When reports started to emerge that Timothée Chalamet was going to play a ping pong champion in a film called Marty Supreme, the world (including this correspondent) rolled its eyes. Was Hollywood’s most annoying actor going to go for broke in what promised to be the most irritating film of all time? Well I am here to hold up my hand and say that first impressions couldn’t have been more wrong. Marty Supreme is one of the most exciting, indeed sensational films of the year, and if the Guardian film critics’ poll wasn’t a democracy, many of us would made it No 1 by some distance.
For it turns out that Marty Supreme is a character drama of quite remarkable richness, its excitement and sensation deriving from the nervous energy of its protagonist – who is indeed a ping pong player called Marty – but plying his trade in the decidedly non-quirky early 1950s where our hero, played by Chalamet, is essentially trying to use this non-traditional sport to plot a way out of the dullness and grind of his normie life, where he is on track to become a manager of a shoe store. Marty (whose last name is not actually Supreme, but the amusingly alliterative Mauser) is a pretty dislikable individual: happy to abandon a girl he gets pregnant, throw a fit when he loses a match, and think he can talk his way out of any kind of difficulty. But such is his verve, charisma and never-say-die attitude, he carries you with him.
Key to his character, of course, is his Jewishness; he is a restless chaser of the American dream that has already been chronicled in a brilliant body of literature in the 1940s and 50s – What Makes Sammy Run, The Adventures of Augie March, Goodbye Columbus – and though it appears to have no literary antecedent other than a memoir by real life ping pong champion Marty “the Needle” Reisman, Marty Supreme has earned its place alongside these giants. Arguably the chef’s kiss of the whole situation is that “Marty Supreme” refers to the orange coloured ping pong ball that Mauser develops with his cousin that will supposedly be more visible to the players.
Amazingly, Chalamet is absolutely mesmeric in the role, fully inhabiting the character of this bespectacled live wire as he bounces from shoe store to penthouse suite to basketball court (where he humiliatingly accepts a paying half-time gig with the Harlem Globetrotters). Director Josh Safdie (who co-wrote the script with regular collaborator Ronald Bronstein) has pulled off a string of frankly brilliant casting coups: TV presenter Kevin O’Leary as vindictive businessman Milton Rockwell, Abel Ferrara (yes, him) as a mobster whose missing dog Marty tries to find, Fran Drescher and Sandra Bernhard as Marty’s mother and aunt respectively, and – most brilliant of all – Gwyneth Paltrow as a movie star on the slide who tries to resuscitate her career with a stage production.
I could go on for hours about this film’s riches, and perhaps your tolerance for it will depend on how much you buy into Chalamet as a scrappy Jewish hustler – but I bought it, big time. As I see it: all life is here.
