I know, I know: I’m surprised as you are that I’m touting a Will Ferrell comedy as a nuanced treatment of the conservative-liberal divide. Make no mistake: the film is silly, even stupid, in parts, and its comedy leans as much towards broad physical humor as it does towards satire. But things have gotten to such an impasse in this country—witness the continued ostracism of the Dixie Chicks, for example—that a film depicting red-state good-ol’-boys with both criticism and compassion starts to look like subtle social commentary.

The owner of the car I saw would probably argue that Will Ferrell’s character, NASCAR driver Ricky Bobby, with his win-at-all-costs attitude (“If you’re not first, you’re last”), represents the worst of red-state America. After all, Ricky accepts every endorsement deal that comes down the pike, lives in a bloated McMansion, and marries a shallow blonde trophy wife whom he met when she flashed him after a race. He espouses a version of masculinity that’s based on aggression and dominance, congratulating his sons for talking back to their grandfather.

But the film also portrays Ricky—and conservatism—with good-natured wit and even compassion. Ricky’s mingled vulgarity and naiveté are best captured in a scene in which he says grace before a family meal of Domino’s pizza and Coke. He thanks “Baby Jesus” for his victories, endorsements, sons (named “Walker” and “Texas Ranger”), and “smokin’ hot wife, Carly”), and asks that he continue winning races. But rather than playing the scene purely for laughs, or slanting it as a satire on red-state values, Ferrell gives Ricky a charming innocence. “You don’t always have to pray to Baby Jesus,” Carly chides her husband. “He was a grown man, too.”

“I prefer to see him as Baby Jesus, little, eight-pound, six-ounce Baby Jesus,” Ricky replies, and Ferrell helps the viewer to see that Ricky really does believe in Jesus as a sort of miraculous infant who makes good things happen. His faith is unsophisticated at best, and self-serving at worst, but it is sincere. Ricky’s not a proto-fascist, nor is he in any way evil. He’s simply an earnest, not-very-bright individual who doesn’t think too hard but has his heart in the right place.

Ricky has other good qualities as well: over the course of the film he learns to value family and the joy of winning over glitz and easy cash. The movie’s final scene shows him in a simple plaid shirt, taking his mama, deadbeat dad, and newly-reformed sons out to dinner at Applebee’s. (And, though Ricky’s moral makeover is more than a tad predictable, the film gently satirizes this standard plotline as well. Walker and Texas Ranger, for example, not only get some manners—they learn tai chi and start spouting some very funny New Agey/therapeutic dialogue too.)

Ricky’s rival, the Frenchman Jean Girard (Sacha Cohen), on the other hand, serves as a stand-in for liberalism: he’s openly gay, reads Camus, listens to jazz and classical music, and drinks macchiato in his racecar. Though the filmmakers do play up Girard’s Frenchness and homosexuality for laughs (with his thick accent, Ricky Bobby comes out ‘Reeky Bubby’), to their credit, they also portray him as a physically strong, talented driver with a keen competitive edge. Girard is no pansy, but a worthy foil for Ricky. And in the end, he’s not even made the straw-man bad guy whose only role is to lose: he and Ricky conclude their final race as friends and equals.

Ferrell and McKay (who co-wrote the script) suggest that citizens of both Americas take themselves a little less seriously and begin to laugh at their foibles. But can red and blue ever get along? Well, when director Adam McKay introduced Cohen to a crowd of NASCAR fans as a Formula One racer from France driving a Perrier car, they booed him so loudly McKay was able to tape their reaction and add it to the soundtrack of the film. Some things, apparently, only happen in the movies.