THE STORY – Marty Mauser, a young man with a dream no one respects, goes to hell and back in pursuit of greatness.
THE CAST – Timothée Chalamet, Gwyneth Paltrow, Odessa A’zion, Kevin O’Leary, Tyler Okonma, Abel Ferrara & Fran Drescher
THE TEAM – Josh Safdie (Director/Writer) & Ronald Bronstein (Writer)
THE RUNNING TIME – 150 Minutes
“Dream Big”
Not only is this the tagline for “Marty Supreme,” but it also doubles as a manic mantra that resonates throughout the chaos-fueled core of Josh Safdie’s artistic identity. The 41-year-old filmmaker, whose work over the past two decades has followed the mishaps of misfits, sleazebags, and down-and-out personalities that define New York, has been building toward what is his most grandiose directorial outing yet.
“Marty Supreme,” which finds Safdie stepping back out on his own for the first time since his 2008 debut, “The Pleasure of Being Robbed,” displays his admiration for the city he loves, or more so, a version of it that no longer exists today. Safdie ditches the contemporary setting of his usual work for a ping-pong-fueled period piece that not only further solidifies him as one of the most exciting filmmakers working today, but also serves as a quintessential New York film, all of which is amplified by a show-stopping performance from star and producer Timothée Chalamet.
Any concerns about what Safdie’s vision would be in the aftermath of his creative departure from brother Benny Safdie (who, with “The Smashing Machine,” clearly displays what he brought to the dynamic) are dispelled almost immediately as “Marty Supreme” begins to the sounds of Tears for Fears, while Chalamet’s Marty Mauser works a shift at his uncle’s modest shoe store in the Lower East Side. Safdie’s conscious decision to set an ’80s pop ballad soundtrack against a ’50s backdrop only adds another layer to the already familiar, anxiety-inducing nature of his work, which, like “Uncut Gems” and “Good Time,” remains palpable here.
It is also a more than fitting introduction to where Marty is in life, as the clash between the existence he has and the one he aspires to becomes the central conceit fueling his journey. To Marty, his shoe-selling days are numbered, despite his uncle’s pestering for a stable, steady lifestyle. He is under the preordained belief that he was put on this earth for greatness, bound by his dedication to his talents as a ping-pong player, which he believes will carry him toward the life he desires. It’s a feat easier said than done, as Marty begins his hustle-fueled odyssey, only to be sidetracked by his own foolhardy scheming, recklessness, and, as is typical of a Safdie protagonist, an impressively consistent ability to self-sabotage.
Safdie, who reunites with longtime collaborator Ronald Bronstein as co-writer and editor on “Marty Supreme,” understands the harsh world they come from, forcing Marty to endure a dog-eat-dog reality where one must fight to will themselves into something greater. An existence comically paralleled during the outrageous opening credits, backed by Alphaville’s “Forever Young.” While many of the characters created throughout their career have been searching for something, Marty’s pursuit of greatness is, at its heart, noble. It is, however, an effort ultimately bastardized by his own vanity and by the powers that constantly keep him at bay, whether it’s his overly obstructive mother (played by Fran Drescher) or the vampiric businessman Milton Rockwell (Kevin O’Leary), whose money and resources prove challenging for Marty.
It’s the so-called American Dream, the little white lie that convinces one that talent and dedication guarantee endless possibilities. Of course, there comes a point when the audience grows weary of Marty’s infinite yammering about the life he’s destined for, raising the question of when aspiration begins to degrade into delusion.
It certainly helps that, when we see Marty in the thick of competition, the audience fully believes he is as great a player as he claims to be. Safdie dynamically stages these table tennis matches, each sequence captured with laser precision by Darius Khondji’s cinematography. Khondji, who previously worked on “Uncut Gems,” puts as much thought into how the camera swiftly maneuvers around the players as he does into capturing every expression and pore of the performers. It’s a resplendent visual showcase that elevates every other level of “Marty Supreme’s” technical work, from Jack Fisk’s varied production design to Miyako Bellizzi’s stunning costuming.
Audiences watch as Marty roams the streets and high-end venues of New York City and beyond, all brought to life by Fisk’s immaculate eye for detail. Bellizzi’s work is just as mesmerizing, dressing Marty in striking displays of ’50s menswear, complete with wide trousers and bold ties. The understated costuming of the tenement residents is just as intentional as the lavish looks sported by the elite who surround Milton.
