PLOT: The story of Christy Martin (Sydney Sweeney), who rises to the top of women’s boxing while simultaneously struggling with a violently abusive home life.
REVIEW: Christy was one of the titles at TIFF that everyone had an eye on. A vehicle for star Sydney Sweeney, it’s not only the ultimate test of whether she can carry a movie on her own, but also whether she’s versatile enough for a decidedly non-glamorous, change-of-pace role. While she’s under the microscope of a public that seems increasingly obsessed with her (to an unnerving degree), even her biggest detractors should be impressed with her work here. Indeed, Sweeney vanishes into the role, having gained forty pounds of muscle to convincingly portray a fighter. It’s strong work in a well-directed biopic.
Directed by David Michôd (Animal Kingdom, The King), Martin’s story seems tailor-made for a film, even if—at times—it’s a grim one to watch. Sweeney plays Christy as a woman profoundly unsure of who she’s supposed to be. While clearly gay, she tries to live a straight lifestyle, marrying her trainer Jim (Ben Foster) and even homophobically baiting some of her opponents. She carefully crafts an image of being more feminine than the typical female boxer, from wearing pink trunks to driving a pink BMW. Sweeney is convincing in the ring, giving Martin a lot of grit but also layers of vulnerability—especially in the scenes with her parents. Merritt Wever is uncommonly loathsome as perhaps the least sympathetic screen mother since Mommie Dearest, while Ethan Embry plays a loving but complacent father.
While Sweeney is the clear star, Foster has a substantial role as Christy’s Svengali-like trainer and husband. He latches onto her talent and quickly dominates her life. Before long, he’s giving off strong Eric Roberts-in-Star 80 vibes, as Jim loses his grip on reality, falls into drugs alongside Christy, and becomes increasingly abusive. Without spoiling too much, those familiar with Christy’s story will know it takes a very dark turn. Michôd doesn’t shy away from the domestic abuse, depicting it with unflinching intensity.
While it remains to be seen how audiences will accept Sweeney in a decidedly unglamorous role, no one can deny she delivers. Michôd proves to be a strong director for her to work with. Despite a lengthy 137-minute runtime, the film rarely drags. And while the subject matter is heavy, Michôd avoids being oppressive, finding moments of levity—such as when Chad L. Coleman pops up as Don King or in the recreation of Christy’s ’90s pay-per-view promos. Antony Partos’s score, recalling much of his earlier Australian collaborations with Michôd, adds further depth.
Of course, the big TIFF question is whether this will put Sweeney in Oscar contention. While I enjoyed the movie, I don’t quite see it as Oscar fare, as it hits some of the more predictable biopic beats. I also found Foster’s performance uneven. At times, he slips into hamminess, leaning on too-obvious tricks like a paunch or a bad combover. It often felt like he was playing dress-up, whereas Sweeney fully inhabits her character—even with a significant physical transformation.
Still, Christy is an engaging biopic, though the grim subject matter might limit its commercial appeal. Black Bear will release it this November, and hopefully, audiences will give it a chance. More than anything, it proves that whatever you may think of Sydney Sweeney, her legitimate talent as an actress can’t be dismissed.
