It takes a rare kind of film to capture not just a legend, but a life lived on the edge of myth — and Tyson (2025) does exactly that. Directed with blistering precision by Martin Scorsese and written with raw empathy by Scott Silver (Joker), this is not just a boxing biopic; it’s a symphony of fury and fragility, a story that punches through the myth of “Iron Mike” to reveal the wounded boy beneath the monster. Anchored by a career-defining performance from Jamie Foxx, Tyson stands tall as both cinematic spectacle and psychological odyssey.
From the opening scene — a young Mike shadowboxing in the flickering light of a Brooklyn alley — Scorsese makes his intent clear: this is not a story about glory, but survival. The camera moves like a fighter — restless, rhythmic, unpredictable. It ducks and weaves through Mike’s turbulent world: the foster homes, the street fights, the loneliness that calcified into rage. Silver’s script spares no sentimentality; it paints Tyson as both victim and villain, saint and sinner, man and myth.
Jamie Foxx disappears entirely into the role. His transformation is staggering — not just physical, but spiritual. He channels Tyson’s volcanic charisma and his childlike vulnerability with terrifying authenticity. One moment he’s an unstoppable force in the ring, the next a lost soul seeking love and validation in all the wrong places. Foxx doesn’t imitate; he inhabits. His Tyson is Shakespearean — a man forged by violence, destroyed by excess, and forever haunted by the echo of his own fists.
The film’s first act is pure kinetic energy. Under the mentorship of Cus D’Amato (portrayed with quiet gravitas by Ray Liotta in one of his final performances), we witness the birth of the beast. Scorsese stages the training montages like spiritual rituals — drenched in sweat, shadow, and prophecy. Göransson’s score pounds beneath each jab, blending tribal percussion with distorted strings that mirror Tyson’s own mental warfare. The fights are visceral — not just choreographed, but felt. Each blow lands with emotional consequence.
But it’s the second act where Tyson becomes something greater. As fame swallows Mike whole, Scorsese turns the lens inward. The flashing lights of Las Vegas blur into hallucinations of paranoia and hunger. Enter Samuel L. Jackson’s Don King — a showman, a snake, a savior in sequins. Jackson plays him with devilish delight, his grin both magnetic and monstrous. Their relationship is the film’s toxic heartbeat — a masterclass in manipulation, where power masquerades as love.
Here, Silver’s writing cuts deep. The dialogue between Tyson and King brims with psychological warfare, alternating between brotherhood and betrayal. “You made me rich,” Tyson snarls in one unforgettable exchange. “No, Mike,” King replies, smiling, “you made me a god.” It’s pure Scorsese — the seduction of sin dressed as success.
As Tyson’s world unravels — from the shocking headlines to the prison years — Foxx delivers some of the most haunting work of his career. His monologue in solitary confinement, whispered through tears and clenched teeth, is devastating: “All I ever wanted was to be loved without someone wanting something back.” In that moment, the legend collapses, and what remains is a broken boy who hit the world before it could hit him.
Scorsese directs these sequences with restraint and reverence. Gone are the grand set pieces of Raging Bull; in their place is quiet devastation. He knows this story doesn’t need embellishment — the tragedy speaks for itself. The result is one of the director’s most emotionally mature works, balancing brutality with grace.
Ludwig Göransson’s score deserves special praise. His music doesn’t just accompany the film — it fights it. Pulsating basslines mimic Tyson’s heart rate, while choral elements suggest something biblical, as if the universe itself is bearing witness to his fall. When the final fight arrives — not against an opponent, but against himself — the score swells into something transcendent, turning pain into poetry.
By the final act, Tyson transcends the boxing genre entirely. It becomes an elegy for a generation of broken men who mistook violence for validation. Scorsese frames Mike not as a monster, but as a mirror — reflecting the brutal machinery of fame, race, and exploitation that built him up only to tear him apart. The final image — Tyson walking alone through an empty gym, gloves slung over his shoulder — lingers long after the credits roll.
Tyson (2025) is a knockout not because it glorifies a legend, but because it humanizes one. It’s a film about a man who fought everyone — the world, his demons, and himself — and learned too late that the greatest fight was for peace. With Jamie Foxx delivering the performance of his career and Scorsese once again proving that cinema can still pierce the soul, this is not just a movie. It’s a reckoning.
🥊 Rating: ★★★★★ 9.8/10