Daniel Lopatin’s score is equally sensational, crafting an ethereal, synth-driven soundscape that feels like a natural evolution from his previous collaborations with the Safdies. The collision of the period setting, the sonic palette, and the modern music choices heightens the experience, particularly when audiences hear booming 808s in the immersive sound mix, most notably during the motif tied to Marty’s professional rival, Koto Endo, played by real-life table tennis star Koto Kawaguchi. All of these elements immerse “Marty Supreme’s” extensive ensemble in the frenzied energy that gives the story its pulse. Unsurprisingly, it’s an environment in which a performer like Chalamet not only thrives but also completely transforms.
Over the past decade, Chalamet has assembled a murderer’s row of artistic collaborations that have set him apart from many of his contemporaries. Yet, despite brilliant filmmakers like Denis Villeneuve, Greta Gerwig, and Luca Guadagnino eliciting phenomenal performances from him, they have only tapped a fraction of what makes him so special. Safdie feels like the first filmmaker to truly capture the totality of what makes Chalamet so compelling as both a screen presence and an individual. He understands him on an almost spiritual level, channeling that essence through the lens of a New Yorker, a sports obsessive, a twenty-something dreamer, and, above all, an artist wholly dedicated to his craft. It is evident that Safdie and Bronstein, over the eight years spent developing this film, always envisioned Chalamet as their Marty Mauser. The seamless fusion of character and performer is even reflected in “Marty Supreme’s” ingenious marketing rollout and Chalamet’s unwavering commitment to it, one Marty Supreme jacket at a time.
At a certain point in “Marty Supreme,” viewers lose any sense that Chalamet, adorned with acne scars, a unibrow, and small glasses, is simply playing a role. He taps into Marty’s natural ability to disarm others with his hyperactive, twerpish charm, which he weaponizes throughout the film. Marty, who never thinks before he speaks, remains blissfully unaware of his own abrasive tendencies, intoxicated by a confidence born from youth and blind faith. This results in a stream of wildly humorous interactions as Chalamet machine-guns Safdie and Bronstein’s caustic dialogue, moments that will undoubtedly prompt gasps from the audience. It all serves as the perfect setup for the film’s cathartic final act. Chalamet isn’t just delivering a career-best performance; he’s further cementing himself as one of the greats in the making.
“Marty Supreme” also showcases Safdie’s gift for eliciting remarkable performances from both non-actors and seasoned veterans. Kevin O’Leary impresses as the predatory Milton, a figure whose parasitic influence impacts more than just Marty. That presence extends to Gwyneth Paltrow’s Kay Stone, a fading movie star whose declining relevance reignites her artistic and carnal desires, slowly drawing her into Marty’s orbit. Paltrow, who hasn’t starred in a film in more than six years, shows no rust, effortlessly conveying what Safdie describes as an “electric sadness” at Kay’s core. She balances that vulnerability with the self-imposed sophistication her character clings to, delivering some of her finest work in years.
That sense of sophistication is something Odessa A’Zion’s Rachel, Marty’s longtime friend and occasional paramour, has never been afforded. Nearly as relentless as Marty himself, she is driven by her own ambitions and hunger for escape. A’Zion is “Marty Supreme’s” breakout performer, volatile, and dialed-up-to-eleven, serving as both Marty’s perfect partner and his most direct foil. Even with the exceptional performances from Chalamet and Paltrow, many will walk away talking about what A’Zion accomplishes in her relatively limited screen time. Chalamet’s chemistry with both women is electric, yet distinctly different in each dynamic. Deep down, everyone in this world is hustling, whether it’s chasing lost fame or conning strangers in a New Jersey bowling alley alongside Marty, as Tyler Okonma’s Wally does. Okonma also gets his moment to shine, and he absolutely seizes it.
Even when “Marty Supreme” threatens to stretch itself too far, particularly in a subplot involving a begrudging Abel Ferrara desperately searching for his mismanaged pooch, Safdie ultimately pulls everything together for a conclusion that washes away any minor grievances that may have surfaced along the way. “Marty Supreme” is Safdie at his most sincere, albeit in the most Safdie-esque way possible. What is one willing to do for greatness? Who gets to define what greatness even is? Often, those answers are determined by the most arbitrary standards imaginable. For each person, the pursuit of purpose takes on a radically different form. But the sensation of the chase, that intoxicating pull toward something more, is what keeps us going.
There is something deeply embedded in the essence of a film like “Marty Supreme” that, for better or worse, proves undeniably relatable. Whether that dream ever comes to fruition is almost beside the point. The act of dreaming itself is what sustains us. Life is unpredictable, and dreams are sacred, which is why it’s nearly impossible not to find yourself rooting for someone as foolhardy as Marty Mauser, or for the beautifully unhinged vision of Josh Safdie.
