By Marc S. Sanders
Boxing movies are nothing new. The best ones depict the fighter surviving personal battles outside of the ring. That was likely true with the fictional Rocky Balboa. It might have also been what kept Jake LaMotta alive well beyond his demons. It’s definitely a fair argument for Christy Martin, the first boxing champion to bring the sport into the mainstream for females.
Her story comes to the big screen with an astonishing Oscar caliber performance from Sydney Sweeney. I saw Christy a week ago and I cannot stop thinking about it. The material within this biography from writer/director David Michôd is entirely familiar. Still, the character of Christy and what she endures is worthy of a movie.
Beginning in 1989, eighteen-year-old Christy Salters haphazardly begins her climb up the ranks with small time underground fights in her Virginia hometown. She’s not educated and she’s not embarrassed about being in a relationship with her girlfriend. Her bible loving mother Joyce (Merritt Weaver in an authentic, all too real and villainous role) says otherwise. She’d take her daughter to the local minister to draw the gay out of her if the girl wouldn’t rebel with a temper inflamed by F-bombs.
Christy is summoned for higher stakes fights in Texas. She wins that one and then is connected with Jim Martin (Ben Foster) who witnesses one hard swing from the girl in a sparring match. He commits his entire life to being her coach. Ask Jim and he’ll say he made Christy what she becomes, a near undefeated champion adorned in signature pink and on the cover of Sports Illustrated – a first for a female boxer. The film reminds the audience that Jim’s perspective is hardly true. This jerk nearly screws up Christy’s chances of getting a lucrative contract with Don King (Chad L Coleman) which included pre-fights ahead of Mike Tyson’s Vegas appearances in the ring. If only Jim’s laziness and procrastination were his worst qualities, though.
Christy becomes an emotional challenge to watch as it progresses. David Michôd’s film burrows into the dark underbelly of athletic success. Once Jim and Christy are married, a limited lifestyle cages the young phenomenon with the husband/coach’s monstrous tendencies. The torment that victimizes this woman is beyond compare as she must succumb to demonizing sex slavery for his twisted, intoxicating yearnings, as well as for anyone he collects money from who ready to engage in brawls with her, in dirty hotel rooms. Working in her corner at the fights, Jim does not protect Christy against opponents that she is clearly no match for.
Christy is physically abused and mentally tortured by Jim, and maybe by other intimidating powers like Don King. Chad L Coleman delivers a brilliant and familiar persona to King. The boxer is also financially getting ripped off, despite opening a Florida gym in her name with Jim listed before her on the front door.
It’s astonishing to see how much peace Christy can find in a boxing ring alone against an opponent. At home, she can only acquiesce to what’s demanded or forced upon her. There’s no fight at home. Only surrender.
I had recently seen Sydney Sweeney host Saturday Night Live. It was one of many terrible episodes in the show’s history because the writers only catered to Sweeney’s youthful glamour and looks. There was a skit taking place in a Hooter’s restaurant where her character was collecting the biggest tips based upon how she filled out the signature uniform. It was lousy, unaware and insensitive writing. Actors like Anne Hathaway or Natalie Portman were never treated this way on the program. None of the skits gave Sweeney something unique and worthy of what she’s capable of.
In Christy, with a white trash twang, and a puffed up brunette curly hair style (later it becomes blond corn rows), Sydney Sweeney is doing what Meryl Streep would have committed to in a physically taxing role like this. Sweeney demonstrates a focused young girl going after what she wants even if it means she has to make up for her husband’s shortcomings as a negotiator. He’ll beat the shit out of her, but Christy Martin matures as Michôd’s film progresses with intense training moments and riveting fight scenes that have Sweeney in action.
Ben Foster is that committed actor who never looks the same in two different roles. I didn’t even recognize the former Disney kid until I saw his name in the end credits. Outdated polyester clothing and track suits from the 1990s do not hide that paunch, ugly belly. Christy’s winning purses of prize money cannot conceal his bleach blond combover or his trashy southern accent. Yet, he is nothing but noticeable when he is on screen. Foster is the worst kind of cad with a terrifying grip on his wife and her career. A terrible eyesore within the presence of the film. Jim Martin is none too bright, but he knows how to hold a wrenching grasp and he’s entirely frightening.
Merritt Weaver is the quiet antagonist. Unlike Foster’s character, the mind games that Joyce plays on her daughter are not so intentional as they are natural. This mother refuses to see beyond the expected dominance of a man to uphold a catholic home, devoid of sinful lesbian practices. It’s awful when a mother will side with a daughter’s abusive husband. Weaver’s portrayal of Christy’s bible committed mother demands to be hated.
Ahead of seeing this film, I knew nothing about Christy Martin. So, when a shocking moment occurs in the third act, my jaw dropped at the direction of the scene. An action occurs and Michôd’s camera seems frozen in position as a character paces in and out of the room. Then the character returns and commits a much uglier act. Then the back-and-forth pace continues with a harrowing stare down before exiting to take a shower. I know Christy is just a movie. Yet, I cannot recall the last time I felt so helpless as a witness to what I was observing. I wanted step into the screen and lend aid. I only hope that when the film comes out in digital format, some insight is provided into how Sydney Sweeney and Ben Foster circumvented around their clashes of characters. All of it feels too real.
Sydney Sweeney is also convincing as the battering boxer. Like most films that cover sports, there are typical training and fighting montages here. Sweeney is not afraid to behave ugly for the showmanship needed to be in an elite ring. There’s one expression she delivers in a blink/miss wide shot lens after she knocks out an opponent. It feels so organic as a bloodied Sydney Sweeney outstretched with her gloved fists, prances around the ring, gives a shoulder shrug and sticks her tongue out. This actress knew exactly how to play this character, soaked in sweat with blood streaking out of her mouth and nose absent of any kind of humility that would show weakness in a champion fighter.
I am afraid though. Christy is currently not the box office titan it deserves to be and come awards time, I’m certain Sweeney, Foster, Coleman and Weaver will be wrongfully overlooked. Sydney Sweeney, a producer on the film, was asked what her reaction is to the sluggish financial returns. Best she could, she replied by saying not all films are made for the money. Some need to be made for the art. I’ll go a step further and declare that Christy serves as an advocate for awareness of domestic violence and prevention. Amazingly though, this film executes astounding triumphs for those underdogs who have next to nothing.
Christy is one of the best films of the year.
2 UNPAID MOVIE CRITICS!!!! 