Christy Martin overcame meager beginnings, disapproving parents, an abusive marriage, and the self-loathing of the closet to emerge as a trailblazing figure in women’s boxing. But “Christy,” the movie about her life, takes no such risks.
Sydney Sweeney gives her all in what is ultimately a formulaic, underdog sports movie. She subsumes her blonde, blue-eyed beauty beneath a brunette mullet and brown contacts to recreate Martin’s look as she rose to stardom in the ‘90s. (Extra special kudos to costume designer Christina Flannery for finding a wide variety of hideous floral prints for the character to wear in an effort to appear feminine.) The star of “Euphoria” and “Anyone But You” glammed down and bulked up for her most demanding role yet, and rose to the physical and emotional challenges of playing this tough but troubled fighter.
But director David Michôd’s film, which he co-wrote with his wife, Mirrah Foulkes, hits all the beats you’d expect as it follows Martin’s ascent to boxing greatness. There are training montages and needle drops, victories and setbacks, doubters and champions. All of it is done capably but without much panache; worst of all, the boxing sequences feel rudimentary, lacking both artistry and savagery. Only in the film’s harrowing third act do we see the kind of startling storytelling Michôd has made his name with in films like “Animal Kingdom.”
“Christy” begins in 1989 in Martin’s working-class, West Virginia home. In an opening voiceover, she informs us she’s been told she fights like she has demons in her. A major one seems to be that she’s a lesbian, but rampant homophobia prevents her from coming out. As her mom, Merritt Wever is stuck in a one-note role with slight variations of the same judgmental dialogue: “What you’re doing isn’t normal!” she scolds upon learning of Christy’s close relationship with a young woman named Rosie (Jess Gabor).
A chance to fight in Bristol, Tennessee, sets her on her course and reveals her calling. (The production design of both the shabby trailer here and the rundown apartment she’ll move to in Florida efficiently creates a grim mood.) But she doesn’t realize what she’s gotten herself into when she starts training with the man who will become her husband, Jim Martin. She’s 22; he’s 47. And he’s played by an unrecognizable Ben Foster with a belly and a bad comb-over. Obviously jealous and insecure—but possessing more power than she has in this situation—he dresses her in pink and tells her to grow her hair long.
“Nobody wants to see a butch girl fight,” he sneers. But he also promises: “I can make you the greatest female fighter in the world.” (Her quick-witted retort: “Compared to who?”) He manipulates and isolates her, controls and cajoles, and Foster is so good, as always, at creating an undercurrent of danger.
Still, Christy giddily celebrates each new knockout, jumping up and down like a little kid, thrusting her fists in the air, and watching her find her swagger is the film’s one joy. By 1996, she’s charming fight promoter Don King (Chad Coleman) and wowing Las Vegas on a Mike Tyson undercard, but by 2003, she’s outmatched against a much bigger and stronger Laila Ali. And Jim has gone from passive-aggressive to straight-up aggressive in his treatment of her.
The one bright spot is the connection Christy forges with Lisa Holewyne, the former opponent Jim brings in to help train her for the Ali bout. “Love Lies Bleeding” star Katy O’Brian is so compelling in just a few scenes that you’ll wish desperately there were more of her, particularly given the obvious chemistry between these two women.
But this story must get worse before it gets better. What Martin endures in the film’s violent climax is extremely difficult to watch, but it’s also part of a conclusion that feels overly drawn out. There’s no reason this movie should be two hours and 15 minutes long, particularly when it feels so frustratingly superficial. Why does she fight? Because she’s good at it, apparently, but that doesn’t seem like enough. In the end, “Christy” never hits as hard as Christy does.
