Marty Supreme: A Tragedy of Nobility by Nick Bisa

“I want to tell you something, and it’s not intended to be mean. I have a purpose. You don’t.” 

Marty Mauser doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if you can’t afford it. He doesn’t care if you’re married.  He doesn’t care if you know better. There’s no excuse as far as he’s concerned.

“And if you think that’s some kind of blessing, it’s not. It puts me at a huge life disadvantage. It  means I have an obligation to see a very specific thing through...and with that obligation comes  sacrifice.” 

It’s almost comical (it may just be plain comical) that we hear these intense, passionate monologues over and over again from a guy who plays the ultimate Airbnb decoration game. Ping Pong. 

“It’s only a matter of time before it fills stadiums in the United States, too. Before I’m staring at you  from the cover of a Wheaties box.” 

Marty Supreme, co-written, produced, and directed by Josh Safdie (Good Time, Uncut Gems),  doesn’t beat around the bush. Like many of the films to come out of the Safdie/Bronstein sphere  (the film is co-written, produced, and edited by Ronald Bronstein, a longtime collaborator of Safdie;  they also co-produced Ronald’s partner Mary Bronstein’s latest film, If I Had Legs I’d Kick You),  their lead characters are far from perfect. In fact, they’re scraping the barrel of nobility. 

But what makes this particular film of Safdie and Bronstein’s peculiar is from the very first teaser,  which dropped months before hitting theatres, Supreme, marketed by A24 and a hip-hopping  Timothee Chalamet, in many ways seemed to be selling you on a Forrest Gump-esque dream. A lowly shoe salesman risking it all to become world champion; to get the girl; to do his mother proud; to succeed against all odds. Alphaville’s Forever Young blaring gloriously in the background. Sports legends and cultural icons donning the titular jacket, as the tagline DREAM BIG was etched deep into the cultural zeitgeist. 

By the time of its Christmas release (nearly identical to Chalamet’s warm and whimsical Wonka two years prior), Marty Supreme had positioned itself as the kind of rip-roaring all-American underdog story your father fights for in the family group chat (he caught the teaser on insta, but Mum wanted to see Song Sung Blue — happy wife, happy life!). But you don’t have to get far into the film to realise the irony. Papa’s been taken for a ride. Big time. And when he finally catches the film on a plane in five years' time, it’s no guarantee he’ll be pumping that fist as anticipated. Nor even shed that cathartic masculine tear (usually followed by a concealing turn to the window seat). 

“My life is the product of the choices I’ve been forced to make to see this specific thing through.  Yours is the result of, what?, just making it up as you go along? That’s how you are. It’s not how I  am.” 

Marty Mauser, played by Timothee Chalamet, isn’t well-intended; not in the traditional sense.  People, to him, are more a means to an end than a vessel worth attaching to. They provide him a pathway to his goals. His ‘purpose’, as he puts it. Which, no matter how he spins it, is largely self-serving.

His mother, played by the president of the Screen Actors Guild at the time, Fran Drescher  (brilliantly subversive casting), is no Mrs. Gump. Mauser’s surely not quoting her wisdom. In fact,  she’s the very fabricator that likely made Marty who he is. The very first experience we get of her  involves her scheming with her neighbour Judy (Sandra Bernhard) to entice Marty back home. 

“He’s not buying it. The little shit.” 

“Tell him I passed out.” 

The girl, Rachel Mizler, played by Odessa A’zion, is equally a schemer. She’s no Jenny Curran. The first time we see her involves an elaborate ruse to have passionate, unprotected intercourse with Marty in the back of a shoe store. It’s not out of the question that she had every intention of doing this until she got pregnant, despite having neither the funds nor the agency to raise the child (she makes $1200 a year working at a pet store and is married to another man). 

