By Steve Erickson

It can’t be denied that Marty Supreme is effective as a wild trip. It’s an immersive experience — not an analysis of its self-adorning anti-hero.

Marty Supreme, directed by Josh Safdie. Screening at Somerville Theatre, AMC Theatres, Kendall Square Cinema, Alamo Drafthouse Cinema, and other movie houses throughout New England.

Timothée Chalamet on the run in Marty Supreme. Photo: A24

Marty Supreme acts like a top that’s spinning across a table, seemingly out of control as it darts close to the edge. The brother duo of Benny and Josh Safdie have directed five features together. They’ve stopped working as a unit, at least for now, but Josh’s directorial style hews close to what they have done before. The Safdie brothers approach draws on the coked-up rush of Goodfellas, but they have developed their own take on the accelerated buzz. Uncut Gems pulls off the rare trick of evoking the pleasure that would draw someone into addiction — gambling, for its anti-hero —  hooked on the constant danger and stress that inevitably follows. Their films make viewers feel as if they are participating — at a safe distance — from someone who is taking grave risks. (Longtime Safdie collaborator Ronald Bronstein, a co-writer, co-editor, and producer on Marty Supreme, generated that same feeling — without any guard rails — in his one directorial effort, Frownland.) The Smashing Machine, directed by Benny and released earlier this year, departed from this keep ’em on the edge-of-their-seats vision — but that earlier aesthetic dominates Marty Supreme.

It’s 1952, and Marty Mauser (Timothée Chalamet) is a salesman at a shoe store, owned by his uncle, on New York’s Lower East Side. When his friend Rachel (Odessa A’zion) enters the store, they go into the back for a quickie, which leads to her pregnancy. (She’s married to another man.) Marty then heads off to a ping pong championship in London, where he lives well beyond his means. He meets famous actor Kay (Gwyneth Paltrow), who’s lived out of the spotlight in a marriage to an abrasive businessman named Rockwell (Kevin O’Leary). Marty and Kay start an affair. When Marty finds that he is unable to pay a fine, he has to hustle his way out of the debt via some elaborate, dangerous adventures: at one point, a gangster (Abel Ferrara) is injured when Marty’s bathtub crashes into the room below.

Chalamet, one of Marty Supreme’s producers, clearly intends the film to propel himself to a new level of stardom and acclaim. He’s participated personally in A24’s elaborate marketing campaign, going well beyond the usual talk show and red carpet appearances. As Marty, he’s glammed-down, sporting a unibrow, mustache, and acne scars. Marty may start out looking like a nebbish, but the narrative flips that stereotype on its head. He’s a virtuoso athlete both in the bedroom and on the ping pong court, and very comfortable whipping out a gun to get his way. Marty may be sweaty and agitated, but Chalamet’s charm makes his character’s unruly, anti-social behavior palatable. To portray Bob Dylan convincingly in A Complete Unknown, the actor spent a year learning how to sing like the musical icon. For this role, Chalamet mastered table tennis — he demonstrates his skill in long shots of him playing on the court.

In Marty Supreme, Chalamet’s effort to step up his craft as a competitive sportsman fuses with his dubious devotion to his ego, a love affair that the filmmakers share. It’s not enough that Marty can get laid at the drop of a hat; the opening credits, which immediately follows the film’s initial sex scene, superimposes his name over footage of swimming spermatozoa. These images send a message: “Who cares if he’s a jerk? He’s a vital force of life.” The ending of the story returns to this idea of narcissism triumphant.

Set shortly after World War II, Marty Supreme is also a specifically Jewish story. Interviewed by newspapers in London, Marty says that he’s Hitler’s nightmare. He accepts casual antisemitism, such as Wally (Tyler Okonma) advising him “don’t be a greedy Jew,” as part of the socio-political territory. The narrative winds-up with the Japanese organizers of a ping pong tournament proposing that Marty kiss a pig — a gesture of barely hidden antisemitism.

Given all that’s going on — sexually, egotistically, and politically — the film goes out of its way to bite off more than it can deal with. Staging a flashback in Auschwitz is risky. Imagining a man covering his body in honey for other prisoners to lick off his torso is more baffling than shocking — not offensive, but gratuitously weird. What is the point? One scene stops far short of sexual assault, but it strongly implies a sadomasochistic dimension to Rockwell’s exercise of power.

The mood of sustained tension is greatly enhanced by the film’s deft sound design. Voices and sounds are jammed up against each other. Even what could be relatively innocuous scenes are filled with grating noises, such as bird cries. This ever-busy soundscape has a near-subliminal impact, juicing up the film’s rhythm. On top of that, the story’s pacing speeds up considerably in its final third.

Marty’s attractiveness to women is presumed rather than established. As critic Bilge Ebiri argues, “his successful seduction of her [Kay] makes no actual sense other than the fact that the movie needs their coupling to happen.” And Safdie went overboard with casting celebrities, using recognizable figures who aren’t professional actors in both major as well as cameo roles: Ferrara, David Mamet, writer Pico Iyer, Okonma, aka rapper Tyler, the Creator, makes his rookie film appearance. O’Leary, a star of the reality TV show Shark Tank and MAGA pundit, performs a variation on his boorish rich guy persona. Some of these bits turn into distractions: a flex about the contents of Safdie’s iPhone. At one point, I wondered “Is that Isaac Mizrahi?” I waited until the end credits to confirm that it was.

It can’t be denied that Marty Supreme is effective as a wild trip. It’s an immersive experience — not an analysis of its self-adorning anti-hero. That manic quality, as fun as it is, is a major flaw because it undercuts the possibility of a much-needed critical perspective.

Steve Erickson writes about film and music for Gay City News, Slant Magazine, the Nashville Scene, Trouser Press, and other outlets. He also produces electronic music under the tag callinamagician. His latest album, Bells and Whistles, was released in January 2024, and is available to stream here. He presents a biweekly freeform radio show, Radio Not Radio, featuring an eclectic selection of music from around the world.