Marty Supreme— When Cinema Actually Cares
Cinema, in the years since the pandemic, has felt like a half-empty bar at last call—dimly lit, echoing with ghosts of better nights, and serving up mostly watered-down fare. The almost occult thrill of it all, that shared gasp in the dark, got disrupted, fragmented.
People retreated to their couches, algorithms feeding them endless scrolls of content, and theaters became relics, gathering dust, a thing of the past. I won't pretend it hasn't been grim. Maybe I'm just an old sentimentalist pining for the bombast of the Avengers era, when going to the cinema still felt obligatory, when a blockbuster could drag you out of the house.
Then comes this kid, Timothée Chalamet, throwing himself into the campaign for Marty Supreme—Josh Safdie's manic ode to a forgotten table tennis hustler from the postwar time—with the kind of feral energy that makes you sit up and pay attention.
I've seen a trailer and read some opinions online, just to get the overall thoughts people have. I'm not here to spoil the film (it hits theaters Christmas Day). But damn if this rollout hasn't yanked me back from the edge of cinematic despair.
It's not that cinema was ever truly dead; it was just hibernating, licking its wounds, figuring out how to survive in a world addicted to short bursts and instant gratification. What Chalamet and A24 are doing feels like adaptation in real time: guerrilla marketing that bleeds into culture itself. Staged "leaks" of absurd Zoom pitches, pop-ups slinging limited merch, that viral windbreaker jacket spotted on everyone from Tom Brady to Kid Cudi. Hardcore orange becomes the new black— impossible to ignore. Fans have been lining up in the cold for a shot at owning a piece of the myth before they've even seen the movie.
And yes, I'll admit it: I want one of those jackets. Badly. Not because it's haute couture (it's a slick '90s throwback, sure, but mostly it's a talisman). It's the rarity, the hustle—the way this campaign has turned a mid-budget indie film about ping-pong obsession into a cultural event. Resale prices are already obscene; good luck finding one at retail without connections or sheer dumb luck. But that's the point. In an era where everything streams into oblivion, this feels like a blueprint: make it scarce, make it covetable, make people want to leave the house, to chase something tangible
Marty Supreme might not save cinema single-handedly—post-COVID attendance is still lagging, screens are shuttered, and the industry remains fragile. But moments like this remind you why it endures. It's not just about the film on screen; it's the ritual, the shared hunger, the way a smart campaign can reignite that old spark. Here's hoping it sets the table for more risks, more originals, more reasons to believe the dark room still has magic left.
