Rocky Balboa (2006)

Well, we made it to Tofino. Off-season Tofino. Which is much cheaper and less crowded than on-season Tofino — Janelle rented an entire house with a spectacular view of the harbour for less than a hotel room in high season. There’s not much to actually do in Tofino in the middle of winter, except cook your own food and watch the birds and the rain — most of the restaurants are closed, it’s dark by four o’clock, and even the few surfers out a Chesterman and Long Beach seem to be acting more out of some kind of surfer work-ethic than genuine enthusiasm. My cell phone doesn’t work here, and the internet is painfully slow. And yes, it’s awesome.

I’ve probably worked harder this year than any time since I started grad school in 2001, and I needed to decompress a few days before hitting Manhattan. Yesterday, I bundled up in layers of wool and leather and hiked the Wild Pacific Trail across driftwood beaches and rocky cliff-tops around Ucluelet. Then I watched Rocky Balboa, which I got it in the mail from Zip shortly before leaving for Tofino. It helped pass the seven or eight hours between sunset and bedtime last night, but that’s about it — it’s eye-rollingly predictable and assumes the audience doesn’t have the attention span to follow a boxing match without MTV-ing it up. Tomorrow, I’ll be on my way to New York.

And so, in conclusion give Rocky Balboa six mumbling plastic-surgery victims out of ten. At least it’s better than Rocky V. A lot better.