Marty Supreme

To watch two and a half hours of a young, narcissistic, obsessed douchebag ruin people around him just so he might have a shot to be among the greatest of something he has to convince others to even look at. To see him being confronted and humiliated by a real monster. To go with him on a journey where it's again, just like with other works of this director, the inner conflict of the viewer who is gripped by the pursuit and the craft of and in the picture rather than the person but also not not the person. To sit there at the end and wonder if this truly was the defining male performance of the year. Because you can't turn celebrity brain off. You can't turn the cineast (if you are allowed to call yourself that) off. Only to be convinced by the last emotion of and the last thing seen by the protagonist to get you. To feel with him and think about what deserving joy and wanting something that you also where and are meant to want. That you still want to experience some day.