Creed III (2023 | USA | 117 minutes | Michael B. Jordan)
The only bad part about heading into a new installation of the reliably entertaining Creed movie franchise is the grim realization that you’re about to watch some big dudes mess up Michael B. Jordan. It’s the cost of doing business in a boxing drama, but he has such a nice mug it’s a shame to see it smashed up. Stepping behind the camera to take over the series from Ryan Coogler, though, Jordan gives himself more of a break from the pummeling of the ring while giving his audience another compelling chapter in a big-hearted boxing saga.
I confess to not remembering the full mythology of the saga, but helpfully the film opens in the olden days of 2002 with a prologue that’ll linger over the rest of this installation. A flashback extends Adonis Creed’s origin story with a momentous evening set some time after he was rescued from a rough & tumble group home by his father’s widow Mary Anne (Phylicia Rashad). Despite the comorts of a stable home, young “Donnie” is still sneaking out at night, carrying the gloves of an old pal for nighttime boxing matches and getting into a little bit of trouble. We see the evening take a turn for the dangerous before jumping forward in time to witness Adonis Creed establishing himself as the heavyweight champion of the world in momentous South Africa-set fight.
Following this crowning achievement, we leap ahead to seeing him in retirement. Settled in Los Angeles, he’s living the sweet comfortable life of a #girldad to a adorable deaf daughter who loves tea parties and fighting (both in the gym and problematically at class), entrepreneur and mentor, a supportive (if emotionally closed off) husband to successful music producer wife, and a wearer of excellent elevated athleisure. The cliffhanger from the prologue of misspent youth haunts the rest of the film, with its resolution teased throughout with flashbacks and references. Ultimately, it might overplay its hand, but it does the heavy-lifting of shading the unsettling return of an old, grown-up, and bulked up friend from the past, now in the form of Jonathan Majors as Damian “Dame” Anderson.
Out of jail, still wearing an ankle monitor (and surprisingly less shredded than the bodybuilder he portrayed in Magazine Dreams), Creed doesn’t even recognize him under his hoodie when he encounters him lingering outside his gym. The unresolved incident from their youth hangs over them, leaving Dame reserved and deferential while catching up over lunch at a nearby diner. Later, there’s a squirrely sense of awe upon seeing Creed’s luxurious home and being invited to his wife’s (Tessa Thompson) exclusive launch party. But Majors is — as always — a major talent, and here he has a lot of room to work. Beneath the surface you can see a scheme brewing and ambition mounting. He’s quick to let Creed know that he longs for a shot at a championship that was interrupted nearly two decades prior. Like us, Donnie thinks its preposterous, but sets him up to spar with his up-and-coming champion, offering some degree of self-serving support for his friend’s unlikely dream.
Majors embodies the character’s raw talents and determination into a magnetic performance. We’re weary of how this will turn out, but can’t look away. When a series of unlikely events result in his underdog ascent to the top is complete, it’s thrilling to see him let the character cook, emerging from his facade of polite reserve to a full-on, lit-up, “Welcome to the OC, bitch” king of the beach heel turn we’ve been waiting for.
Jordan filmmaking embeds us in this world from the glamor of the city to the grit of the ring. His boxing sequences play like a video game, with the camera moving closer, faster, and with more elasticity than what could ever be achieved for a real event and plays up the drama of impacts rippling through bodies with ultra-slow motion photography. Further, he throws in pauses for faux prestige-style documentary to convey the heft of backstory and embellishes the fights with live on-air commentary to communicating both the sensation of watching a big event while keeping novices (like me) clued in to what’s happening. Amid all of this bombast, he finds time to address the claustrophobic perils of masculinity, appreciates the concessions and choices made by the women in Creed’s life, and gives Phylicia Rasahad plenty of screen time to establish herself as a wise and loving matriarch.
When the time inevitably comes for Creed to shed the comforts of retirement and fight for what’s right, you might question the necessity and dread the pain that’s coming his way. Nevertheless, reservations fade fast, because this is a series built for mega-hype training montages and it doesn’t disappoint. With Adonis having elevated his game beyond the hardscrabble streets and staircases of his mentor’s Philadelphia, Jordan’s all in on California dreaming (spoiler: Sylvester Stallone’s Rocky doesn’t make an appearance). This all-Creed get-in-shape sequence has him in desert hangars with epic views, getting pummeled by old opponents, boxing himself in the mirror (oh, the metaphor), and making an sweaty ascent to puts public library steps to shame. Played in contrast to Dame’s iron-pumping fresh ascent, both with terrific cuts pulling from a specially curated soundtracks of hip-hop classics new and old, it’s an amazing, fist-pumping, series that’s worth the price of admission.
All the hard work builds to final boss sequence staged in Dodger Stadium. From gaudy introductions to fight choreography that takes inspiration from martial arts, Jordan takes some wild swings both in the ring and behind the camera. But having built this character that we’re invested in and continuing to add depth and dimension to this world, he deserves the latitude of putting his own bold flourishes on a venerable boxing franchise. It’s his show, why not pulls out all the stops and give the people what they want. Surely, we are entertained.
Creed III arrives in theaters on March 3rd