‘Christy’ review: Sydney Sweeney is a knockout in David Michôd’s broad boxing biopic

Dir: David Michôd. US. 2025. 135mins

Much like its namesake, David Michôd’s women’s boxing biopic Christy is unflinchingly direct. It follows Christy Martin (Sydney Sweeney), the first major female American star of the sport whose meteoric rise witnessed her gracing the cover of Sports Illustrated and commanding large pay-per-view audiences. Despite her bruising, assured exterior, however, Christy became a victim of abuse at the hands of her trainer-husband Jim Martin (Ben Foster). While Christy’s harrowing multi-decade story immediately engenders urgency, particularly in the hands of a committed Sweeney, Michôd’s film often succumbs to flat characterizations and a limited scope. 

Sweeney commands much of the film

Christy, of course, isn’t the first female-led boxing flick. Karyn Kusama’s Sundance winner Girlfight (2000) broke ground, while Clint Eastwood’s Million Dollar Baby (2004) won four Academy Awards and, more recently, Rachel Morrison’s The Fire Inside also premiered at Toronto in 2024. Christy, which bows as a Special Presentation, is similar to those films in its rags-to-riches spirit, but finds its own distinct lane by blending queerphobia with domestic abuse. Following the film’s world premiere in Toronto and subsequent berth in London, Black Bear Pictures will hope this provides an awards breakthrough for a show-stopping Sweeney when it’s released in the US on November 7.

Sweeney commands much of the film, turning in a performance that recalls Margot Robbie in I, Tonya in terms of portraying false bravado. She also easily takes on the physical components of the role, displaying the tangible growth of Christy’s fighting skills and the personal draining of her soul. Sweeney and the film’s visceral handling of domestic violence—which results in many unsparingly violent encounters, culminating in a bloody and then cathartic conclusion—are the high points of an otherwise deeply flawed inspirational biopic.              

When the film opens in 1989, Christy’s back is up against the wall. When Christy returns home to Mullens, West Virginia after winning $300 at a boxing competition, her coalminer father (who inspired her sporting nickname ‘The Coal Miners Daughter’) and queerphobic mother Joyce (Merritt Wever) are not interested in her triumph. They’re frightened of a rumour that she’s dating her friend Rosie. Despite their muted response, Christy does draw the attention of a promoter based in Bristol, Tennessee, who sets her up with Jim as a trainer. Though Jim initially doubts her ability to fight, he soon begins to support her. It seems like Christy might’ve found a golden ticket – until she hasn’t. 

Michôd’s film doesn’t beat around the bush in revealing Jim’s vile intentions. He immediately hangs the carrot of success over her head, advising her to grow out her ‘butch’ haircut, stop dating women and marry him. A hungry and determined Christy quickly complies – mostly because Jim positions himself as the only person who really believes in her. He moulds her appearance by gifting her a heteronormative pink boxing outfit, then cuts her off from family and friends. As Christy’s wins mount in Tennessee and later in Florida, Jim’s grip tightens; particularly once she begins earning major purses from promoter Don King (a hilarious Chad L. Coleman).

Unfortunately, most of the characters in Christy are one-note. Some of that is by design: because Jim segregates Christy from her life, we learn little about those around her. And yet, her father’s only trait is his ineffectiveness while her mother remains broadly queerphobic. The world around Christy doesn’t evolve either. Once again, this is partly intended – there is no outside light when Jim’s around. But we learn nothing about the growth of women’s boxing, much less the other major players outside of her rival Lisa Holewyne (an underused Katy O’Brian). While one could argue Christy’s anti-feminist leanings—which are born from Jim’s toxic influence—would automatically make her uninterested in a wider knowledge of her sport, the total lack of information is difficult to dismiss. 

Even the boxing scenes are fairly rote. At one points, Michôd pulls a Raging Bull freeze frame and slows the action, but the sequence lacks poeticism. It doesn’t help that the shallow focus eliminates any sense of a crowd, thereby toning down the atmosphere. Thankfully, Christy and her opponents know how to physically move through the frame, and Sweeney can more than sell a punch.