Movie review: Marty Supreme

Many are saying that the recent cult movie ‘If I Had Legs I’d Kick You’ should be renamed ‘MomCut Gems’ (I personally prefer ‘Uncut Gams’). Using that formula, Marty Supreme could be…(cough) ‘Top-spunCut Gems’? (a friend told me that’s a long walk, I don’t disagree). 

Riffing on the true story of a world-class table tennis player from Brooklyn (Marty ‘The Needle’ Reisman) trying to topple his Japanese nemesis, director Josh Safdie channels the pressure-cooker atmosphere that he and his brother Benny have made their signature vibe (see Good Time, Uncut Gems). You don't go to a Safdie film expecting restraint, and I don’t think it’s spoiling too much to say that you certainly don't find it here.

The story concerns the orbit of 1950s ping-pong (don’t call it that) miracle Marty Mauser, who personifies the hunger, drive, and specific energy of post-war American ambition. Timothée Chalamet attacks the title role with no little commitment. Every aspect of his life - all in some way geared towards world fame and fortune - is coated in hi-octane sweat, sometimes near-genius precision, and occasionally reckless abandon.
 
Marty is a hustler, the kind that denizens of Noo Yawk Cit-eh think that they have a monopoly on. He’s taking money from rubes at casual table tennis games with his associate Wally (Tyler the Creator), he’s having an affair with married childhood sweetheart Rachel (Odessa A’zion), he’s designing his own orange table tennis ball, he’s stealing money to travel to tournaments. 

It’s already a lot of plates to keep spinning, and throw in an erotic obsession with a fading movie star (played by Gwyneth Paltrow) and falling into the bad books of a local gangster (indie directing legend Abel Ferrara in a rare acting role) and you’ve got the kind of excessive, disorienting, occasionally exhausting caper that Safdie obviously relishes. 

The actual table tennis games are impressively choreographed and feasibly dramatic, but they’re almost sections of relief, given the frothing mess of everything around them. Adversarial investors, fraying family bonds and friendships, and an absolute casserole of a love life all build to a suitably chaotic climax, and some of the explosive set pieces - the hotel bathtub scene being one - are instantly memorable. 

If you found Uncut Gems (or Uncut Gams for that matter) somewhat on the anxiety-inducing side, then it’s likely not going to be a relaxing time at the cinema for you. If, however, you love a grifting-on-the-hoof, relentlessly intense, house of cards-style calamity that somehow keeps delivering hope, then let Marty Supreme paddle you into a good time (PO). 

Marty Supreme is showing in cinemas across the city.

​Stanley and his Demon @ The New Marigny Theatre
Review by Todd Perley

Stanley, as the first-and-a-half-coming of Christ, is grifting his congregants, suggesting a tithing of
eighty per cent of their income, which they are more than happy to pay, such is the spiritual succor they receive from The Church of Stanley.

When a man brings his possessed wife into the church asking for an exorcism, Stanley and his wife Esme see the opportunity for diversification, and expand their outfit to demonic dispatching at five G’s a pop, a most lucrative side-hustle indeed.

The demon Tansanazel (“but call me Chad”) attaches itself to Stanley, promising to possess and
relinquish any number of people he desires ... for a price. As any self-respecting evangelical holy man would, he takes the deal with the devil, with dollar signs in his eyes. Business is booming, but what does the demon want in return? Reform of the Church of Stanley. Less 700 Club, more community outreach, feeding of the needy, and general altruism. Y’know, Christ-y stuff. Stanley and Esme begin to rue the day!

Mariana Santiago’s new play is a darkly comedic twist cut from Faustian cloth. Peat Wolf’s
Stanley is repulsively charismatic as the cult leader, and Mia Frost as Esme, the real brains of the
operation, is even more deliciously despicable. His followers are hilariously clueless sheeple who don’t think it’s strange at all that they’ve been possessed by a demon several times each in the last few months.

Liz Johnston-Dupre as the initial possessed woman, crawls around the floor like a writhing, twerking Linda Blair. A scene of exposition has never been so fun to watch. Thugsy DaClown, playing God most divinely, pays a visit to Stanley, offering him a get-out-of-hell-free card, and we have to wonder who’s the real demon in this play?

I’m always down for a good old-fashioned skewering of organized religion that illuminates the
inherent hypocrisies, and Santiago’s play effectively spins everything on its head with nihilistic
merriment. A most catty approach to dogma. Meow!

Stanley and His Demon plays at the new Marigny Theatre through January 12th. Click here for more information and ticketing