Rachel isn’t protecting Marty. She’s not yelling, “Run Marty Run”. If anything, it’s the other way around. Rachel, like many of the characters who find themselves eloped with Mauser, is stuck. She lives a perfectly stable, respectable life, and yet it’s rather evident she would leave it all behind at the drop of a hat for the four-eyed unibrow-donning pizza-faced bullshit artist trained in the dark arts of  fuckwittery. Rachel wants to raise the child with Marty. Meanwhile, her husband Ira (Emory  Cohen) doesn’t even know the child isn’t his. 

But why? Why Marty? The man with the moral compass of a plastic straw (and the financial stability of a paper one). Marty’s capital lies in his conviction. He’s not just a shoe salesman; whatever comes out of his mouth has a price tag on it, with an exclusive, one-time-only discount (use code: DREAMBIG for 20% off your first purchase). It’s no coincidence his uncle wants him to become the manager of the shoe store. 

“I could sell shoes to an amputee.” 

The above zinger may reflect the kind of embellished, straight-talking Safdie dialogue we’ve come  to know and love, but it’s also illustrating a potent metaphor. As Marty proves over the course of the film, he’s very rarely kidding around. And not only can he sell shoes to those without feet...he does. Time and time again, he preys on the vulnerable. The stuck. He sells dreams to those who don’t have the self-respect to acknowledge their lack of capacity to realize it. 

The central tragedy of the film lies with Kay Stone, played by Gwyneth Paltrow. The first time we see her is in the lobby of the Edison Hotel, as she glides through with her husband, Milton Rockwell (Kevin O’Leary), to the stunned reactions of reporters, each of whom is meant to be interviewing Mauser about his upcoming tournament. Through the cynical eyes of Mauser, Stone’s sexuality is on full display. But, don’t mistake this as pure misogyny on his part; it isn’t not her intention. After marrying Rockwell, the wealthy CEO of a pen company (lol), Stone was forced to give up her career as a film star. Plainly, her only remaining capital in the eyes of 1950’s society is her enduring beauty; she’s been reduced to glorified arm candy. 

But what separates Stone from the other characters, and what makes her story the emotional, tragic core of the film, is her acknowledgement of this. She knows what she’s doing. She knows her worth. It may not be enough, or fair. It may not make her happy (fulfilled is probably a better word),  but at least she has some control over it. 

“You’re wasting your energy. I don’t care. I would've stolen from me, too.”

Mauser may be stupid, but he’s not dumb. He recognises Stone’s value and is quick to mine her.  Inviting her to his match. Stealing her jewelry. Ordering room service from her hotel room the moment she leaves. But Stone isn’t oblivious to this. She knows Marty’s using her to some end,  whether it be sexual or monetary. But she doesn’t care. Not anymore. It’s nice for her to be desired.  Valued through a lens that isn’t nostalgia or pity. To him, she’s truly beautiful. And of value. 

What she doesn’t anticipate, however, is to become utterly swept up in Marty’s dreamscape. To follow his advice. To use her husband’s wealth to help resurrect her acting career. To take a chance and believe in dragons once more. 

Mauser’s allure is like Ozempic (bear with me). Many people had given up hope of achieving the so-called ‘perfect’ figure. They’d been forced to come to terms with their body’s limitations in the eyes of society. But just as that seemed to be a closed chapter, as the strength had finally appeared to have been summoned to embrace one’s own imperfections, their own humanity… a unicorn appeared. Out of thin air. And on its back, a miracle cure. An answer to decades of turmoil. To an ocean of tears. And that dream that was finally let go of, suddenly seemed possible again. 

Endless side-effects. Health warnings. Horror stories. And yet...millions lined up. But why? Why  risk everything for a chance at merely something? Well, quite simply, because it’s not just something. Not emotionally, anyway. Emotionally, it’s everything. Emotionally, it’s one’s health and well-being that’s merely something. Not one’s looks. Why wouldn’t you risk it all? If it meant getting all you’ve ever wished for. From the moment you looked in the mirror as a twelve-year-old and noticed that tiny fold in your skin. That inch of width is not present on others. Pulling at it, hoping it tears right off. Praying for your ribs to sprout out like Kate Moss's. Watching ten-year-old Mary Eline light up the screen in Jane Eyre, yearning to be so lucky. How can you blame Stone for wanting a second chance? For giving in to her childlike fantasies. For allowing herself to recreate the life she once had. Free from the sobering consequences of adulthood. Where she can act on her impulses without having to apologize for them. 

