Marty Supreme review: propulsive, frenetic if lightweight fun

In a tale almost as old as time, a shoal of over-confident spermatozoa wriggle their way towards a mighty ovum that will only accommodate one such plucky hopeful. The race that starts this primal spark gives birth not only to a kid, eventually, but also a ping pong ball, immediately, in the cheeky dissolve that tail-ends the opening credits of much-hyped movie, Marty Supreme.

With the art of the inventive title sequence almost as lost as 99.99999999% of hapless sperm, this gag signals exactly what sort of misadventure we’re in for. Josh Safdie’s debut solo directorial feature strings us along with exactly the sort of catastrophically escalating farce you’d expect from one half of the sibling duo behind anxiety-flaring Uncut Gems (which he co-directed alongside brother Benny).  

Co-written with regular partner Ronald Bronstein, Marty Supreme is set in New York City, 1952. Dune star Timothée Chalamet is cocky young loaded gun Marty Mauser, a fast-talking Jewish table tennis player who is totally broke, but utterly focused on somehow travelling to London to be crowned world champion. This despite the fact your average American has no idea the competitive sport even exists, beyond the sweat-stained tables of smoky gambling bars.

Very loosely based on real-life character Marty Reisman, the filmic Marty is a firecracker; a pluckily puckish and garrulous gas who runs his motor mouth near non-stop. He will be a champ – likewise the similarly Oscar-focused Chalamet, who reportedly trained for six years to look the ping-pong part.

Watch the trailer for Marty Supreme

Marty Supreme: the frenetic titular character matches the film’s pace

Constantly plotting his next unpredictable step for when options one, two and three predictably implode, Marty’s a chaos agent who chews up the innumerable allies he momentarily gloms onto, subsequently spitting them out as collateral damage. Such liabilities come thick and fast.

Marty reluctantly works at a shoe store run by his exasperated uncle, Murray (played by songwriter Larry ‘Ratso’ Sloman, the first in a head-spinning series of remarkably well-deployed stunt casting choices).

But when the older man doesn’t pay Marty’s wages in time to buy a flight to England, the renegade young salesman has no qualms about holding up the joint. This, whilst also knocking up I Love LA star Odessa A’zion’s hard-done-by Rachel, who is smitten with the eyes-always-elsewhere Marty after a hook-up in the shoe shop’s storeroom.

This one-two punch combo results in a frenetic police chase through filthy back alleys and a confrontation with Rachel’s beefy abusive husband (Emory Cohen). The film rarely stops to take a breath from hereon in.

Paltrow plays once more

Marty also turns his mixed intentions to Gwyneth Paltrow’s once-huge silent movie star, Kay Stone. She’s stuck in a loveless marriage with the bruising entrepreneurial power player, Milton Rockwell, played by real-life Shark Tank star Kevin O’Leary in his surprisingly brilliant acting debut.

Marty woos Kay, hoping for some Hollywood money to grease his way to the UK. At first exasperated by his presumption, Kay’s nonetheless intrigued by this upstart whippersnapper’s moxie and undeniably flattered, as she attempts to restart her career on stage. Arguably Paltrow’s most acerbically nuanced performance since The Talented Mr Ripley, she lights up the film every time she’s on screen.

Marty Supreme: who’s who?

It’s more than a lil’ irksome that The Nanny star and valiant union hero, Fran Drescher, is all but squandered in a fleeting turn as Marty’s long-suffering Ma – though she gets more meat on the bone than a totally wasted Sandra Bernhardt as their neighbour.

It’s also a bit icky that real-life deaf (not mute) ping pong star Koto Kawaguchi barely gets a word to say as Marty’s main competition, Endo. He brings a game-changing spongey paddle to bear, as well as a preternaturally calm presence that psyches out the whirlwind whistling Marty, when the action shifts to Japan by way of a humiliating place-putting act by the malevolent Milton.

Elsewhere, in a constantly moving ensemble, stand-outs include rapper Tyler ‘the Creator’ Okonma, who plays Marty’s far too forgiving, taxi-driving mate, Wally with unflappably twinkling charm; and a small but perfectly formed cameo from author Pico Iyer, as a supercilious table tennis official.

King of New York director Abel Ferrara is also grand as a mafia mobster who really wants his dog back, after Marty and Rachel agree to take said pup to the vet following a traumatic incident involving a sky-falling bathtub. Then there’s fashion designer Isaac Mizrahi as Kay’s camp agent (also look out for playwright David Mamet as a stage show director), and *checks notes* magician Penn Jillette as a shotgun-happy shut-in.

Marty Supreme: controlled chaos

While the unrelenting pace of Marty Supreme never allows Marty to stay in anyone’s company for long, let alone stay still, Chalamet and Paltrow’s alchemical bond is pure cinematic magic, the latter offering a splash of Cate Blanchett’s Carol and a dash of Tár. A sequence between them that’s set in a park after dark is chef’s kiss stuff.

In truth, the ensemble outshines Chalamet. He’s nevertheless very good in a frazzled comic turn that pushes his gangly, rangy form to the max, even if it doesn’t eclipse his career-best work in Call Me By Your Name.

Marty Supreme is propulsive fun, all go, go, gosh, he’s a liability. If the final act in an overlong two and a half hours is a touch too saggy/schmaltzy, you can forgive the indulgence. It’s also an astonishingly good-looking movie, shot by Eddington cinematographer Darius Khondji on wonderfully scuzzy 35mm and magnificently lit.

In another vanishing rarity in contemporary cinema, Marty Supreme is also adeptly blocked to best frame its top-notch players. Similarly, composer Daniel Lopatin’s muscular score accompanies the film’s anarchically anachronistic use of pop bangers, including Tears for Fears’ ‘Everybody Wants to Rule the World’ in one memorable needle drop.

Ably corralling controlled chaos, Josh Safdie’s cinema literacy shines a good deal brighter than Benny’s stultifyingly stodgy The Smashing Machine, which really doesn’t deserve to be accompanying Marty Supreme in this year’s awards mix.  Will the brothers work together again? Or is this goodbye, like Marty on the fly?