Christy

I’m staring at Sydney Sweeney—hair a frizzy 1990s catastrophe, face resembling a topographical map of West Virginian coal country—and I’m realizing the "Euphoria" glitter is officially dead and buried. It’s a jarring image to lead with, but Christy is a jarring movie. In an era where biopics usually feel like glossy, authorized Wikipedia entries designed to win a gold statue and then be forgotten on a streaming carousel, David Michôd’s take on the life of Christy Martin feels like a jagged piece of glass. I watched this on a rainy Tuesday while my neighbor was loudly assembling IKEA furniture through the wall, and frankly, the rhythmic hammering matched the percussive, punishing mood of this film perfectly.

Perms, Punches, and Panic Attacks

The story follows the rise of Christy Martin, the woman who basically dragged female boxing into the mainstream by sheer force of will (and a legendary undercard spot on a Mike Tyson fight). But Michôd isn't interested in a "Rocky" clone. He’s interested in the friction between the girl in the pink gloves and the man pulling her strings. Sydney Sweeney delivers a performance that should silence anyone who thinks she’s just a product of the "Prestige TV" star machine. She’s all coiled tension and suppressed rage. When she’s in the ring, she isn't "acting" like a boxer; she looks like she’s trying to punch her way out of her own life.

The film does a fantastic job of capturing that specific, grimy 90s aesthetic—the era of wood-paneled gyms, bad perms, and the suffocating pressure of small-town expectations. It captures the moment when women’s sports were treated as a novelty act, a "sideshow" before the real men got in the ring. Seeing Christy navigate that condescension while being a legitimate powerhouse is incredibly satisfying, but the film never lets you get too comfortable with the success. There’s always a lingering sense of dread, mostly thanks to the man in her corner.

The Foster Factor

If Sydney Sweeney is the heart of the film, Ben Foster is the rot. Playing Jim Martin, Christy’s trainer and eventually her husband, Foster plays this role with the kind of skin-crawling intensity that makes you want to shower in bleach. We’ve seen him play "unhinged" before, but here it’s different. It’s a quiet, possessive, domestic kind of evil. He’s the one who built her career, and he never lets her forget it. Their chemistry is toxic in a way that feels dangerously authentic, making the domestic scenes far more terrifying than any of the professional bouts.

Merritt Wever also shows up as Joyce Salters, providing a much-needed emotional anchor. She has this way of saying everything with a single exhausted look, grounding the high-stakes drama in something recognizable. The film also introduces Katy O’Brian as Lisa Holewyne, and their chemistry offers a glimpse of the life Christy could have had if she weren't trapped in Jim’s orbit. The contrast between the liberation Christy feels with Lisa and the control Jim exerts over her is the engine that drives the second half of the film into territory that feels more like a psychological thriller than a sports drama.

The Mid-Budget Vanishing Act

It’s genuinely bizarre that Christy evaporated at the box office. With a $15 million budget, it wasn't exactly a massive gamble, yet it returned barely a tenth of that. I suspect it fell victim to the "theatrical void" we’re seeing lately—if a movie isn't a four-quadrant franchise or a meme-able horror flick, audiences seem content to wait for the streaming drop. It’s a shame, because the sound design in this thing is phenomenal; every jab and hook sounds like a car door slamming, a visceral punch to the gut that loses its edge on laptop speakers.

Apparently, the real Christy Martin was heavily involved in the production, and you can feel that lived-in truth in the details. This isn't a sanitized version of her life. It deals head-on with the 2010 incident where Jim attempted to murder her—a scene filmed with a cold, documentary-like detachment that left me staring at my screen in silence for five minutes after it ended. It’s a tough watch, but it’s a necessary one to understand the sheer resilience of the woman.

Despite the grim subject matter, I left Christy feeling strangely energized. It’s a movie about the cost of becoming a legend and the even higher cost of surviving that legend. It’s a reminder that sometimes the biggest fight isn't for a belt or a title, but for the right to own your own name. If you’re tired of the assembly-line biopics that have dominated the last decade, this is the antidote. Just don't expect to feel "good" when the credits roll.

In a landscape of safe bets, Christy is a haymaker that actually connects. It’s a career-defining turn for Sydney Sweeney and another reminder that Ben Foster is one of the most consistently underrated actors working today. It’s a "hidden gem" that shouldn't be hidden at all, and while it might have missed its moment in theaters, it’s exactly the kind of gritty, uncompromising drama that demands to be rediscovered. Find it, watch it, and maybe keep the lights on for a bit afterward.