“Aren’t we past this?” That’s the thought that ran through this writer’s head during Christy, the boxing biopic designed as an official Oscar vehicle for Sydney Sweeney. Both the distributor and actress seem to have similarly malignant aims for the medium of cinema in making this. The former––be it A24, NEON, or in this case, Black Bear––in the increasingly Hollywoodization of indie films, is leaning into sports biopics (e.g. The Iron Claw and The Smashing Machine) that don’t offend middle-American sensibilities while still offering gritty vehicles for somewhat disreputable stars eager to gain cred as they turn unsure about the long-term direction of their brand. Sure, that’s capitalism, whatever, but something feels a tad icky when you’re exiting the theatre of a dispiriting true story and being told you’re supposed to actually feel good.
Sweeney portrays Christy Martin, who’s often credited with putting female boxing on the map in the ’90s. You kind of know what you’re in for the second you hear Sweeney attempting a West Virginian drawl in voice-over, and we’re soon introduced to the drab coal-mining home in which she was raised. Looked down upon by her family for being both into sports and a lesbian, the young woman is clearly repressed to a point where she could probably best let out her bottled-up rage in a violent medium like boxing.
Wanting to pursue the sport further, despite everyone telling her it won’t pan out as a career, she’s introduced to low-level trainer James V. Martin (Ben Foster, spouting a beer gut and combover) who sees something in her that others don’t. Having to play-act as heterosexual and not wanting to lose the one person who believes in her, Christy eventually marries the clearly bad news James. Her relationship with the exploitative figure is clearly not fruitful until he uses his Don King connection to secure a career-making fight in the mid-90s. From there, Christy skips ahead to 2003, where a devastating loss to Muhammad Ali’s daughter leads to a permanent fracture in the marriage, with––you guessed it––drug addiction and James’ worst side coming out.
Christy’s third-act veer from sports biopic into domestic-abuse drama, while feeling like a Lifetime movie, at least provides some jolt to the system. Still, everything wraps up so tidily from there, with Christy getting to tell off James in court––replete with breaks for applause––that you actually feel a little gross about someone’s real-life pain being jerry-rigged into “inspirational” mush. Even with a by-the-numbers structure, the film could’ve at least transcended with a stronger directorial vision, but one doesn’t sense much of a presence behind the camera.
Being that A24’s left his Pete Davidson-led stoner comedy on the shelf since 2022, David Michôd is probably making sure to be on his best possible behavior, acting completely subservient to a producer/star who so desperately wants an Oscar. We’ll see how that pans out, but one hopes that voters will be able to see the transparency of it all, or we’re doomed to far more movies like Christy in the future. A chilling thought.
Christy premiered at the 2025 Toronto International Film Festival and will be released on November 7.
The post TIFF Review: Christy Makes a Shamelessly Generic Oscar Grab for Sydney Sweeney first appeared on The Film Stage.
