Review: Marty Supreme (2025)

I don’t really know where to begin with MARTY SUPREME except to say: this film is absolute madness—the kind that leaves you wired, breathless, and slightly unmoored when the credits roll.

Directed by Josh Safdie (one half of the Safdie brothers behind UNCUT GEMS and GOOD TIME), MARTY SUPREME feels like both a natural evolution of his filmmaking instincts and a sharpening of them. Safdie once again returns to the kind of archetypal, almost mythic question that I find endlessly compelling: to achieve total greatness, how far are you willing to go? What are you prepared to sacrifice—and at what point does the pursuit itself hollow you out? It’s a familiar framework, but Safdie injects it with such nervous energy and moral ambiguity that it never once feels stale.

Clocking in at around 2.5 hours, the film absolutely flies by, propelled almost entirely by Timothée Chalamet’s astonishing performance as table tennis prodigy Marty Mauser (loosely inspired by a real-life figure). This is Chalamet operating at full command of his powers. His Marty is obsessive, charismatic, abrasive, magnetic, deeply funny, and quietly tragic—sometimes all within the same scene. It’s not just that he dominates the frame; it’s that the film seems to orbit him. Every twitch, glance, and micro-expression feels intentional. You can’t look away, even when you want to. This is a performance that feels dangerous in the best way, and honestly? This is GOAT-tier work. The Best Actor Oscar is absolutely his to lose.

What’s particularly impressive is how Marty Mauser never becomes a simple cautionary tale. Chalamet and Safdie resist the urge to moralise. Marty’s ambition is intoxicating, even admirable, and the film allows us to feel the rush of his ascent just as viscerally as the cost of it. You’re not watching from a safe distance—you’re trapped inside his head, riding the high with him, whether you like it or not.

The supporting cast more than holds its own. Gwyneth Paltrow brings a grounded, quietly authoritative presence, Tyler The Creator proves he’s far more than a novelty casting choice, and Kevin O’Leary—somehow—works shockingly well in this heightened, chaotic world. But it’s Odessa A’zion who really stands out. Whenever she’s onscreen, the film finds an emotional counterweight—someone who reflects what Marty is gaining, and more importantly, what he’s losing.

Visually, the film is an absolute feast. Shot by the legendary Darius Khondji (SE7EN), MARTY SUPREME feels tactile, grimy, and alive. The camera is restless but precise, pulling you into claustrophobic spaces and then letting the chaos spill outward. There’s none of that slick, sanitised “Netflix sheen” here—this is cinema that breathes, sweats, and occasionally spirals out of control.

Daniel Lopatin’s score is, quite simply, INSANE. It pulses and screeches and surges like a living organism, mirroring Marty’s inner state and amplifying the film’s anxiety to almost unbearable levels. It doesn’t just underscore the action—it actively destabilises you, keeping you on edge even in moments of stillness.

By the time the film ends, I honestly didn’t know where else to go with my thoughts. I was buzzing, a little dazed, and fully aware that I’d just watched something special. MARTY SUPREME feels like what would happen if Scorsese’s AFTER HOURS and UNCUT GEMS had a feral, adrenaline-fuelled child—funny, stressful, tragic, and exhilarating in equal measure.

For me, this is the film of the year. I loved every minute of it—and I can’t wait to watch it again, even if it might shave a few years off my life.

5 out of 5.