Marty Supreme review – Timothée Chalamet is captivating in this madcap, quickfire ping-pong comedy
Timothée Chalamet delivers a magnetic performance in Marty Supreme, starring alongside an “impeccable” Gwyneth Paltrow in a film that charts a young man’s chaotic rise from petty scams to unlikely table-tennis stardom. The result is a “madcap”, stylishly frenetic comedy that feels as fresh as it is unpredictable.
Away from the screen, Chalamet is one of Hollywood’s most knowingly performative figures – especially when promoting his work. For Marty Supreme, set in 1952 and centring on an ambitious ping-pong hopeful, the actor has embraced a parade of self-satirising stunts: a spoof marketing-meeting video and a pop-up shop full of oversized orange ping-pong heads among them. Such meta theatrics could easily overshadow a film, but here they don’t. Chalamet’s turn as Marty Mauser is so disarmingly engaging that his off-screen antics become irrelevant. And unlike last year’s A Complete Unknown – where his nuanced Bob Dylan outshone the film – Marty Supreme matches its star’s energy beat for beat. The bombardment of merch suddenly feels worth it.
A sports film that refuses to behave like one
Safdie’s film is packed with sharp left turns. Though superficially a sports story, it’s really a portrait of a deeply flawed young man. Marty works in his uncle’s Lower East Side shoe shop, yet nothing – not loyalty, not morality – will stop him from chasing international table-tennis glory. He lies, cheats and steals with astonishing shamelessness. Importantly, Safdie and Chalamet refuse the “lovable rogue” cliché: Marty is entitled, abrasive and often infuriating. Physically, he’s no suave Hollywood contender either – a wiry kid with a pencilled moustache and blotchy skin. And still Chalamet, aided by the film’s razor-edged wit, keeps him captivating even at his worst.
Director Josh Safdie co-wrote the script with longtime collaborator Ronald Bronstein, loosely inspired by real table-tennis champion Marty Reisman. Best known for gritty, high-anxiety films such as Uncut Gems, Safdie brings a similarly kinetic sensibility here – but filtered through antic comedy. His recreation of Marty’s working-class New York is richly textured: cramped tenements, small storefronts, neighbours who know everyone’s business. Marty belongs to this world, yet his hyperactive ambition sets him adrift from it. “I’m not drinking caffeine,” he announces – the last thing a man moving at double speed needs.
A chaotic, sharply acted whirl
Safdie’s knack for casting pays off. Odessa A’zion is vivid and slyly funny as Rachel, Marty’s married friend and partner in impulsive back-room trysts, whose scheming matches his own. A scene in which Marty jokingly – and ineffectually – points a gun at a co-worker closing his uncle’s safe illustrates his absurd blend of menace and incompetence. From there he bolts to the UK, talks his way into a luxury hotel, and encounters Kay Stone, a former movie star played with cool, Grace-Kelly poise by Gwyneth Paltrow. Kay sees through Marty instantly but entertains him anyway, intrigued by his brazen charm.
Unlikely casting choices blend seamlessly: financial commentator Kevin O’Leary is Kay’s acerbic tycoon husband, Tyler, the Creator brings wild, chaotic energy as Wally, Marty’s partner in hustling ping-pong matches, and filmmaker Abel Ferrara turns up as a quietly menacing thug.
Of course, ping-pong is central. Chalamet reportedly trained for years, and it shows – he darts and spins with surprising athleticism. His primary rival is Endo, a Japanese champion whose presence carries post-war political undertones. But even these matches never lose sight of character: Marty whoops when he wins and punches walls when he doesn’t, every point an extension of his ego.
When the chaos becomes a little too much
As the film barrels forward, it becomes almost as overstimulated as Marty himself. Gunshots, collapsing ceilings, escalating cons – Safdie piles on the absurdity, and for the most part, it works. The biggest flaw is simply the length: at two and a half hours, some sequences feel indulgent. A globe-trotting montage featuring Marty playing ping-pong against a trained seal is undeniably entertaining but risks feeling like a detour.
More disappointing is the finale, which slips unexpectedly into sports-movie cliché, complete with two climactic matches, scoreboard glances and familiar reaction shots. A sentimental ending follows – a surprisingly conventional wrap-up for a film that otherwise feels electrifyingly original. Marty Supreme deserves a more daring finish.
Even so, Safdie’s film brims with ambition, humour and style. And like Chalamet’s real-life promotional escapades, its excesses are easy enough to forgive when the result is this exuberant.
Marty Supreme opens on 25 December in the US and 26 December in the UK.