“And what happens if things don’t work out for you? What then?” 

“That doesn’t even enter my consciousness.” 

“Well, maybe it should.” 

Having sex in Central Park with a twenty-year-old, then bribing the police with a necklace from the very husband she’s just cheated on, is crazy work. But deep down, Kay knows this won’t last. She’s just happy to be along for the ride. She knows she’s being manipulated, played, and used. But this isn’t about Marty. She’s getting what she wants out of him, too. Even if it’s incrementally less than what  Marty’s getting from her. She’s happy to settle for second; it beats being on the sidelines. 

“Every year, my husband gets me a piece of jewelry for our anniversary, from Van Cleef, Cartier...I  have 25 of them, one for each year of misery. That should cover your trip and then some.” “I don’t know what to say.” 

“Shut up. Wearing them makes me feel like shit.” 

Mauser drains these people dry. Abuses their nobility; their hopes for something greater than what they already have. To be part of something. And as soon as they’re no longer of use to him, he leaves them for dead. As figuratively as Stone, who he abandons after she is unable to immediately finance his flight to the world championships, or as literally as Ezra Mishkin (Abel Ferrara), who  Marty strips of cash before literally leaving to bleed out and die. 

He leaves his friend, Wally (Tyler Okomna), high, dry, and empty-handed after they spent an entire  night hustling hundreds of dollars from a group of guys at a club. 

He completely betrays Rockwell, despite his having given Marty the very financial compensation and commercial exposure he spent the entire film working to obtain.

He completely abandons Rachel, too, after she finally stands up for herself, holding firm on her plans to keep and raise her child, irrespective of Marty’s involvement. 

Then, when he’s disqualified from the tournament and forced to come home with his tail between his legs, Mauser shows up at the hospital and claims Rachel’s newborn child as his own. They’re a consolation prize. 

“Shhh...shhhh...Rest...I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Josh Safdie is complicit in this snake oil sale. If there’s one thing he’s not, it’s lacking in self-awareness. He knows the fuckery he is taking us on, especially in contrast to the way the film was promoted. 

Was it to simply get more eyes on the picture? We’ve seen this kind of deception with movie  musicals; studios hiding the musical numbers in the promotional materials in the hopes of driving a  wider demographic to theatres. In fairness, it is difficult to sell audiences on a broken dream. Is Supreme a sobering critique of the very types of films this generation of grindset bros hoped would reinforce their unflinching mantras (no matter how satirical)? Whiplash. The Wolf of Wall Street.  American Psycho. How close did Safdie fly to the sun? And did his message get lost in translation? Or are they all just fully committed to the bit? Chalamet has indeed been on a generationally Marty  Mauser-esc press run, taking any chance he can get to preach about his unmatched work ethic and the elite quality of his performances over the past decade (it’s not that he’s wrong per se, but when you speak about fine art like it’s the NFL, you’re bound to rub a few people the wrong way). Is the film selling you on Marty’s dream just as hard as its star? In a culture that is becoming more and more resistant to ambiguity and having to make up their own minds, it’s a relatively bold move on their part. But one I believe will stand the test of time. 

Marty Supreme isn’t asking you to agree with it. It couldn’t care less. It’s unapologetically rough around the edges and treads a path some people won’t be willing to follow. It immerses you in a world where you might not know what to think at first (or ever). But there’s never a dull moment,  and there’s always something of substance to grapple with. 

Supreme brings out the stuffed animal and the cocaine. Which one is it gonna be? It’s up to you. But don’t blame them for granting you the luxury of choice.