"Christy" Review: Sydney Sweeney Punches Above Her Weight in Tonally Awkward Sports Biopic

"They say I fought like I have demons in me." 

The boxing biographical film is a time-honored tradition in cinematic history. Often regarded as Oscar-bait for its central characters and the actors that embody them, sports flicks in general tend to garner a lot of attention for their realistic portrayals of underdogs giving everything they have to the sport they love. "Raging Bull," "The Great White Hope," "The Fighter," "The Hurricane," and "Cinderella Man" are just a few of the movies that have inspired us, made us think, and brought humanity to otherwise god-like figures that occupy the ring.

"Christy," the latest offering from director David Michod ("Animal Kingdom") and writer Mirrah Foulkes, tells the true story of female boxer Christy Martin (Sydney Sweeney) from her upbringing in a conservative, traditional household to her seemingly meteoric rise to superstardom amongst the most ferocious female boxers alive. But the crux of Martin's journey wouldn't be complete without divulging information about the relationship she shared with her husband and coach, James Martin (Ben Foster), and the growing control and abuse he inflicts on his wife. 

Christy, known by her maiden name of Salters, experiences many highs and lows on her way to the top. Hiding her attraction and past relationships with women, she enlists the help of her husband to act the part of a traditional housewife who happens to enjoy beating the shit out of opponents in the boxing ring. But the abuse, both sexual and violent, that she encounters along the way from the one man she trusts makes Christy a prime target for what will eventually come her way: attempted murder that could have been prevented if her mother (Merritt Wever) had just listened to her pleas for help.

That, in a nutshell, is the tale that "Christy" attempts to weave over a runtime of 135 minutes, spanning three decades of Christy Martin's extraordinary life. Therein lies the problem with the film's execution, as it does too much at a snail's pace to get to the heart of what makes Christy Martin a character and person worth knowing about. There are so many tonal shifts that give the audience whiplash throughout the film's delivery (is this a sports biopic? Is it a cautionary tale about trauma and abuse? Is it a love story between two women?) that it becomes difficult to pin down precisely what Michod and company are striving to tell their viewers.

For her part, Sydney Sweeney not only throws herself into Christy Martin's life, but she comes away swinging for more adulation. Not a performer I usually have flocked to, Sweeney owns the part as both the lead actor and producer of the film, cementing herself in a conversation that goes, "Oh, I guess she can actually act after all." Foster is ferocious in commanding the screen with every scene he is in, but the cliche nature of an abusive husband in bad wigs steals focus away from Christy's overall story.

Let's talk about the wigs. There is this remarkable quality that "Christy" has in which the trajectory of Christy Martin's career ages from 1989 through the early 2010s, yet, oddly, Sweeney and Foster seem to not age with the timeline…just a change of wigs, maybe a bit of different makeup, and we are led to believe Sweeney herself is going from age 19 to her 40s without much change. Not only does this divert focus away from the arduous journey of the main character, but it also distracts and undermines the suspension of disbelief that filmmakers often seek out.

An ensemble cast that includes Ethan Embry, Katy O'Brian, and Chad L. Coleman (as the famed boxing promoter Don King) adds very little to a film that is already crumbling and never quite knows exactly what it is. Christy Martin's story is absolutely worth telling in a cinematic manner, but its believability is hindered when the tone and style are compromised. "Christy" is a showcase for powerful performances from both Sydney Sweeney and Ben Foster, and that's pretty much it.