Christy

The Cage of Expectation

There is a specific, suffocating dread associated with the cinema of David Michôd. In *Animal Kingdom* and *The Rover*, he directed the air itself to feel heavy, as if the oxygen had been replaced by a fine mist of impending violence. When it was announced that Michôd would direct *Christy*, a biopic of the trailblazing boxer Christy Martin, the pairing felt inevitable. Who better to dissect the brutal ecosystem of 1990s prizefighting than a director who treats survival as a moral imperative? Yet, the resulting film is a curious paradox: a movie that lands its punches with visceral force, yet moves with the predictable, flat-footed rhythm of a cable television biography.

The film’s visual language struggles to decide what it wants to be. Michôd, usually a master of distinct, arid textures, seems constrained by the glossy requirements of the sports genre. The boxing sequences are competent, occasionally utilizing a *Raging Bull*-esque freeze-frame that feels more like a citation than an artistic choice. We see the sweat, the blood, and the tactical brutality, but the camera rarely transcends the ropes. The true visual horror is reserved for the domestic sphere. The cinematography shifts in the Martin household; the lighting becomes sickly and claustrophobic, mirroring the shrinking world of a woman trapped by the very man who claims to be her champion. It is here, in the quiet terror of a living room rather than the roar of an arena, that Michôd’s signature style briefly flickers to life.

At the heart of this uneven vessel is Sydney Sweeney, who delivers a performance of startling physicality. It is easy to dismiss the "transformation" narrative—the weight gain, the prosthetics, the gruff accent—as Oscar-bait posturing. But Sweeney brings a terrified, frantic energy to Christy that defies the makeup. She plays Martin not just as a fighter, but as a woman systematically hollowed out. In one crucial scene, Christy confesses that the boxing ring is the only place she finds "quiet." Sweeney delivers the line with a heartbreaking exhaustion that recontextualizes the violence: for her, being punched in the face is less painful than the psychological siege laid by her husband, Jim.

Ben Foster, playing the abusive manager-husband Jim Martin, offers a performance of reptilian menace. He is the film’s gravity, pulling the narrative away from the triumphant montage and into the darkness of true crime. However, the script—co-written by Michôd and Mirrah Foulkes—often fails to match the complexity of its actors. It relies on the standard "rise and fall" scaffolding: the initial discovery, the montage of victories, the corrupting influence of fame, and the inevitable crash. By adhering so strictly to the formula, the film smooths over the jagged edges of Martin’s life, particularly the deeper complexities of her closeted sexuality in the homophobic environment of 90s sports.

*Christy* ultimately feels like a fight where the referee stepped in too early. It has the raw power and the talent to be a devastating examination of control and identity, but it keeps retreating to the safety of its genre corner. We leave the theater respecting the fighter, absolutely, but wishing the film had possessed the same reckless courage as its subject. It is a competent memorial to a survivor, but from a director like Michôd, we had every right to expect a knockout.