Words by JANE CROWTHER
Sydney Sweeney’s transformation from pin-up to boxing bod in prep for this role was made much of in the press. It’s unfortunately the only transformative thing about the role, which is more interested in the eighties styling and domestic abuse of a trailblazing real-life female boxer than her achievements in the ring. Though the coercive and abusive relationship at the heart of this poverty porn biopic is grubbily fascinating (a husband living through his wife’s success while also feeling emasculated by it), it makes a film about female glass-ceiling smashing ultimately about a man.
We first meet Christy as a scrappy teen amateur pugilist from Tennessee whose ferocity in the ring attracts the attention of a middle-aged local manager, Jim Martin (Ben Foster in an amazing comb-over wig). Jim briskly marries his young charge, devoting himself to getting her the same deals as her male counterparts. Now in her books as well as her bed, Jim can control Christy’s rising fortune, fame and friendships, a svengali in a shell suit. Though Martin was a truly astonishing fighter, gaining representation by Don King, lucrative prize fights and endorsements, and press coverage usually reserved for the gents, David Michôd’s film concentrates on the battles at home. Jim becomes jealous of his wife’s dalliance with a former girlfriend and of her financial clout, punching down physically and emotionally.
Sharing similarities with I, Tonya, Christy doesn’t offer the same internal life seen in Margot Robbie’s interpretation of a sportswoman from the wrong side of the tracks. While Sweeney gamely swings, she doesn’t always connect – her performance often marooned in ugly wigs and fashion. Martin’s conflicted sexuality is explored, but her future wife (played with real warmth by Katy O’Brian) is given short shrift. Foster has more success playing a toxic misogynist, imbuing the manager with gimlet-eyed, hair-trigger malevolence which manifests in a horrific incident that is genuinely shocking. Always excellent, he manages to make Jim’s self-pitying motivation plain and his mercurial monstrosity horribly plausible.
The story of ‘the coal miner’s daughter’ – as Martin was dubbed – is certainly fascinating, but audiences may want to do their own research on leaving the theatre. Christy is the title, but we learn little of her, only the outside forces that came to define her.
Pictures courtesy of Black Bear Pictures
Christy is out in cinemas now
