Split Decision: “Marty Supreme” – Blog

In the Split Decision series, our writers pair up and face off on an Oscar-nominated movie one loves and the other doesn’t. Today, ABE FRIEDTANZER and CLÁUDIO ALVES discuss Marty Supreme…

ABE: In 2024, I achieved an exciting milestone: seeing all the major Oscar movies before Thanksgiving. The last one I caught was the late-breaking Timothée Chalamet movie no one had seen yet, A Complete Unknown. Since I’m not into music all that much, I was impressed but not wowed, but happy at least, even if just for prognostication purposes, to have seen a film that was going to factor into the Oscar race.

It’s amusing that, one year later, the film that nearly eluded me and turned out to be close to my last one to screen was also a little-seen late-breaking Timothée Chalamet movie. The difference here, however, was that Marty Supreme had its surprise premiere at the New York Film Festival, and then I managed to RSVP for an FYC screening in mid-October in LA that disappeared from listings moments later. I got to the Academy Museum and only found my seat ten minutes after the screening was supposed to start, stunned at how popular this hard-to-see film was. I knew nothing about it other than that it was Josh Safdie’s first time directing a movie on his own in many years, and Chalamet was supposed to be incredible. Several hours later, I found myself in solid agreement…

I haven’t been that into the Safdie Brothers’ films in the past, appreciating them for what they are but not loving the style. The Smashing Machine, an Oscar contender that once was, impressed me when I saw it at the Toronto International Film Festival, and I could see Benny Safdie’s transition to something slightly more mainstream. Marty Supreme, on the other hand, was a much larger undertaking, a world of its own, created around a self-serving protagonist with momentous aims and dreams, hindered by a tendency to make terrible decisions and stroke his own ego. I was engaged from the first moment to the last, and not just during the ping-pong scenes, which were unexpectedly thrilling for a sport that doesn’t feel like it should necessarily be fast-paced.

I’m not always sold on biopics of fictional people, even if Marty’s story is based on the real Marty Reisman, but this felt vivid and real. I was rooting for Marty to succeed even while worrying that he was surely going to fail, and I was all about the sharp plot turns that set him back in major ways and almost seemed to abandon initial directions. It’s a refreshing experience when I don’t quite know what I’m in for as a viewer, and I’m invested anyway. I’m also well aware, Cláudio, that we so rarely like the same films, so I’m bracing myself for what’s sure to be a brutal takedown of a film I quite enjoyed.

CLÁUDIO: Well, as it happens, I’m not here to take down Marty Supreme. Truth be told, it’s my fourth favorite of the Best Picture nominees, but the only TFE writers who truly loathed Josh Safdie’s solo venture were already needed for other Split Decisions. So, you got me instead, full of conflicting feelings about a flick I generally endorse, even though, on revisiting, I keep wondering whether what I like best about the project is what I’m bringing to it as a viewer rather than what it’s actually aiming at and giving me. 

Which, to be fair, is a consistent issue I’ve had with the Safdies since first encountering their cinema.

Allow me to go down memory lane in a copycat move to your opening salvo, only I need to go farther back than last Oscar season. Picture it: Estoril 2014. I’m well into the first semester of my last year in college and have decided to spend my little free time at the since-then-renamed Lisbon & Estoril Film Festival. Heaven Knows What is playing in competition, and I’ve heard good things from critics and bloggers I follow, including TFE’s favorite, Nick Davis. So, I go watch it in a mostly empty auditorium with the festival jury in attendance. The Safdies are also there, delivering a short introduction before the film commences. What follows is an interesting piece of social realism clearly indebted to such American indie legends as Cassavetes and May, its best elements being an outrageous sonic landscape and the collective work of actors who, in many cases, were portraying fictionalized versions of themselves, their own struggles with addiction.

