I know what I saw. I know what I felt. I know what Marty Supreme is on the surface as well as deep down. It’s an all tap-dancing, all bullshitting, antsy, ping-pong-driven bop-shoo-wop hellzapoppin’. It’s the bolt and the buzz. It got me off in ways that never even occurred to Paul Thomas Anderson when he was making OBAA. It isn’t a “story” or a “saga” as much a nervy, insistent, wild-ass heebie-jeebie ride in a stolen (okay, borrowed) car. I LOVE the early (70-year-old) Scorsese New Yorky vibe. I love that Chalamet is more or less aping or paying sustained tribute to Robert DeNiro’s “Johnny Boy” in Mean Streets. I love the plunging bathtub scene. I love that it’s set in the early ‘50s and uses ‘80s pop music (Tears For Fears) on the soundtrack. I love that scrappy, raspy-voiced Abel Ferrara plays a stand-out supporting role. I love that Gwyneth Paltrow is the ground-zero, cut-the-bullshit, shower-sex center of it all. Kevin O’Leary totally owns and occupies the adversarial but at the same time flabbergasted role of Paltrow’s ornery pen millionaire hubby. I loved the mouthy, pushy, emotionally open-hearted Odessa A’zion. I loved the Central Park necklace-cops-and-cunnilingus scene. I need to see it again right away.
