John G. Avildsen’s underdog epic didn’t just win Best Picture (and Best Director and Best Actor), it’s come to represent Philly in a way we just can’t shake. Like Sylvester Stallone’s bum boxer who doesn’t know when to quit, this city and this franchise always seem to have more fight in them than people give them credit for. Counting 2015’s Creed, the saga is now seven films deep and boasts more ups than downs, but nothing matches the visceral images of the low-budget original: sweat-suited Stallone gulping down raw eggs in his crappy Kenzo apartment, punching frozen sides of beef at the meat packing plant, running past burning barrels in the trash-strewn Italian Market, leaping into the air at the top of the Art Museum steps with a lopsided smile on his face like a beaten horse. Here’s to ugly losers who work their asses off.
