Rocky ground
Although I love all the Rocky movies—well, the first five, anyway—I don’t have a single one of them. I’m still waiting for a really nice Blu-ray box set, preferably one containing only those five films. And although I’ve always liked Sylvester Stallone, I don’t have any of his movies in my library. But now, at long last, I have something by him on my shelves . . .
These days, anyone with a recognizable name or a sufficiently large social media following can become a traditionally published author. Those with professional titles and a substantial budget can simply self-publish, often with no editorial scrutiny. People have forgotten that writing is an art, a craft that requires genuine talent and skill. Having something to say—or a “story” to tell—does not necessarily mean possessing the ability to express it well, much less write it well. Fame and academic or professional credentials may get books published and help sell them, but neither can confer the gift of words.
Sylvester Stallone, however, is a delightful exception. Behind the rugged masculinity, the muscles, and the enduring beefcake image is a man who can genuinely write. And I don’t mean merely that he has an interesting life to recount. He has a feel for language, an instinct for storytelling, and the skill to turn experience into compelling prose. Stallone possesses not only the talent but also the craft, and, most importantly, that elusive gift of words. Long underrated as an actor, he deserves to be recognized as an equally underrated writer.
I read the book in just two sittings. It is THAT entertaining. It is THAT compelling. I found myself reluctant to put it down, and whenever I did, I couldn’t wait to pick it up again. That, to me, is the mark of a genuinely gifted writer: someone who not only knows how to tell a story but also knows how to keep his reader enthralled from beginning to end.
What I found most compelling, and indeed heartbreaking, was Stallone’s simple, almost childlike longing for his parents to love him and be proud of him. Despite the cruelty and violence he endured growing up, he never quite abandoned that hope.
When Rocky finally gave him his great breakthrough, he offered his father a small role in the film, hoping that sharing in his success might earn him some affection and approval. Instead, the experience ended in another bitter confrontation. He also invited his mother to accompany him to the Academy Awards, only to have her refuse.
Here was a man whose talent and achievement had earned him the admiration of millions, yet all he really wanted was the love and recognition of the two people who should have given them to him freely. And tragically, they seemed incapable of doing so.
What makes his story particularly moving is that success did not erase the hurt. Decades later, the pain of his parents’ rejection remains. He has learned to live with it, but there are moments when it returns, reminding him that neither fame nor fortune nor the admiration of millions can replace the love he wanted from his mother and father.
I can identify with Stallone’s experience—although thankfully not where my parents are concerned. My mother and father may not have been Mary and Joseph, but they loved their children and were blindly, sometimes embarrassingly, proud of them.
No, my experience has been with other figures of authority: grade-school and high-school teachers, priests (seminary superiors and professors), and bishops. I know what it is like to seek the approval of people whose position ought to make them magnanimous and generous with encouragement, only to discover that some are remarkably incapable of giving it.
Michael Douglas also has a memoir . . .
While I have quite a few of his father’s films in my library, I don’t own a single one of his. Although, come to think of it, I did find a DVD of Falling Down at the parish yard sale last year. I’ve been wanting to see that movie since it came out in 1993, but more than thirty years later, I still haven’t seen it. And despite its sitting in the parish house, I haven’t even gotten around to watching it . . .
Michael Douglas was one of the first Hollywood actors I ever became familiar with as a child—his name and face were among the earliest I remember recognizing on TV. My parents were devoted viewers of The Streets of San Francisco in the early 1970s. Watching it was something of a family ritual, and I suspect my father’s enthusiasm had much to do with his own San Francisco connection. After all, my father had been quite the cool San Franciscan himself . . .
Anyhoo, what a contrast between the two memoirs! Stallone and Douglas are almost the same age and have enjoyed extraordinary Hollywood careers. Yet their approaches to telling their life stories could hardly be more different.
Michael Douglas seems chiefly interested in recounting his romantic and sexual escapades, as though reminding his readers what an irresistible ladies’ man he has been. Stallone, on the other hand, offers something altogether more substantial. He has the courage to confess how desperately he wanted to be loved by the two people whose affection mattered most.
And therein lies the difference between celebrity exhibitionism and genuine self-revelation. How ironic that the man celebrated for his muscles should turn out to have so much more to say about the human heart.