A man cojoles, forces, scams, and slums his way through his dream of ping-pong championships in Josh Safdie’s anxiety-driven fever dream of a movie, Marty Supreme.
What will we do to catch our dreams, to fulfill a destiny? What if the destiny is all just dust in the wind for everyone else, a self-set lofty goal that seems nigh impossible?
Unobtainable unless you’re willing to push, lie, steal, make promises, and be incredibly forceful; most people will tell you to get out. Enough might be cracked. When responsibility looms, fame illudes, a proponent must force their own destiny, damn the rest. That’s the push of Marty Supreme, Josh Safdie’s solo directorial debut after he and his brother Benny have separated creative ways (the one note on Benny’s Smashing Machine; it’s rather good but standard). Marty Surpeme is a fantastic movie, and we see which of the brothers has an anxiety fetish. I might not have liked it as much as the consensus, finding a little repetitive and stretching in several scenarios, but it’s still a powerhouse with a series of incredible supporting performances building up the astounding titular one by Timothee Chalamet. It’s the sort I think I’ll appreciate more when I undoubtedly rewatch at some point in 2026.
Like Uncut Gems, from the Safdie Brothers and co-writer Ronald Bronstein (continued here, well minus Benny), Marty Supreme is an anxiety attack of a movie as Marty Mauser rushes from scene, never slowing down, to set up the next gig, get someone off his back, make some awkward seduction or play his next game in a tournament, always running on an edge. It’s a lot, it’s hard to watch sometimes, and I can get why someone might think “ugh, I go to movies to relax, even when watching hard things; I don’t need my pulse racing” or “yeah, I saw Uncut Gems, this is the same but sidestepped” I get both. I was in the latter camp, as much as I loved Uncut Gems, but in a weird meta way, it won me over in the same way Marty somehow rubs down those he grates against. Whether it be the incredibly strong script, the pure verisimilitude of the production value of 1950s New York and around the world, the performances by Chalamet, A’Zion, Paltrow, and others, or the breakneck pacing, Marty Supreme comes together with a lifting, undeniable intensity. It’s all about people using people in different ways and how they flow over one another and bump and push, and it’s thrilling.
As Marty, Young Timmy C has never been better, finding the right groove to make someone who is extremely unlikeable become a convincing and compelling protagonist. Like Adam Sandler’s gambling addicted jewelry dealer in Uncut Gems, you want to take him, shake him, tell him to stop. Just stop. Think. But you know they aren’t going to listen. They are in their heads and their heads only, and will rush out to get themselves deeper into the pot as the temperature rises up and past boiling. Chalamet is engaging to a fault. (hee sports joke) He’s pushy, grating, you know he’s fucking you over; you know it’s all a level of bullshit on everything he does to fund his ping-pong tournament needs, but yet he works it. Every door slam somehow opens a window. A favorite continuing point in the movie is the cut to how said window worked. Despite everything to the contrary, Chalamet makes him incredibly watchable; it’s an all-encompassing, immersive go, breathless, and truly fascinating. There’s something to lifting yourself so high you think untouchable, but knowing it is set to come crashing down if given a second to breathe nd think. It’s like kiting checks on our own lives.
Safdie gathered a heck of a supporting cast to push Marty Mauser to his self-aggrandizing greatness. The most talked about has been Gwyneth Paltrow. I’ll be honest, I tend not to buy her performances, outside of Royal Tenenbaums and this. She’s the sort that always feels like “I’m ACTING,” but she’s astounding as the faded film star in Marty’s sights to be willingly used. To get to Kevin O’Leary as her husband. He’s great, but fuck that guy. Moving on. Also on the surprisingly amazing non-actor: Abel Ferrara. The 42nd Street to his core Grindhouse director of Ms. 45 and Driller Killer draws the eye and ear with a wowing scene-stealing ease, not unlike David Lynch’s turn as John Ford in The Fabelmans. He’s eye-catching as a man who might actually be dangerous and not willing to let Marty do what he does best – scam and slam. Penn Jillette gets chilling laughs for a few short bits as well. But holy shit, Odessa A’zion is the shining star. I’ve loved her in the Hellraiser remake (and the movie too), and she stands out in this year’s awful Until Dawn, but Marty Surpreme should shoot her into the stratosphere for non-genre audiences with an astonishingly fierce and fiery command. Cool to see Tyler, The Creator Fran Drescher, and Sandra Bernhard as well.
With an amazing cast, Safdie is free to expertly put together a technical achievement of filmmaking. From the opening and the credit sequence (akin to Uncut Gems but a different orifice), it runs at full force with an earned confidence. The quick, sharp presentation of a well-developed and executed script, transferred perfectly via whip-smart editing, also by Safdie and Bronstein, it’s a measure of control. Safdie and Bronstein work so well in simpacado. With Bronstein’s wife, Mary, writing and directing this year’s If I had Legs, I’d Kick You, I’m concerned for the high-level stress in their home. Seriously, though, Safdie and Bronstein create vivid scripts of unscrupulous people and make them work with breathless anticipation. Where to go, what fuck up and fuek with will come next. The pair keeps a heartbeat of increasing anxiety and stress. It’s filled with so many jaw-dropping HOLY SHIT moments, building to an explosive and blasting finale. It’s a pushing and punishing film, much like its protagonist; I’d say it’s breathtaking, but it never lets you take a breath to steal away.
Safdie and cinematographer Darius Khondji control their camera, shooting and keeping just the right setups, and live within the astounding production design of Total Legend Jack Fisk (I cheered at his credit), betraying nothing of the 1950s scenario. It’s a deep, dark world of blacks and browns, shadows and texture, lived in and around NYC and other environs. It’s amazing one get the chance to really look with a chaotic and charging bull of a film (the 2h30 flies). Not to mention the Daniel Lopatin score leading us along. Weirdly, I loved the fantastic use of 80s pop needle drops. They are weird and anachronistic, but they give the film a strange gravitas and otherworldly important quality. It’s both reminding us “Movie! But yet engaging.
Interesting, I spoke earlier that the movie did not grab me as much as others, finding a little repetition and sometimes grating, but then I spent the whole review extoling its virtues. Fitting, that’s how Marty in the movie works, and Marty Supreme works as a film. It pushes and begs, cajoles, and convinces until I’m on board. Josh Safdie, directing and co-writing with Ronald Bronstein, makes Marty Supreme an unlikely favorite of the year with its incredibly anxious sports tragedy. Chalamet is astounding, as is the cast, with top-notch production design, editing, and score.
Anyone want some honey?