Marty Supreme makes ping pong a locus of high drama by the simple trick of taking it seriously… more or less.
It’s funny to me that both the Safdie brothers, normally but not always a directing team, separately released sports biopics this year. Maybe it was a bet? If it was, Josh won. Benny Sadie’s The Smashing Machine underwhelmed, despite being built around an impressively committed performance by Dwayne Johnson, perhaps by cleaving too closely to the facts of a story of real interest only to people already au fait with UFC. Josh Safdie’s Marty Supreme dispenses with accuracy and just has fun.
Part of the fun is how seriously it takes its central sport, which is ping pong, not necessarily the most cinematic of sports. Certainly, it shouldn’t be more exciting than watching a couple of big lads beat the living hell out of each other. But Josh is a big, big fan apparently, so maybe we’re meant to take it all at face value. It’s hard to say, though; I always get the sense that, with the Safdies, the tongue is almost always jammed into the cheek, and sincerity, no matter how plainly offered, is suspect.
Marty Supreme takes real world ping pong star Marty Reisman as its (extremely loose) inspiration, transfiguring him into Timothée Chalamet’s Marty Mauser: shoe salesman by day, ping pong hustler by night, in 1958 New York. Marty just has to play. In fact, he wants to compete against reigning champ Bela Kletzki (Géza Röhrig) at the British Open. That’s gonna take money, but Marty thinks nothing of robbing his boss’s safe for his travel funds. He thinks nothing of sleeping with Odessa A’zion’s married pet shop clerk, nor of hooking up with Gwyneth Paltrow’s trophy wife faded actress while scamming her wealthy husband (Kevin O’Leary) for tournament funds. He thinks of nothing except ping pong. He wants his face on a cereal box.
So, he’s a piece of shit, basically, and thus Marty Supreme is more Raging Bull than Rocky, tracing the rising and falling fortunes of a gifted but horrible human being. Except that it’s funny – deliriously funny at times. Chalamet’s comedic chops don’t get flexed too often, but he’s on form here – Marty’s complete lack of self awareness, his absolute certainty that he is the centre of the universe, that he’s on an epic journey to greatness, is the engine that drives both the plot and the comedy, as his cock-eyed will-to-power schtick bulldozes all nay-sayers.
Marty’s burning ambition doesn’t exactly drive him to crime – he seems only a moment away from some kind of larceny at any given moment – but it does allow space for the now-expected Safdie fascination with the seamier side of New York City. This time that comes packaged with an extended cameo by legendary sleazoid director Abel Ferrara (Bad Lieutenant) as a mobster with a missing dog who gets caught up in Marty’s mission – even Ferrara’s dead-eyed old crim can’t withstand the sheer primal force of Marty’s obsession. He’s an athlete, a charmer, and a con man, and by the time the credits roll, you’ll no doubt begin to suspect that you’ve been conned, too. After all, who doesn’t love a dreamer?
Marty Supreme is in cinemas from January 22.
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