The central figure of “Marty Supreme”, Marty Mauser, is a jerk, a compelling one, yet a certifiable jerk all the same. A compulsive liar, a hustler, a con man, and an objectively selfish, self-centered narcissist, Marty is at once repulsive and captivating; a bad decision waiting to happen that you can’t help but partake in. He’s American in the sense that he is the unyieldingly passionate, yet boorish and glory-obsessed, representative to the world for a sport nobody cares about. His characteristics represent the worst and best of us: tenacity, persistence, an aspiration to greatness, but what value is greatness gained by running roughshod through the lives of every single person one comes in contact with? “Marty Supreme” is an American story, a crowd-pleasing, nail-biting sports drama about one man’s dogged persistence to do something that leaves his mark on the world. That he accomplishes this is undeniable, but at what cost?
It’s impossible to discuss the story of “Marty Supreme” without focusing on its lead actor, Timothee Chalamet, an unapologetically ambitious performer who brazenly refers to acting as a competition he is ravenous to win. While awards are common in filmmaking, along with labels like “Best Actor”, historically, it is uncouth to admit that the accolades of one’s peers actually matter. “It’s an honor to just be nominated,” many say, but few actually mean. Not Timmy. “I know we’re in a subjective business, but the truth is, I’m really in pursuit of greatness,” Chalamet proclaimed last year while accepting his Golden Globe award for his portrayal of Bob Dylan in “A Complete Unknown”. “I know people don’t usually talk like that, but I want to be one of the greats. I’m inspired by the greats.” Though Marty Mauser is based on Marty Reisman, a real man who really played high level table tennis in the 1950s, this movie is less a bio-pic than it is a treatis on the unrepentant pursuit of greatness by any means necessary. In fact, you could argue this film is less about a fictionalized Reisman than it is a loosely heightened version of Chalamet, about his charm, his passion, and his earnest desperation to be seen for all the work he has done and appreciated in kind. From the film’s first moments, we see the Venn diagram of fact and fiction solidify into a circle as Marty, scrawny with distinct gold glasses and a mustache he surely thinks makes him look older, swaggers through the shoe store he begrudgingly works at with his uncle. Even amongst this beige pastiche of mundanity, Marty dances through like a rockstar, hustling a lady into buying a pair of new shoes a full size too small. He’s a salesman, a showman, and a cad, and he’s too good for this provincial life. You see, he’s headed to the British Open Table Tennis Championships where he’s set to be crowned the best player world. He’s even invented a new color of ping pong ball that’s branded with his name. He’s a star on the rise; no matter that his mother (Fran Drescher) never sees him, his childhood best friend (Odessa A’zion) is in love with, and in short order impregnated by him, or that nobody in the continental US cares about table tennis. Marty knows his worth. That’s how he’s able to seduce his way into sleeping with a movie star in London (Gwyneth Paltrow), sweet-talk an ink pen magnate (Shark Tank’s Kevin O’Leary) into seeing the future in the burgeoning sport, and easily turn down an offer to peform the halftime shows of the Harlem Globetrotters alongside one of the greatest table tennis player in Britain. What he does is art, it’s poetry with a paddle, it’s no curiosity, it’s not a freak show. Table tennis is important because Marty is important, and he’s on his way. That is, until an unforeseen challenger crosses his path, Koto Endo (played by real-life table-tennis champion Koto Kawaguchi), a pro from Japan with a wicked serve and an unconventional style. Facing off with this stranger in the near aftermath of WWII, Marty loses in catastrophic fashion, crying foul and unfair play as only the finest American competitors always do. Left without money or glory, Marty is forced to return to his ragamuffin roots, limping home to scrounge and hustle back the money he needs to face the Endo at the World Championships in Tokyo to validate his status and ego as supreme champion of the universe.
Watching “Marty Supreme,” I couldn’t help but think of my sisters, Samantha and Stephanie, both former World and National Champion jump ropers. No kidding. I brag about them often and just as often get a side glance from folks who don’t realize that competitive jump roping is a real thing, and a higher display of athletic prowess than most major sports could imagine. My sisters could double-dutch, flip, and twist their way through ropes so fast you couldn’t even see how their feet could move the way they did, all with a smile on their faces and a flash of panache to the cheering crowd. They were the best in the world at a sport most people have never heard of. That must have been a bit frustrating for them, as I know it is for Marty Mauser. If “Marty Supreme” gets anything right, and it gets quite a bit, it’s the quiet panic of realizing that to be great at the thing you are great at, you must be willing to give everything you are with the sure promise that perhaps nobody will ever care. “One day you’ll see me on the cover of a Wheaties Box,” Marty exclaims to his bemused uncle, trying to convince others as much as himself that this will be true. For all Marty’s postering, the cold disquiet behind his eyes is always present; the tell of a great card player who is never not bluffing, desperate to prove to the world that he is, in fact, as great as he thinks he is. I would have felt sorry for Marty if he were not so unfazed in his single-minded cruelty to sweet-talk his way to what he wants. But perhaps I admired him as well. It takes guts to stand before the world and take its slings and arrows with a smile; it takes courage to withstand blow after blow against your soul and keep your eyes on the prize. I felt for Marty, but I also felt for my sisters, though I was all the more proud of how they were similar yet, most importantly, so different.
“Marty Supereme” is in equal measure a fantastically crafted sports film and also a razor-tense thriller all in one. The first solo effort from Josh Sadie, one part of the filmmaking team that brought the anxiety-inducing “Good Time” and “Uncut Gems”, the film’s second act devolves into a cat-and-mouse game between Marty and the money he needs to reach the world championships, as he unwittingly leaves a scorched earth of misfortune and death in his wake. The lethal perpetual motion machine that he is, Marty rarely looks back to take stock of the salted ground behind him. He’s a shark, and if he stops swimming, he will die without tasting the sweet, succulent blood of his enemies on the world’s stage. That Marty gets his validation is classic Hollywood; how he gets it is pure Safdie subversion in the best way. The last fifteen minutes of the film, as Marty faces down everything he ever hoped for and is broken before its altar, might be the final straw that gets Timmy the validation he has sought so desperately. I hope it does, for his sake. The guy looks like he could use a nap.
“Marty Supreme” is a surprisingly feel-good story wrapped in a burrito of sleaze, shredded nerves, and self-inflicted misery. Take a spin on the shell game to see where Marty begins, and Timmy ends, though don’t be surprised if there’s a bit of yourself wedged between the cracks.
You’ll be glad you did.
“Marty Supreme” is playing at Prytania Uptown, Prytania Theatres at Canal Place, and The Broad Theater.
