'Marty Supreme' Review: Timothée Chalamet Channels A Savvy Rapscallion’s Rise And Fall

LOS ANGELES, CA — Josh Safdie’s “Marty Supreme” is an alchemy of sweat and myth, a film where the neon pulse of a restless city meets the inner blaze of a rapscallion who refuses to dim. It’s a story of hustle as ritual, ambition as obsession, anchored by Timothée Chalamet’s riveting performance. What emerges is a portrait of grandeur fraying at the edges — a pursuit of excellence, by hook or by crook.

With the nocturnal sprint of “Good Time” and the pressure‑cooker tragedy of “Uncut Gems,” Josh Safdie, alongside his brother Benny, has carved out a cinematic terrain built on urban desperation, hustler psychology, and high‑velocity momentum. “Marty Supreme,” his first solo film in years, hits that same landscape hard, following a protagonist who runs on improvisation, instinct, and delusion — a young man barreling ahead like there's no tomorrow.

That young man is Marty Mauser (Timothée Chalamet): a table‑tennis prodigy, a live wire, a dreamer of greatness betting that one more gamble might tilt the world in his favor. Perilous. Thrilling. Frantic. Calm. All for the sake of winning.

Loosely inspired by the life of ping-pong icon Marty Reisman, the 1958 and 1960 U.S. men’s singles champion, the film drops Marty into 1950s Lower East Side New York. He hustles through it all — Queens rec rooms, Chinatown gambling dens, Midtown social clubs — grinding through a maze of back‑room tables and smoke‑thick clubs. A street‑smart sweet‑talker, he’s as restless as the city that never sleeps: energy infectious, charm beguiling. He thrives on the edge, seducing a fading movie star (Gwyneth Paltrow) married to an influential, wealthy man (Kevin O’Leary), while crossing paths with a grizzled fixer played by Abel Ferrara.

His goal? To scrape together enough cash for a plane ticket to the world ping‑pong championship in Japan. Neither his domineering mother (Fran Drescher) nor his patient girlfriend (Odessa A’Zion) can stop him. Yet his fiercest competitor is himself. What begins as an elusive dream twists into a spiral of near self‑destruction.

Chalamet delivers one of his most grounded performances in years. He plays Marty with kinetic desperation, fusing fragility with bravado — panic simmering beneath the swagger, genius constantly sabotaged by impulse. Each slingback and forehand lands with scorching intensity, his body a bundle of jittery footwork, coiled shoulders, and eyes darting like they’re tracking a ball only he can see.

Surrounding him is a cast buzzing with unrelenting verve: Paltrow’s faded‑star melancholy, O’Leary’s cool authority, A’Zion’s steady warmth, Drescher’s sharp‑tongued fire, and Ferrara’s downtown grit. Together, they lend gravitas to Marty’s chaos.

Safdie directs “Marty Supreme” with the hard‑edged focus that has defined his work. The screenplay, co‑written with longtime collaborator Ronald Bronstein, is taut and fast, stripped of sentiment. Safdie’s camera moves with feral precision, tracking Marty’s tumultuous journey with unvarnished immediacy — raw, frenetic and tense — grounding a world pulsing with danger and hustle.

For all its brilliance, the film occasionally falters under the weight of its relentless pacing, its breathless momentum leaving certain narrative threads underdeveloped — particularly as the third act rushes toward resolution.

Still, “Marty Supreme” remains a ferocious, tightly crafted character study that captures the thrill and cost of living life at full tilt — a white‑knuckling plunge anchored by Chalamet’s electric performance and Safdie’s gritty, high‑velocity filmmaking. Like Marty himself, the film’s high‑wire ambition is inseparable from the moments where it wobbles.