The new film Marty Supreme is, at once, the embodiment of perfectionism, narcissism, greed, moxie, passion, genius, and cultural degradation. The protagonist, Marty Mauser, elicits all of your feelings because you can’t make sense of how you should feel about him. Is he the problem, or is it the culture? Is he just surviving and playing by the rules imparted to him by the real culprits? Or is this just human nature, and he’s an exemplar? And is morality meaningful when it’s so frequently sacri…
The new film Marty Supreme is, at once, the embodiment of perfectionism, narcissism, greed, moxie, passion, genius, and cultural degradation. The protagonist, Marty Mauser, elicits all of your feelings because you can’t make sense of how you should feel about him. Is he the problem, or is it the culture? Is he just surviving and playing by the rules imparted to him by the real culprits? Or is this just human nature, and he’s an exemplar? And is morality meaningful when it’s so frequently sacrificed for success, which, in turn, is cheered on as the pinnacle of existence? The film leaves you with so many questions, about Marty and yourself.
As a perfectionist, I easily saw myself in Marty: the inability to lose or take responsibility, the tantrums and pain of feeling inferior to anyone, the grandiosity in believing you’re innately special (even if only because you are in some domain), and the sense that others in your life are merely secondary characters acting as ornaments for the main attraction. Marty sacrifices any semblance of humanity in pursuit of glory, which he notes is life-defining—evident in his comment to his romantic partner, Rachel, when he obnoxiously tells her that she can’t understand the pressure he’s under because, unlike him, she doesn’t have a special destiny to be fulfilled (something I’ve certainly thought myself). Perfectionism, on the one hand, makes life feel meaningful, but, on the other, drains any meaning worth aspiring to. In his dogged pursuit, Marty joins the ranks of Jay Gatsby, who also obsessed about overcoming his circumstances and who also carelessly sacrificed others.
Perfectionism is a trail of tears and bodies, all in service of the grand purpose of being among the gods, as referenced in a somewhat similar film, the Robbie Williams biopic Better Man (also about a talented and extremely inconsiderate obsessive). Perfectionism, like any other addiction, is full of excuses—“I’ll become a better person once I’m successful.” “I’ll make sure to take care of others when I’m able to.” “They’ll understand since this is for the best.” Marty steals, lies, and degrades himself, but none of it matters to him in any meaningful way; his organizing principle—success at any cost—precludes any semblance of shame. And this is what makes him such a captivating character. It isn’t just him rising above his lot in life; it’s how he does it.
That’s why, as an audience, we’re so moved by and envious of him. Most of us know that life is unfair; we know the world is structured and managed by forces acting outside of the general, social good, acting for themselves. Yet, there are lines most people can’t and won’t cross to offset what they conceive of as a rigged system. In the film, Marty’s uncle attempts to put him in his place, acting as a symbol of social power, by deciding for him that he’s going to manage his shoe store; that was his actual destiny. While many in his place would’ve resigned themselves to it (especially considering how young and ineffectual he is), Marty found a way to silence his shame, to turn it outward and blame the world for his discontent; he created a path to give himself the chance to compete for his freedom, which was to be acquired by any means necessary. As is common in perfectionism, to Marty, the world was divided between the winners and losers, and he was going to do anything to become a winner, to create an idyllic life for himself.
And that’s where the common person is superior to the arrogant Marty; they don’t sacrifice their soul because of an unfair world, and they don’t blame it for their misdeeds. Like the gangster films of the past, Marty Supreme is a fantasy of what and who we could be if we had no shame, but he’s no hero. The childish perfectionist in me rooted for him, recalling all of my own excuses and unwillingness to concern myself with anything other than me; that’s just how the world is, isn’t it? But the developing part of me pitied him. I pitied his inability to meaningfully connect with people who cared for him, idiotically taking for granted that they’d always be there. I pitied his stupidity in believing any of his achievements would finally make him love himself (despite his evident insistence that he was already amazing). I pitied him for allowing himself to be humiliated, for essentially exhibiting no self-respect, which was paradoxical. And I pitied him for his inability to find value in who he was, rather than what he could do.
Despite all of this, I still wanted to be him. Despite all of the evidence of all of his ridiculous choices, I still somehow believed I could have done it differently, so I pitied myself, too. Marty gives us the sense that we can not only reason around our shame but can also learn from his mistakes and become the exceptions. While Marty wins, he isn’t a winner. More importantly, most of us aren’t and won’t be, for personal and impersonal reasons. Just like Gatsby, Marty missed the point: Once you become that person, you need to continue to be them to sustain your success. A competitive life requires carving out others. There is no “I’ll get back to this when I’m finished.” Fair or unfair world, each of us is the sum of our choices. Arguably, it’s better to be a nobody in an unfair world than to find yourself corroded by it. Many of us are guilty to whatever extent; we’ve managed to submerge the necessary flickers of shame in order to thrive. So, we may secretly hope that Marty makes us feel OK about our own choices. To me, he acts more as a mirror, presenting the absurdity of them.