No, no, no, I didn’t go to the new Rocky movie. I had seen the original and felt no need to revisit it. But I was at the theater with my wife to see History Boys, which I couldn’t sit through (though she loved it). So I went and watched the last half of Fur: An Imaginary Portrait of Diane Arbus, an odd and wonderful movie starring Nicole Kidman as the visionary photographer. That ended and I walked out, only to see it was 25 minutes before my wife would be done with History Boys.

I had a choice: sit in the lobby for 25 minutes, or slip in to watch Rocky Balboa for 25 minutes. So that’s my excuse for finding myself watching the climactic last segment of Stallone’s nostalgia-fest.

In this installment, he’s back in the ring for one last hurrah, but this time he’s – gasp – 60 years old. Even stranger, we’re supposed to believe this aged Philadelphia beefcake can hold his own against a young professional fighter in top form.

There was a horrible fascination in watching the two of them pound each other in this very choreographed celebration of the vanity of the aging male. I couldn’t help wondering what went on in Stallone’s mind as he considered making one last Rocky movie. Somehow convincing himself that, yeah, audiences wouldn’t laugh at this senior citizen getting all tough with a 25-year-old.

The final boxing scene could have been played for laughs, yet it was all too serious. The blood, the gore, Stallone’s craggy face; his obvious cosmetic surgery combined with the fake boxing bruises was a nightmare image. It was like some kind of car crash I couldn’t turn away from. I’ve always thought that male vanity is one of the most powerful forces in the universe. Now I realize that older male vanity might be the worst form of it.