‘Rocky’ Is the Story of an Underdog, Created by an Underdog, That Has Spawned Box-Office Champions for Half a Century

The crowd at Ohio’s Richfield Coliseum erupted on March 24, 1975, as Chuck Wepner hit the ropes just 19 seconds short of the final bell. Few had expected the journeyman fighter to withstand a couple of rounds against Muhammad Ali, let alone come achingly close to surviving the full 15—with the wherewithal to knock the champion to the canvas at one point. Not long after watching the fight live in a Los Angeles movie theater via closed circuit, a young aspiring actor named Sylvester Stallone was moved to begin writing a screenplay.

Completing his initial script in little more than three days, Stallone told the fictional story of Rocky Balboa, a backstreet boxer from Philadelphia who gets the opportunity to challenge the flamboyant heavyweight world champ, Apollo Creed, in an exhibition match during the United States’ bicentennial. Stallone wrote the part of Rocky for himself—and to ensure that he played the lead, he rejected an offer for the film rights from United Artists, reportedly worth $360,000. The production company, wary of casting an unknown, ultimately paid Stallone a lower price, then greenlighted the movie with a shoestring budget of around $1 million.

Upon its release in 1976, Rocky punched well above its weight, drawing more than $225 million at the box office. Fifty years later, the scrappy hero remains shorthand for American grit. Like Wepner, Rocky had no realistic chance of winning his once-in-a-lifetime bout, yet his determination to go the distance saw him become one of cinema’s favorite underdogs.

Amid the economic malaise of 1970s stagflation, Stallone’s slurring, bloodied embodiment of working-class perseverance resonated with moviegoers and critics alike, earning ten nominations at the 49th Academy Awards and winning three—including Best Picture. The film was shot on location in less than a month, and director John G. Avildsen took a semi-guerrilla approach.

Key scenes were filmed without permits, unsuspecting locals were used as extras, and the story played out among a largely unknown cast; Burgess Meredith, as Rocky’s cantankerous trainer, Mickey, was the biggest name in the credits. This intimate, authentic feel—more akin to a sports documentary than to a scripted film—became one of the movie’s greatest strengths. A 1977 New York Times article reported that many theater audiences treated the film almost as a live sporting event: They “shouted for their hero, suffered vocally with each blow to his face, exulted when he got in a good punch and cheered loudly when it was all over.” Some viewers even came to conflate Rocky’s underdog story with Stallone’s astonishing real-life ascent from a chronically struggling actor to an Oscar--nominated star and screenwriter in about a year.

But as Stallone told Vanity Fair in September 1990: “Rocky’s not me. ... They’re not responding to the politics and the beliefs of Sylvester Stallone. When they’re cheering, they’re cheering for Rocky.