Muhammad Ali" rests near Andy Warhol oils. Another treasured possession is a worn photo album that the star uses to document his "roaches to riches" story. Stallone, dressed in running shoes and warmup suit, puffing on a Dunhill briar pipe, leafs through the pictures of his pre-Rocky days, a ritual of memory: "There's me in a doorman's jacket I stole to keep warm. There's me with an earring—I actually delivered Perrier in that. Another with my torn-T shirt Stanley Kowalski look. Every six months I'd go to one of those picture machines to see how fast I was deteriorating."