Adonis “Donnie” Creed, the indefatigable boxer played by actor-turned-director Michael B. Jordan in the “Creed” franchise now entrusted to his rookie camera, measures his life in wins and losses; so do we. The original “Rocky” clinched its classic status with a noble-defeat ending that proved the Italian Stallion led the league in heart no matter what his record said, and hungry young Donnie did the same in his first big-screen square-up. Even if he didn’t come out the champion, he gained the moral victory by finding the inner strength to scrape himself together and put up his dukes every time life knocked him down. He had nothing but gumption (okay, gumption and biceps like battering rams), and that was enough, a bootstrap mentality that made for hearty, red-meat American entertainment. Donnie, circa 2015, ate in diners and had bills to pay. He gave fans an irresistible Cinderella story as a down-not-out challenger with a narrative so inspiring that the haters would find themselves rooting against their own guy. He was all of us.
But just as a great boxer can’t pull the same trick over and over again, neither can a franchise, an issue previously the cause for the steep drop-off in quality among the nonetheless lucrative “Rocky” sequels. While enjoying the same cushion of money, “Creed III” now runs up against the same problem, its hero with nothing to lose transformed into a titan with nothing left to conquer. Jordan commands a hefty studio budget in his directorial debut, a goodly chunk of it used to construct the overworld of luxury penthouses, backstage VIP areas, and elite afterparties a suited Donnie frequents in his post-retirement role of sporting impresario. It’s a logical, perhaps unavoidable progression for a canon invested in building Donnie’s legend. Still, this arc has also estranged him from the street-level grit that once formed the foundation of his scrappy underdog appeal. Jordan’s still got charm to spare, as well as serviceable chops for a novice filmmaker. All the same, his latest take on Donnie as a powerhouse softened by comfort might as well be a self-portrait for the series.
That’s the gist of the smack talked by Damian “Dame” Anderson (a mountainous Jonathan Majors), fresh out the clink and looking to get some restitution from his old pal Donnie. They were thick as thieves back in the day, in part because larceny was included in their repertoire of petty crimes, but a pivotal run-in with the five-oh left Dame with a sentence and Donnie with the guilt he’s buried as deep as possible. Saddled with the schematic role of a foil meant to illustrate the importance of rejecting anger — a lesson underscored by Donnie learning to Have Feelings so that he can teach his daughter not to solve everything with her fists — Majors still sculpts Dame into a dynamo of bravado, his muted mix of envy and resentment propping up the script’s underdeveloped notions about class disparity.
This prodigal son’s reappearance ignites a rivalry a little Biblical and a little Shakespearean, though their macho melodrama hews most closely to the flavor of screenwriterly contrivance. Dame shows up out of nowhere, and despite having never boxed at the professional level, he’s instantly granted a face-off with the number-one-ranked heavyweight in the world. (The movie knows enough to point out that this is not really done, but doesn’t let that stop it.) Donnie’s rock Bianca (Tessa Thompson), once her own spiky presence within his meteoric rise, has been relegated to the wifely duties of loving on her man until it’s time to read him the riot act about being a more dutiful spouse. The mortality theme so poignant, when applied to an aging Sylvester Stallone in the last two films, has now been shunted onto another character in his unexplained absence, their subplot an anchor weighing down the sluggish second act.
As the main draw for the public and test of Jordan’s skills in the director’s chair, the nimbly visceral fight sequences get the job done, though some odd brushstrokes of CGI fantasy gum up the grand finale. He works the contrast between fast- and slow-motion to brutal effect, a stylized technique that recalls the rippling musculatures of “300,” but that Jordan has attributed in interviews to his love of anime. (Does this mean Zack Snyder is an anime guy? He’s currently producing one for Netflix. Someone should look into this.) The raw horsepower on the finished product puts this tyro helmer a cut above most of the pliable functionaries drafted to carry out management’s will on IP projects. Moreover, he resists the actor-director’s age-old temptation toward self-indulgence with his reined-in performance.
Jordan isn’t going anywhere, and in light of his stated interest in a fourth Creed, neither is Donnie. They’ll both keep grinding, far past the point of diminishing returns. Alexander wept when he saw that he had run out of territories to annex; that’s a rich vein of existential unease, but it’s not the brand of guy-approved touchy-feeliness through which these films feel comfortable expressing their emotions. In the first installment, Donnie recreated Rocky Balboa’s sweatsuited jog to the top of the 72 stone steps in front of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, a tribute to one man’s hustle and the city that bred it into him. In the third, his training montage brings him to the summit of the hills overlooking LA, the camera pulling back to reveal the Hollywood sign beneath him as he raises his arms aloft in triumph. The copter shot is supposed to help us take a step back to admire how far he’s come. It also has the unintended side effect of revealing that he’s hit a dead end. [C+]
