SYNOPSIS: In the sport biopic “Christy,” now playing in theatres, Sydney Sweeney plays a successful professional boxer who faced her biggest battles outside the ring.
CAST: Sydney Sweeney, Ben Foster, Merritt Wever, Katy O’Brian. Directed by David Michôd.
REVIEW: Boxing movies are never about the big match. Instead, they’re about the journey, which, in “Christy’s” case, is a story of the real-life triumphs and traumas of former professional boxer Christy Martin.
The action begins in late 1980s West Virginia when a gay coal miner’s daughter named Christy Salters discovers an innate talent for beating the heck out of other women in the boxing ring. Her skill catches the eye of a $500-a-fight promotor who offers her to hook her up with trainer James V. Martin (Ben Foster). Initially reluctant to work with a woman, James is won over by Christy’s ferocity in the ring. “Maybe there is something to this lady boxing business,” he says.
Leaving high school girlfriend Rosie (Jess Gabor) behind, much to the relief of her controlling mother Joyce Salters (Merritt Wever), Christy steps back into the closet, marries the unpredictable James and, in a few short years, becomes a champion, the first woman to sign with flamboyant promoter Don King and the first female boxer to appear on the cover of “Sports Illustrated.”
Her rise to the top, however, comes at a great cost, physically and mentally. Forced to subvert her sexual identity and submit to Jim’s will inside and outside the ring, she compromises every aspect of her life. “If you leave me,” Jim says, “I will kill you.”
Part “Star 80,” part “Raging Bull,” “Christy” is a gritty, if overlong, story of struggle and resilience, of compromise and abuse. Director David Michôd, who co-wrote the script with Mirrah Foulkes, tackles every aspect of Christy’s life. Christy’s rise to fame is pure by-the-book underdog sports biopic material, amped up with sometimes brutal boxing scenes, which are very convincingly played by Sweeney and her various opponents.
Sweeney’s transformation to pitbull, win-at-any-cost fighter in the ring is impressive, but it is her work in the film’s family drama sections that showcases her best work. The emotional brutality she experiences at the hand of James surpasses any punishment she suffers in the ring. She convinces as Christy the athlete and as a person trying desperately to keep her head above water. It’s remarkable work in a movie that, unfortunately, doesn’t live up to its central performance.
As a movie “Christy” is on the ropes, but is elevated by a transformative, knockout star turn from Sweeney.
“Memory,” a poignant new drama now playing in select theatres and starring Jessica Chastain and Peter Sarsgaard, is a difficult, delicate story about how the past impacts the present.
Chastain is Sylvia, a self-reliant social worker and overprotective single mother to Anna (Brooke Timber). Sober for a dozen years and counting, she wears her emotions on her sleeve, and when she isn’t working, she’s often at AA meetings, sometimes with Anna in tow.
The story kicks in when Sylvia reluctantly attends a high school reunion with sister Olivia (Merritt Wever). Sitting alone, she’s alarmed when a bearded stranger stares blankly at her, before sitting at her table. Unnerved, she bolts, with the man in pursuit. He follows her home to her rough Brooklyn neighborhood, parking himself outside while she hurriedly goes inside and bolts the door.
The next morning it’s revealed he is a middle-aged man with early onset dementia named Saul (Sarsgaard) who lives in a fancy townhouse with brother Isaac (Josh Charles) and niece Sara (Elsie Fisher). When Sylvia takes on the job of Saul’s caregiver, a relationship blossoms, as she confronts memories of her young life, while Saul strains to remember the day-to-day.
“Memory” is a simply rendered, quiet movie with powerhouse performances from Chastain and Sarsgaard. Director Michel Franco is a fly-on-the-wall, keeping the camera at arm’s length, with no fancy cinematography to distract from the performances. Ditto the soundtrack. Or, should I say lack thereof. Franco doesn’t manipulate emotion with music, save for repeated spins of Saul’s favorite song, Procol Harum’s “A Whiter Shade of Pale.”
The no-frills approach is in service to the characters and the story. With no distractions, the narrative, which details sexual abuse and trauma, unfolds in an unexpectedly warm way. That is thanks to Chastain, who plays Sylvia with emotional bluntness and Sarsgaard, who won the Volpi Cup for Best Actor at the Venice Film Festival, who brings vulnerability to Saul, but never forgets his strength of character.
They share remarkable chemistry, and even when “Memory” drifts into implausibility, the story of two outsiders who find redemption in one another packs an emotional wallop.
“Marriage Story” is not a first date movie. It is a three hankie, emotionally fraught movie about appealing but damaged people whose divorce is filled with a sense of loss and a growing shroud of incivility.
Adam Driver is Charlie, a hotshot avant-garde theatre director living and working in Brooklyn, New York with his wife Nicole (Scarlett Johansson). She is a former movie star with a list of teen comedies to her credit. They met at a party, instantly fell in love, had son Henry (Azhy Robertson) all was well until it wasn’t. Charlie may have slept with a stage manager but it’s Nicole’s growing dissatisfaction that widen the chasm between them. “I never really came alive for myself,” she says. “I was only feeding his aliveness.”
What begins as a simple conscious uncoupling becomes complicated when Nicole accepts a starring role on a television series based in Los Angeles, taking Henry to live with her. The family, stretched between two coasts and two careers, wears thin and soon the pressures of the split take their toll. “It’s not as simple as not being in love anymore,” says Nicole.
On my way into the press screening for “Marriage Story” a publicist handed me a small package of Kleenex branded with the movie’s logo. “I won’t need these,” I thought. “I’m a professional, here to dispassionately judge this film on its merits. I made it through ‘Kramer vs. Kramer’ like a dry-eyed superman and if I can do that, I can do anything.” I’m not too proud to tell you that I was glad I had the Kleenexes. “Marriage Story” is so agonizingly vivid, so without melodrama, that I felt at times as though I was a voyeur, that I shouldn’t be watching some of these emotionally charged scenes. As Charlie and Nicole drift apart and lawyers, like the ruthless Nora Fanshaw (Laura Dern in full beast mode), become involved the idea that they might have a chance of staying friends once this is all said and done becomes heartbreakingly remote.
Driver and Johansson convincingly play the bond that made them a couple and as it unravels both reveal the fatal flaws that drove a wedge between them. The two actors, unshackled from the constraints of the blockbusters that pay for their Italian castle retreats, dig deep, wallowing in their character’s self-absorption and anger.
Johansson, in full monologue mode, thrills in a lengthy speech detailing her state of mind. And do not even get me started by Driver’s final scene with his son as he reads a long-forgotten note. (NO SPOILERS HERE) Director Noah Baumbach keeps those scenes—and the entire movie for that matter—uncluttered. Simple and direct, he allows the actors to do the heavy lifting with naturalistic performances and both pack a wallop.
“Marriage Story” may not be a great choice for a first date but the emotional, sincere truth Baumbach and cast wring out of the material is best seen with a companion, or at the very least a package of Kleenex.
