Few actresses in Hollywood have been catapulted to stardom quite as fast as Sydney Sweeney. Between the surprise success of the rom com “Anyone But You,” the glossy nunsploitation horror flick “Immaculate,” and her breakout turns in HBO’s “Euphoria” and “The White Lotus,” Sweeney has proven she can toggle between sensuality, vulnerability, and charm. But with “Christy,” she’s aiming for something more: prestige.
This is the second boxing-centered transformation drama of the year, following Dwayne Johnson’s “The Smashing Machine,” and like Johnson, Sweeney fully commits. She’s spoken about the grueling physical regimen required to embody real-life boxer Christy Martin, and her dedication shows. She looks the part, she moves like a fighter, and she radiates ferocity in the ring. But the film surrounding her simply doesn’t rise to her level. Director David Michôd’s work succumbs to a barrage of sports-movie clichés and Lifetime melodrama that drain the film of authenticity. Nothing feels earned; everything feels staged.
“Christy” is a by-the-numbers sports biopic that mistakes surface grit for emotional depth. Sweeney commands the screen during the boxing sequences as Michôd shoots these moments with sweaty intimacy and a clear appreciation for the sport’s physical toll. Yet once the gloves come off, the movie falls apart. The script never finds a convincing rhythm in depicting Christy’s complicated marriage to her trainer-turned-abuser, Jim Martin (played with a greasy menace by Ben Foster). Their dynamic, which should feel harrowing, instead plays like a series of half-formed snippets.
That’s a shame, because Christy Martin’s true story deserves far better. A coal miner’s daughter from West Virginia, she became one of the first women to fight her way onto pay-per-view boxing cards in the 1990s: an era when the idea of female fighters was still treated as a novelty. She broke barriers on national television, earned the respect of legends like Don King, and became a symbol of strength for women in sports who were told they didn’t belong in the ring. Martin wasn’t just a boxer; she was a cultural flashpoint, proof that women’s boxing had a rightful place in the mainstream.
But “Christy” never captures that revolutionary energy. For a story about a woman defying male dominance in a hyper-masculine arena, the film feels frustratingly conventional. It glides past her trailblazing impact, reducing her rise to a standard montage of training, triumph, and trauma. Over its sluggish 135-minute runtime, the movie cycles through every expected beat: the abusive husband who doubles as manager, the media-fueled fame, the downward spiral of drugs and control. There are hints of Christy’s inner conflict about identity, sexuality, and the way her image was manipulated to appear “feminine” for male audiences, but these themes are buried beneath generic melodrama.
Even the most shocking moments — the domestic violence, the control, the eventual near-fatal confrontation — are filmed with a strange detachment. What should feel gut-wrenching instead borders on soap opera. Foster is effective but one-note, and Sweeney, though committed, can only do so much when the script refuses to explore what truly made Christy Martin’s story powerful: her courage to reclaim her life and identity after years of abuse and erasure.
Ultimately, “Christy” feels like a SparkNotes version of an extraordinary life. The film gestures toward depth without ever finding it, reducing a trailblazing athlete’s story to a familiar template of rise, fall, redemption. There’s a much better movie to be made about Christy Martin, one that dives into her queerness, her relationship with power, and her role in legitimizing women’s boxing. This one barely skims the surface.
Sweeney clearly wants this to be her big dramatic breakthrough, and she’s more than capable of delivering it someday. But “Christy,” for all its sweat and struggle, lands with the limp thud of a pulled punch.
CHRISTIE opens in theaters November 7th.