As told by the new documentary Sly, the biography of Sylvester Stallone plays a lot like one of the Rocky pictures he shepherded to the screen as writer, star and eventual director: the rousing underdog story of a gutsy neighborhood kid who pulled himself up by his bootstraps to win everyman glory, then did it again when everyone counted him out.
He busts through these cliches of triumph by virtue of really having lived them, an authenticity evident in his exquisite blue-collar brogue and meathead-philosopher manner of speech. Born in Hell’s Kitchen back when it still deserved the nickname, growing up an unflappably confident jock despite or perhaps because of his father’s constant abuse, he muscled his way into showbusiness through sheer force of will. Casting agents didn’t see leading-man material in this slab of ground chuck, so he crafted himself the role of a lifetime in the people’s boxer Rocky Balboa, who overcame his hard-luck lot in life with fancy feet and fists of fury but mostly heart. Oscar gold and box-office windfalls followed, dried up with some misbegotten gig in the 90s and aughts, then came thundering back once The Expendables reintroduced Stallone as macho-man elder statesman.