So far, so good. But then the movie ends, and the Safdies come back with mics in hand, ready for the obligatory post-screening Q&A that, in this deserted theater, became more of a back-and-forth between the directors and the jury president, Nan Goldin. In about twenty to thirty very uncomfortable minutes, I come to realize that the empathy I might have sensed in the film toward its dispossessed characters was, at best, something the Safdies shied away from articulating, or, at worst, a complete accident on their part. Even Goldin called them out for the way they spoke about the people they depicted, the vulture-like perspective they expressed toward lives they seemed to understand only on the surface, treating them as aesthetic phenomena rather than the difficult realities experienced by many, including those they called creative partners. The whole thing put me off from staying for such things at future festivals. Moreover, it made me question how to go forward as someone who wanted to write about film. Should I judge the work of art I watched based on my experience while watching it? Or should I let this glimpse into misaligned authorial intents shape my opinion on the piece?

It also made me suspicious of every subsequent Safdie project, even as I came to admire many of them, including Marty Supreme.

Because there are ideas percolating in the movie that interest me a whole lot, such as a reflection on post-war America and the mythos of American exceptionalism as perceived through an intersection of midcentury historical context and the stylistic touches of a Reaganite Hollywood. Even the central performance by Timothée Chalamet exists in a limbo of fascinating possibilities, potentially invested in excoriating the actor’s persona, how it might reflect a social critique implicit in the text, as much as it is prone to getting high on its own supply, falling hook, line, and sinker for Marty’s self-aggrandizing spiel. You mention rooting for the guy’s success as you watch his story, which comes close to pinpointing one of my biggest gripes with the movie. I don’t think co-signing the hero’s journey being told by the folks on screen is an especially interesting path for Marty Supreme to take, and I find the whole affair much more interesting whenever it seems to step away from such purpose and consider the lead with more pronounced ambivalence, even some implied agnosticism towards his self-mythologizing. Maybe Safdie is pulling for some arthouse-friendly ambiguity. Or maybe he’s half-assing and half-measuring all the way down to hell, noncommittal or clumsy or just very confused. 

My opinion of the movie has been up and down, and I’ve been anticipating this conversation as a way to sort out my mixed feelings. C’mon, Abe, convince me of its merits. I’m eager to be persuaded. 

ABE: It’s funny because Heaven Knows What was also my first festival experience with the Safdies! I honestly couldn’t remember the full spectrum of my thoughts, so I just revisited my brief review from the 2014 New York Film Festival, where I called it a “miserable and difficult thing to endure, not nearly powerful enough to merit its brutal and grim nature.” I was taken by Holmes as an actress once I realized she was playing a version of herself, and the Q & A didn’t rub me the wrong way as it did for you.

Back to the present or, more accurately, the 1950s, I want to come back to the notion of these distinctly independent filmmakers – talking about Josh Safdie and his coworker and frequent collaborator Ronald Bronstein – going mainstream with this film. Looking back at my review of Daddy Longlegs, directed by the Safdie Brothers and starring Bronstein, I couldn’t find anything to like about it. The protagonist was detestable to me, and his surrounding journey didn’t offer anything compelling or redeeming. In Marty Supreme, Marty has a goal that only he seems to care about, and it’s fascinating to see how the people in his life are aware of it to some degree but aren’t nearly as invested. I also appreciate very much the scope of this film, which makes it feel like the three women in Marty’s life all exist in separate universes that only get a piece of him. His mother, played by Fran Drescher, represents his past, while his pregnant girlfriend, Rachel (Odessa A’zion), is one possible present, and Kay (Gwyneth Paltrow) is an alluring future who, like his prized championship, is far out of reach explicitly because of how he goes about it.

Where Marty Supreme truly drew me in was when I almost forgot what movie I was watching because of the depth of a particular subplot, just as distracted from the finish life as Marty is. Waiting outside Kay’s party is one such example, presuming that the world will simply stop for him and the host of a lavish party will abandon all her guests and high-society problems to frolic in the park with him. Rachel’s dog con and the extended trip to New Jersey is another arc that had me captivated, in addition to Wally’s art of deception that’s far less cocky than Marty’s and certainly less self-congratulatory. There’s no arguing Marty’s talent, but he’s self-destructive because he needs credit and could otherwise get away with a lot more, but that wouldn’t be nearly as interesting a story. 

