Sweeney puts up a fight, but ‘Christy’ ends in defeat
Sydney Sweeney is the undisputed champion of the boxing biopic “Christy,” a knockout if there ever was one. But a cliche-ridden script consistently has her on the ropes, fighting to hold your interest as the “Rocky” meets “Million Dollar Baby” wannabe – and its acclaimed director, David Michôd – take a dive.
It suffers from many of the same issues plaguing last year’s “The Fire Inside,” unleashing a flurry of punches so fast and furious you never have enough time to absorb them. Yet, Sweeney battles on through the litany of obstacles her Christy Martin, nee Salters, must overcome en route to a tacked-on happy ending in which enemies become lovers and an arch-villain gets his comeuppance.
For a third time in 2025, the beauty with the “perfect jeans” glams down for the sole purpose of flashing her acting bona fides. And in each instance, Sweeney impresses, whether it’s the drug-addicted daughter suspected of murder in “Echo Valley,” the mousy but lethal Lord of the Fly in “Eden,” and now the irony-filled role of a closeted spousal abuse victim, who, like her creepy husband-trainer, enjoys beating the crap out of women.
As was the case in those two earlier films, Sweeney is as unrecognizable as she is effective at fleshing out an underestimated woman refusing to be victimized. Well, at least trying not to be. For Christy, it’s a daily struggle to resist her lesbian urges while enduring chronic homophobia courtesy of her beastly spouse, Jim (Ben Foster), and queer-hating mother, Joyce (Merritt Wever). Both consistently stifle her agency as well as her identity, as they guilt her into denying her true self. This leads to a buildup of pent-up anger that she exhausts by unleashing her fists of fury.
For those unfamiliar with the hall-of-famer’s career, Christy was a formidable pioneer in establishing women’s boxing as a widely accepted sport. In her roughly 20-year career, she recorded 49 wins, 31 by knockout, against seven losses and three draws. It was her televised match in 1996 against Deirdre Gogarty on the undercard for the heavyweight bout between Mike Tyson and Frank Bruno that arguably put her sport on the map. Without her, Laila Ali, who snatched the championship crown from Christy in 2003, might still be unknown and a whole lot poorer.
Christy’s story is no doubt inspirational, but the script by Michôd and his wife, Mirrah Foulkes, consistently undermines it with sports movie tropes so prevalent that the film’s exorbitant 135-minute runtime feels even more daunting. It’s an issue compounded by the unconvincing scenes inside the ring, where Christy often vanquishes taller, more muscular opponents. But we’re never privy to what it is about her style that enables her to overcome the sizable size advantages. Was she stronger, a better strategist? It’s almost as frustrating as trying to unravel the nuances of Christy’s relationship with her rival, Lisa Holewyne (Katy O’Brien), who would eventually become her spouse.
What leaves a mark are the repeated instances of Jim Martin taking a perverse joy in knocking his wife around to remind her of who’s boss. He is larger than her and more than twice her age. He also knows her weak spot, which is her repressed sexuality. He never misses an opportunity to keep her in line by reminding her that professional boxing will never tolerate same-sex relationships. At least not in her prime, from the late 1980s to the early 2000s.
So, she lived a lie, and Sweeney excels at communicating the toll it takes on Christy’s already fragile psyche, bearing the hidden bruises of a childhood spent listening to her God-fearing West Virginia parents persistently declare homosexuality a deadly sin. And Mama Joyce (Wever) and Papa Johnny (Ethan Embrey) hold her feet to the fire on it. They are backward, but they aren’t stupid, knowing since she was little that Christy was attracted to girls, especially her childhood friend, Rosie (Jess Gabor), whom they eventually forbid their daughter to see.
Jim pretty much concurs, not for any religious reasons, but because it could cost him millions if the world discovered that “The Coal Miner’s Daughter” was butch. The resulting repression is as smothering for us as it is for Christy. She’s trapped everywhere – except in the ring, where she delights in pounding her opponents into submission. Eventually, she catches the eye of the notorious Don King (a superb Chad L. Coleman), who advances her to superstardom and the cover of Sports Illustrated.
It comes as no surprise that, like many entertainment agents and managers, Jim is doing a bit of creative bookkeeping to finance his drug habit. But it’s the increasing waistline and decreasing hairline that you notice most about Foster’s portrayal of this sick pup. It’s an all-in performance in which he practically begs you to hiss and sneer at Jim’s dastardly deeds, which culminate in a grotesque act of violence in the couple’s home in Apopka, Florida.
What impresses you is Christy’s resilience and her tenacity in picking herself back up after every setback and knockdown. You believe in her because Sweeney wills it. But you also rue that such a terrific performance gets lost in a movie that – unlike Christy – defies originality. It’s wedded to the tried and true right up to Christy’s final bout, not in the ring, but in a courtroom. It’s a just and cathartic finale, but it’s marred by Michôd’s indecision over what he wants his film to be about: boxing or domestic violence. It’s a bit of both, with neither delivering a powerful enough blow.
Movie review
Christy
Rated: For violence, bloody images, language, some drug use, sexual material
Cast: Sydney Sweeney, Ben Foster, Katy O’Brien, Ethan Embrey and Merritt Wever
Director: David Michôd
Writer: Mirrah Foulkes, Katherine Fugate and David Michôd
Runtime: 135 minutes
Where: In theaters Nov. 7
Grade: C
