The Safdie Brothers have never been subtle about their ambitions. With all the gentility of a fire alarm, they’ve carved their initials into American cinema, first by yanking Robert Pattinson out of the sparkly clutches of Twilight and into the neon grime of Good Time, then by coaxing Adam Sandler into the performance of his career as a manic diamond peddler whose heart, if he had one, beat to the syncopated rhythm of a basketball game. The Safdies are, essentially, the grand theorists of the Everyday Meltdown. They take a mundane setting, marinate it in panic, and then serve it with a garnish of existential dread and a surprising hint of tenderness.
So it feels cosmically correct that, in the brothers’ first foray into their creative separation era, Josh Safdie has turned his obsessive lens toward the world of ping-pong. Yes, ping-pong. The sport of rec rooms and retirement homes. The humble paddle. The hollow ball. In Marty Supreme, Safdie elevates it to a contact-high fever dream of sweat, speed, and unrepentant desperation. If Uncut Gems made you grind your molars down to powder, Marty Supreme might have you Googling “jaw replacement surgery.”
Timothée Chalamet, who continues to collect transformative roles like limited-edition vinyl, plays Marty Mauser, a 1950s New York table tennis prodigy with the disposition of a malfunctioning blender. Marty is a walking paradox. He’s an overconfident underdog, unlikable but beloved, insufferable but infuriatingly right about his own genius. He’s a man who never met a room he couldn’t dominate or a bridge he couldn’t set on fire seconds after crossing.
Where does a film like this come from? Blame ping-pong. Or rather, Josh Safdie’s adolescence was spent hunched over a table with a paddle, plus a copy of The Money Player, Marty Reisman’s 1974 autobiography, gifted by Safdie’s producer-wife. The result is a film that moves at the velocity of a rogue shopping cart barreling downhill. It starts at 60 mph, reaches 250 mph by minute five, and by the midpoint, you find yourself praying the projector has good health insurance.
Marty’s quest to reach the British Open, because of course, ping-pong has a British Open, leads him down corridors of increasingly ludicrous mayhem. When money dries up, Marty hustles amateurs at local bowling alleys with his friend Wally (Tyler, The Creator, playing the world’s suavest enabler). He concocts schemes of the get-rich-quick, get-caught-eventually variety. He falls for Kay Stone (Gwyneth Paltrow), an actress whose golden glow contrasts delightfully with her husband, Milton Rockwell (Kevin O’Leary, yes that one), who seems positively thrilled to be playing a noir-ish version of the capitalist boogeyman he already is.
And then, because Safdie films abide by no earthly laws, Marty steals jewelry, crashes through a hotel floor, kidnaps a dog, enrages a cluster of gangsters, and blows up a gas station. All in the first hour. By then, you’re either fully on board or lying face-down somewhere, gently humming a Tears For Fears tune.
What’s shocking isn’t the chaos, but the sweetness that gradually seeps through the cracks of Marty’s bravado. The film sprinkles tiny hints of gentleness, from stray “I love yous” he actually means, an unexpectedly tender gesture toward his mother, and a steadfast devotion to Rachel (Odessa A’zion, luminous), the childhood friend who loves him even when he’s unbearable. It becomes clear, in the most unsettlingly endearing way, that Marty Mauser might be… nice? Deeply chaotic, but nice.
Another astonishing element is what makes Marty Supreme not just a Safdie panic-odyssey but an emotionally resonant one. It’s how earnestly it adopts the bones of the classic underdog sports film. And not just any underdog film. No, Safdie went straight for Rudy, the Holy Grail of tear-stained, triumph-over-adversity, “just let the boy play!” cinema. If Rudy is the gentle pat on the back of the sports genre, Marty Supreme is the slap across the face that somehow makes you cry anyway.
On paper, Marty Mauser has all the makings of the quintessential ’50s sports hero. There’s talent, grit, impoverished roots, a dream no sane adult believes in. He wants the British Open the way Rudy Ruettiger wanted Notre Dame, with delusional conviction, aerodynamic optimism, and enough self-generated momentum to crash through a brick wall. The difference is that Rudy was a beacon of wholesomeness, while Marty is… well… the kind of guy who might set that brick wall on fire if someone told him it was in his way.
Chalamet, for his part, delivers what might be his most electric performance yet. His Marty is part showman, part wounded child, part caffeinated Tasmanian Devil. Paltrow glides through with practiced elegance, O’Leary is slyly terrific, and A’zion is the soul of the film, which is proof that unconditional love often looks like exasperation.
Safdie directs with the pedal welded to the metal. The needle jumps, the beads of sweat glisten, and the ’80s needle drops (anachronistic but perfect) throb like the training montages of sports movies past, but warped through the funhouse mirror only a Safdie could hold.
At its core, Marty Supreme is the rare cinematic paradox. It’s the most chaotic film of the year, and also, unexpectedly, the sweetest. It’s a tornado with a heart. It’s a sports movie for people who hate sports but love emotional breakdowns. It’s a love letter to underdogs, overachievers, hustlers, and anyone who believes they’re one good break away from greatness. And by the end, when Marty finally softens in a way that feels entirely un-Safdie yet completely earned, you may find yourself shedding a tear. Possibly two. Maybe three if you’ve ever tried, and failed, to win anything with a ping-pong paddle.
It’s a wild, bruising, hilarious journey. And like all Safdie productions, once it’s over, you’ll be grateful to have survived it with your blood pressure intact.