This film is like a bigger and more bearable version of the most high-profile Safdie Brothers film, Uncut Gems. The world of competitive table tennis feels less seedy than the diamond industry, but Marty, like Adam Sandler’s Howard, brings most of what happens to him onto himself, even if he can’t fathom the degree to which his messes will create consequences. I wasn’t as in love with Uncut Gems as most, but I see its merits. To me, Marty Supreme takes that framework and turns it into something grander and riveting. How do you compare this solo Josh film to that acclaimed project?

CLÁUDIO: I won’t argue with you that the characters and social milieus of Marty Supreme are less seedy, more bearable than their Uncut Gems counterparts.

And yet, I prefer that former flick, partly because it embraces its own odiousness so openly and never pretends the audience should be rooting for Howard. If they do, that’s their own choice and something to investigate within. As much as that narrative is shaped by its protagonist, the perspective that gives us access to him is skeptical, presenting him without apologies or gestures toward even a faint concept of likability. It’s also more focused, especially in its structure. The 2019 production is a simpler film, less ambitious in almost every regard, which is maybe why it works better for me, at the end of the day. It’s not ungainly, and I never get the sense it’s settling for half-measures in the same way I do with this latest Josh Safdie endeavor. In some ways, Marty Supreme could use some tightening, even though some of its best elements come through in extraneous subplots that do more rhythmic disruption than they add to the film’s propulsive energy or thematic weight.

The New Jersey detour with Tyler, the Creator, is a perfect example of this. I adore that whole passage, from the moment Wally is introduced to that shot of the dog running in slow-motion across a cloud of dust. It’s the most I was immersed in the film’s anxiety crescendo, drunk on a ruined orgasm of second-hand adrenaline and tense for the first time since that overegged opening sequence splashed onto the screen. And yet, I can’t help but sense that the whole thing would be better if the canine secondary narrative were removed, Abel Ferrara and all. It fumbles and jettisons potentially fruitful concepts out the window in the name of chasing a cheap thrill, with little to it beyond the instant gratification of a shoot-out scene later on. Reading back on some of the stuff posted on the site lately, I have a similar reaction to Marty Supreme‘s meanderings as Nat has toward The Secret Agent. I wish it was tighter even as I admire its detours.

These diversions also irritate because they take time away from what the film could explore in greater depth. Namely, the three women you identified already – the past as mother, the present as pregnant lover, the future as an aspirational movie star promise. Odessa A’Zion’s Rachel is the only person besides Marty who gets any scene written from her POV, while the editing and performance beats work overtime to elevate Gwyneth Paltrow’s Kay. But Fran Drescher’s Mrs. Mauser is left behind, wasted alongside Sandra Bernhard. So much so that I’m pretty sure there must have been more material with them left on the cutting room floor. And, if so, I seriously question Safdie’s priorities as a storyteller, why he didn’t give us more of those figures yet insisted on returning again and again to Marty playing the same notes in scenes, all elaborating on the same ideas ad nauseam.

ABE: It is true that there’s not much of a focus on Drescher’s character, which is a shame since she’s a talented actress trying something very new who has also made quite a mark for herself with a leadership role in the industry. For me, it all comes back to perspective, on the flip side of what bothered you. This is Marty’s story, and for him, he’s the protagonist. We get a few detours where he’s not front and center, but those are merely distractions from the primary narrative. Perhaps rooting for Marty is the wrong way of putting it, but we do want him to succeed to the extent that failing wouldn’t be much fun at all, even if a brutal beatdown on the ping-pong court is something he absolutely deserves.

