We need to stop asking if Timothée Chalamet is a “movie star” and start asking if he’s a performance artist who just happens to make movies.
Because right now, the marketing campaign for his new ping-pong thriller, Marty Supreme, is more entertaining than 90% of the actual films released this year.
This week, the campaign peaked in the most literal sense possible. Chalamet became the first human being to be strapped to the top of the Las Vegas Sphere—which was projected to look like a giant, glowing orange ping-pong ball.
There is something deeply, hilariously visceral about watching Hollywood’s “Golden Boy” clinging to a 366-foot LED screen, screaming about his movie into the void. It wasn’t a polished press junket. It wasn’t carefully choreographed. It looked like a hostage video from a fever dream. And it was perfect.
This chaos wasn’t random.
Marty Supreme is directed by Josh Safdie (Uncut Gems, Good Time), a filmmaker famous for making movies that feel like 140-minute panic attacks. Safdie’s films thrive on momentum, anxiety, and the feeling that everything is constantly on the verge of collapse. Seen through that lens, it makes sense that the marketing would feel just as stressful as the movie itself.
The campaign kicked off with a “leaked” 18-minute Zoom call where Chalamet played a heightened, nightmare version of himself—pitching increasingly unhinged ideas to visibly nervous A24 executives. He demanded blimps. He demanded everything be painted orange. He demanded spectacle.
At the time, we laughed. It played like a sketch.
Then the joke started becoming real.
A bright orange blimp appeared over Los Angeles. Then Chalamet dropped a Marty Supreme streetwear collaboration with Nahmias that sold out instantly and is now reselling for over $1,000. And now he’s standing on top of a giant glowing orb in Nevada, screaming into the desert sky.
He didn’t just pitch a bit—he followed through on it. The Zoom call wasn’t satire; it was a blueprint. Chalamet is running this movie promotion like a streetwear drop designed by a madman, where chaos and confusion are features, not bugs.
Most actors are terrified of looking “desperate” when selling a movie. There’s an unspoken rule in Hollywood that real stars shouldn’t have to beg for attention.
Chalamet has rejected that rule entirely.
He isn’t quietly trusting the trailer to do the work. He’s screaming from rooftops—or Spheres—daring you not to look. It’s chaotic, sweaty, and borderline embarrassing. And it’s completely captivating.
If Marty Supreme succeeds at the box office this Christmas, this campaign is going to be studied in marketing classrooms for years. Chalamet and A24 understand something many studios still don’t: in 2025, a trailer isn’t enough. You don’t just ask people to care—you overwhelm them. You turn the marketing itself into the event.
I don’t know if Marty Supreme is good yet. But I know I’m buying a ticket when it hits theaters, just to help fund whatever unhinged stunt Chalamet decides to pull next.
