Marty Supreme: An Unconventional Triumph of Sports Cinema (Early Review)

There’s an unspoken rule in cinema that promises instant success to any film managing to spin palpable suspense out of an inherently dull and/or frivolous event (usually a D-tier sport of some kind). This isn’t to outright claim that table tennis is a sport unworthy of respect—by the time Marty Supreme opens in 1952, the close-quarters game is already filling out stadiums everywhere except the States—but as Marty Supreme is also quick to point out, it’s undeniably something of a challenge to pull out the sort of life-or-death courtside tension one would get from a more boisterous event out of two guys doing nifty trick shots with handheld paddles.

Unless, of course, those paddles are in the hand of someone who sees every slap of the ball as one more step towards legendary status in his own carved-out corner of sports history. It’s this inherent battle between the self-serious strive for greatness and the rec-room-ready pastime that will cement that place that has driven Josh Safdie—in his first solo directorial outing since his inaugural venture in 2008’s The Pleasure of Being Robbed—to find the eye of the tiger in the reflection of a polymer plastic ball spray-painted orange.

That makeshift gimmick is just one of the many half-realized ideas of Marty Mauser (Chalamet), a ping pong wizard whose wrists are almost as fast as his mouth. Set to represent the United States in a global table tennis tournament, Marty is convinced that his financial troubles and the dead-end job as a shoe salesman at his uncle’s store are just one championship win away from being the cute backstory of a luxurious athlete relaying his rags-to-riches tale from the side of his underground pool.

That orange ball—much easier to follow against any background than the sport-standard white—is essentially Marty’s entire motivation summed up in one palm-sized sphere; he wants to be seen, to be noticed, and every bit of attention is just further validation of his distinctive greatness in the making. It’s certainly enough to attract the attention of retired actress Kay Stone (Paltrow) and her pen magnate husband Milton Rockwell (Kevin O’Leary, unfortunately very compelling as a scummy Goliath in a monkey suit), but Mauser’s own tendency towards short-sighted egotism threatens to jeopardize both of these relationships—and just about every other in the young narcissist’s life—for good.

It bears mentioning, of course, that Marty Supreme is Josh’s first film since his creative separation from his brother Benny—whose own The Smashing Machine proved an admirably toned-down sports biopic in its own right—though not for the sake of comparing the films in terms of quality or “which brother has the talent” (evidently, they both bring their own virtues to the hectic family function). Rather, the comparison need only be carried as far as discerning that Marty Supreme, carrying over the entire creative team from the Safdie Brothers days (including, crucially, co-writer Ronald Bronstein), feels most like an extension of the frenetic, New York-bred anxiety that skyrocketed the duo just before they decided to traverse their own paths.

Only, you know… with ping pong.

Suffice it to say that the stakes Marty faces are comparatively much lower than those driving the leads of Good Time or Uncut Gems to their own destruction, but he proves every bit a worthy Safdie creation because his unwavering self-centredness frames this expedition towards tableside redemption as the defining moment of his life, and subsequently, his very survival. Beneath that sweaty unibrow is an undeniably talented but terminally egocentric boy with no qualms about putting himself and those around him in harm’s way as long as there remains the tiniest crack in the wall from which he can weasel his way out when the going gets too tough and someone else can be pushed in his way. What then results is more than two hours of relentless cosmic humbling, entirely compelling in just how much audiences want to see Marty build himself up just to be knocked down another peg.

Donning that unibrow—along with a healthy layer of youthful, “I’m way out of my depth” acne caked-on for good measure—is Chalamet, whose top-form performance reconfigures his lanky star appeal into a role best-served by his naked drive for excellence collapsing beneath the colossal arrogance of a Safdie subject (“protagonist” is obviously a far cry from the most suitable label here). Like the best of the Safdie subjects, Mauser is one whose every skeevy decision is predicated upon his endless watchability; by film’s end, where one is left entirely unsure of whether or not they even want to see Marty change his ways or fall all the way down the rabbit hole, and that’s all thanks to Chalamet’s forceful commitment to letting the grease slide him to victory while every one of Marty’s failures pass him by.

Chalamet is, naturally, not carrying Marty Supreme solely on his back, as Safdie surrounds the actor with a typically eclectic ensemble that brings the most texture possible out of his longstanding skill for making every character feel like a raving New Yorker who just wandered onto the set with no concern for the crew documenting their indignant outbursts. (Abel Ferrara fans rejoice at the prospect of him coming full-circle, basically playing a raspy slimeball instead of directing a film about one.) 

After a two-and-a-half hour journey moving back-and-forth across boroughs, continents and, naturally, ping pong tables, Marty Supreme almost risks losing the steam that drives its titular boy wonder between its slippery poles. When the game finally stops, though, Safdie and Bronstein land on the perfect finishing move that forces Marty to finally pick one side of the table tennis net and plant his feet; whether or not he’ll be willing to stand still and just let the match end at the final whistle without a fight is another matter entirely.

still courtesy of Elevation Pictures

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Julian Malandruccolo

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