This isn’t a world I feel like I inhabit very often as a moviegoer, one that is at the same time frozen in time and also timeless. If it were set in the present day, there would be too much communication possible that would negate much of the confusion that ensues from an inability to make definitive plans or know where people would be at a set moment. I loved the thrill of not knowing what was going to happen next, mostly because Marty is so driven by impulse that he flies by the seat of his pants at every turn, rarely thinking through the implications, yet fully set on selling himself. 

I’m also thinking more and more about this film’s longevity, starting with those orange ping-pong balls as part of the marketing campaign and now, as we write this, the likelihood that Chalamet’s own ego may have cancelled out his chances at an Oscar win. His filmography is quite impressive for not having been in the business that long, starting with small roles on Homeland and in Interstellar and then landing an Oscar nomination for a film I expected to be devoured by Oscar voters, Call Me By Your Name, but which ended up being just a minor player. He’s come far from the days when he couldn’t get a nomination all by himself with no support for his film for Beautiful Boy to last year anchoring one Best Picture nominee while earning a Best Actor nomination for another.

He was, in many ways, born to play this role, and while Bob Dylan has found a much more formidable and successful career than Marty, which is sure to hew closer to what Chalamet’s will look like, there are certainly comparisons to be made between the inarguable talent and bravado displayed by both the actor and the character. That’s not to say this isn’t a stretch for Chalamet, since I contend that he’s excellent (even if he ranks second to Michael B. Jordan on my personal ballot this year), but rather that he has exactly the skill set needed to play this part.

I so rarely revisit films these days since I watch so much and have no time for repeat viewings, but hearing what didn’t work for you about this film actually does make me want to go back and dive further into the various distractions it offers and the extended gameplay sequences, which work so well. It’s looking, just a few days ahead of the Oscars, that this film’s legacy may ultimately not be that emphatically felt when, for a moment, it looked like it might even make a play for multiple prizes. But I believe that its content will endure, if nothing else, to shape successive projects for Safdie and A’zion, both expanding on their own, not that Chalamet needs much help in that department. 

CLÁUDIO: Chalamet was, indeed, born to play Marty Mauser. His performance almost comes across as a deconstruction of the overambitious star persona he’s established over the last few years, rather than a more conventional feat of character portraiture. But acting does not exist in the ether, untethered from its context, and that’s where I feel Marty Supreme does him dirty by failing to capitalize on what he’s providing. In the end, I feel it’s a matter of framing in its many meanings.

Narratively, even structurally, a script and edit willing to punch holes in Marty’s self-image would be a good deal more interesting, further twisting this entitled story he’s been telling himself and others about his need to win. There are hints of this in the collapse of stylistic anachronisms. Consider the connective tissue established between this American need to rise above all others as the best of the best in the aftermath of WWII – complicated in the text by Marty’s relative awareness of the Holocaust as a young Jewish man who was a child in America when it all went down in Europe, who appeals to that memory yet can’t seem to empathize with someone like Béla beyond using the survivor’s story to convince gentile investors – and the 1980s conservative surge and late-stage capitalism that provides the film with its music and other aesthetic references.

That’s what works best about the film’s formal choices. Other strategies are considerably less successful. Well, they were less successful at getting me invested, at the very least, though many seem convinced by them. Though I love Cassavetes, I loathe the influence he’s had on the American filmmakers who followed in his footsteps, which has resulted in indiscriminate use of close-up-heavy, shaky-cam coverage that does away with such things as blocking and mise-en-scène. When you have folks like Jack Fisk and Miyako Bellizzi resurrecting 1950s New York, New Jersey, and Tokyo so exquisitely, not to mention the many people interacting in scenes, this approach triggers a sort of cinematic claustrophobia in me. Screenshotting the movie, I kept looking for interesting compositions and often felt like I was pulling needles out of a haystack of endlessly similar shots of Chalamet’s face. It’s a great face, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t help but be a bit bored by Safdie’s unwillingness to evolve as an image-maker. In a decade since Heaven Knows What, I don’t find him any more disciplined or more adventurous. More ambitious? Sure, but that only counts for so much if one doesn’t have the acumen to back up those ambitions.

