Pitching a new magazine at men who've reached the age when hip replacements, prostate cancer, and funeral arrangements join golf, booze, cigars, and shagging the secretary as interests is not a bad idea. But marketing such a magazine around the massively dwindled star power, leathery hide, and vaguely Norma Desmond-like gothic aura of Sylvester Stallone earns Sly a place in the Horrifically Misconceived Ideas Hall Of Fame, alongside the Emeril Lagasse sitcom, the XFL, From Justin To Kelly, and The Pirate Movie.
Then again, without Stallone, Sly magazine would just be another clueless upstart trying haplessly to carve out an identity with a derivative, poorly designed, ad-light mishmash of photos, interviews, turgid prose, and articles with telltale titles like "The Do's And Don'ts Of Scoring." With Stallone serving as its editorial director, mascot, cover model, inspiration, and primary subject, however, Sly comes with a strong identity built in: It's the sad vanity publication of a deluded has-been, a Sylvester Stallone fanzine put out by Stallone himself. If only everything in the magazine offered the giddy train-wreck exhilaration of the following line in Stallone's tribute to Kim Basinger: "Without question, one of the greatest beauties to ever scorch a screen, she remains Lady Subtle, yet refuses to capitalize on her multiple assets, except for an artistic effect—and when that happens, the results are always arousing and continued viewing could result in irreversible heat stroke and a blathering incoherence." That's not just a run-on sentence, it's four or five bad sentences crashing into each other like linguistic bumper cars.
But Sly isn't all puff pieces about Stallone's new reality show The Contender, excerpts from a Stallone exercise book, multiple ads for Stallone's signature line of health and fitness products, and an exclusive "first look" at the Rocky VI screenplay. (Witness the amazing script that's been turned down by every studio in town!) No, Stallone intermittently stops engaging in self-promotion that would embarrass Krusty The Klown and gives others a chance to sell themselves as well. After a fawning interview with Jenna Jameson, for example, Sly includes an excerpt from her bestselling book, in which she details her joy at meeting, of all people, Sylvester Stallone at a Planet Hollywood shindig.
Alas, Sly is only 20 percent Sylvester Stallone's self-aggrandizing craziness to 80 percent generic men's-interest fodder written in the grating "just us lads sharing a laff" tone that aims for frat-boy affability and achieves the opposite effect. ("If you're a reader who looks like a surfer and smells even worse, then Hawaii would be the obvious choice," runs a typical zinger from a puff piece on late-in-life spring-break destinations.) It would be tempting to call Sly a grown-up Maxim, but it's clearly been created for eternal adolescents who are dedicated to reaching old age without ever growing up, especially without anything resembling dignity or grace.