At Least There's No Rhinestone II

Yesterday both Rocky and First Blood (the original Rambo movie) were on. Stallone got to embody two iconic characters--a lot of stars don't even get one.

What's interesting is, as big as the characters got, both started in small, stand-alone films. Rocky, a fine movie that won the Oscar, was a small film that seemed to come out of nowhere, not a pre-packaged smash. First Blood, not nearly as good a movie, is also pretty small--a drifter who ticks off small-town sheriff has to open up a can of Green Beret whup-ass.

Rocky is a washed-up boxer who proves himself worthy not by winning, but by going the distance. Rambo is a Vietnam vet who can outwit the authorities, but can't deal with the regular world--he breaks down in the end, and turns himself in rather than be killed. But after these originals, both Hollywood and Stallone changed. In the sequels, these characters became almost superhuman. Rocky could beat up the toughest guys in the world and take almost any amount of punishment. Rambo became, literally, an one-man army (an army of one?).

What got lost was the human level. The original films had a story to tell, and the protagonists had an arc. For the sequels, you only had the character, not the story--so the second (and third, etc.) time around, you're just seeing what amazing new tricks the character can do.

Rocky and Rambo aren't the only examples of this hero inflation. My favorite case might be the Katrate Kid films. In the first one, Mr. Miyagi is a handyman with a black belt. By the second, he's the greatest karate master in the world. By the third, I think he could take on Superman.