Beyond the ping pong scenes – bless Darius Khondji for his theatrical lighting – what worked for you about Marty Supreme‘s audiovisual presentation?

ABE: I did find this experience to be quite claustrophobic and inescapable, and did, of course, have the fortune of seeing it on a very big screen in a large, completely full theater. The whole look of the film worked for me and drew me in, with the score complementing the sound of that ball during all of the matches. As I said before, this feels like a trip to the past and looks like one too, with the clothes that don’t necessarily fit well by today’s standards but at that time were the height of style, yet still convey a certain attempt to yearn for an affluent appearance. I’m thinking particularly of the ties he wears and the overall look he presents in various settings. The hairstyling for the women is another feat, and even someone like Milton Rockwell looks the part, with Kevin O’Leary playing a version of his Mr. Wonderful TV personality, who is hopefully a little exaggerated from the real man.

As I think back on it, this still feels up there with Sinners and The Testament of Ann Lee as one of the most visually striking films, ensuring that audiences are grounded in its period setting and immersed in its world even if they (not me) struggle to connect with its plot and its characters. 

CLÁUDIO: Sadly, I didn’t get to see this with a stacked house, just some fellow critics in a near-empty theater, so that might have influenced my reticent take on how it failed to get me invested, involved, engaged. I get what you’re saying about how it places the viewer in a materially visceral vision of the past, though I’d argue that nowadays our clothes are rather ill-fitting when compared to the 1950s.

This back-and-forth about claustrophobia made me think back to another A24-funded, Bronstein-scripted anxiety-ridden misadventure featuring a ceiling opening up to a waterfall – If I Had Legs I’d Kick You. While I think I’d ultimately rank Marty Supreme above Mary Bronstein’s Silver Bear-winning film, I think its stylistic claustrophobia is better deployed, not to mention bolder in execution. Critically, it comes off as purposeful, a character study that actively dares you to look away, never making any effort to seduce the audience into sympathy for its protagonist, unlike what Safdie seems to be doing, unable to commit to the heinousness of his hero or the alienation of his audience. I like to be torn two ways and confronted about how I interpret a character, so I revolt when faced with a film that seems intent on smoothing out that experience, especially when there seems to be potential for more. A lot of this comes down to me wanting to find active purpose in Safdie’s storytelling decisions and formal choices, and more abrasiveness in the portrait of one Marty Mauser. Watching it, I kept thinking that the filmmakers presumed I’d be charmed, perhaps moved, by this kid’s antics when I was just annoyed by the ping-pong-ing demon twink.

ABE: I’ll close simply by sharing that I saw If I Had Legs I’d Kick You not in a large theater but a small Sundance venue in the front row, right in front of the screen, ensuring a different kind of enhanced claustrophobia. Not enough to sway my opinion on the film, but where and how you see a film does matter. 

I’ll be intrigued to see what both Safdie brothers do next on their own, though I imagine it will end up leaving you with the same sense of dissatisfaction. Thanks for going back and forth with me!

CLÁUDIO: I concur with your thoughts about where one sees a film influencing their reaction. And, like you, I am intrigued to follow the Safdies’ career as it progresses. Maybe I’ll end up dissatisfied, but I’m always fascinated by their work, even as I may doubt their choices or disagree with methodology (we didn’t touch on the controversy regarding performers’ safety within their sets, but it’s out there for you, readers, to research and read). Even The Smashing Machine left me with food for thought, and that’s something I value greatly. Again, Marty Supreme is a good movie that has left me with conflicting feelings, but the overall impression it left on me was positive. I wouldn’t even mind it winning a couple of Oscars this Sunday, although that seems unlikely right now.

Thank you for a wonderful conversation, Abe. It was wonderful to discuss Marty Supreme with you, and after all these film festival recollections, I must say that I hope you make some great new memories at SXSW. Here’s to cinema!

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