I went into Christy knowing next to nothing about Christy Martin—boxing isn’t my thing, and I tend to avoid sports biopics because they all feel like they follow the same tired formula: underdog rises, faces a setback, triumphs in the end. But this movie? It’s nothing like that. It’s messy, it’s uncomfortable, it’s sometimes hard to watch—and that’s exactly why it works. Sydney Sweeney’s performance is nothing short of transformative. I’ve seen her in other roles, but she disappears into Christy Martin here—capturing every inch of her grit, her vulnerability, her anger, and her quiet pain. The way she moves in the ring, the fire in her eyes when she’s fighting, the way her shoulders slump when she’s alone with Jim, the fear that flickers across her face when he snaps—you forget you’re watching an actor. She makes Christy feel human, not like some mythic sports hero. What I loved most is that the film doesn’t romanticize her struggles or her success. It shows her at her worst: lashing out at the people who care about her, hiding parts of herself to fit in, making bad choices because she doesn’t know how to escape a toxic relationship. And it shows her at her best: fighting not just for titles, but for respect, for women in a male-dominated sport, for the right to be herself. Ben Foster is equally brilliant as Jim—charming enough that you understand why Christy falls for him, menacing enough that you feel the dread creeping in every time he’s on screen. The scenes between them are tense, almost unbearable, and they’re a stark reminder that the hardest fights aren’t the ones in the ring. The boxing sequences are thrilling, don’t get me wrong—shot in a way that makes you feel like you’re right there, in the middle of the chaos, feeling every punch and every victory. But what stuck with me most were the quiet moments: Christy sitting alone in her hotel room, staring at her Sports Illustrated cover, wondering if it was all worth it; her quiet conversations with Merritt Wever’s character, the first person who makes her feel seen; the aftermath of the murder attempt, when she has to rebuild her life from scratch. Yeah, the film is long—135 minutes—and there are parts that drag a little. And it doesn’t shy away from difficult topics, which might be too much for some people. But none of that matters when the story is this genuine. It’s not a feel-good movie, but it is a powerful one. It made me cry, it made me angry, it made me cheer, and it made me look up Christy Martin as soon as I left the theater—something no other biopic has ever made me do. This isn’t just a movie about boxing. It’s a movie about survival, about resilience, about finding your voice when the world tries to silence you. If you’re tired of cookie-cutter biopics, give Christy a chance. It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s one of the most powerful films I’ve seen all year. Sydney Sweeney deserves every award for this role, and David Michôd has crafted a story that honors Christy Martin’s legacy without sugarcoating the pain that came with it.