Do not attempt Josh Safdie’s cinematic homage to chutzpah if you’re not up to a long trek with Timothee Chalamet portraying the world’s fastest talking, mouth breathing, needle nosed ping-pong prodigy as your guide. Just don’t.

Trust me. You have better things to do than planting you forehead into your palm whilst muttering, “what the…?”

But, if you appreciate the Safdie bothers repertoire–say 2019’s Uncut Gems, a character autopsy of a frenetic, gambling addicted, vajayjay hound who designs diamond bedazzled Furby pendants for professional athletes–well, step right up and don’t be shy, cause you will not believe your eyes.

Though Marty Supreme is undoubtedly–I won’t say weird, necessarily–unconventional–it’s wonderful too, its grandeur glinting from a most unlikely vessel. And whether you appreciate Marty, or hate him…tolerate or berate him…whether you like or loath the film that encapsulates him, may depend on where you’re from–and how invested you are in the notions that pull the whole thing together.

Allow me to explain.

The first time I watched it I was both exhilarated and shellshocked by its kinetic slapstick energy. I appreciated the boldness of its 80s synth pop contrasted with the sweaty, smarminess of its early 50s Lower Eastside setting, even as I questioned it. I certainly didn’t hate Marty Supreme, but I didn’t love it either.

But, halfway through my second viewing, I began to warm to it; this in spite of and because of Marty himself, a character played to the hilt by Timothee Chalamet and loosely based on 1958 World Table Tennis Champion and consummate world class hustler Marty Reisman.

The movie Marty is a live-wire striver, a bean-pole shoe salesman by day and table tennis shark by night. He is brash, infected with braggadocio (and afflicted with bad skin). He is brazen too, impregnating his married friend with benefits (Odessa A’zion) in the backstock of the shoe shop while his customer awaits a larger size.

And his lasciviousness is just getting started.

Not content with just one adulterous affair, he tomahawk serves his way into the bed of an aging but attractive film star (a terrific Gwyneth Paltrow) who is amused by his showmanship and audacity–and a little leery of it too. So potent is Marty’s chicanery–not to mention his talent–that even the starlet’s pompous industrialist husband (Shark Tank’s Kevin O’Leary) is intrigued, though the powerbroker’s interest and patience are dangerously short.

For all his shenanigans, Marty doesn’t have to live so close to the edge. He’s a gifted salesman, his boss tries to strongarm him into a managerial position, but Marty has bigger dreams. The fact that they coalesce around a casual patio game that most people don’t even consider a sport is of little consequence. He will go to any length, suffer any indignity, endanger his own life and the lives of others, so long as that gets him closer to the World Table Tennis Championship.

Still, in all fairness to Marty, there’s more to him than steadfast selfishness, outsized ego and an uncanny libido. Yes, he is resilient. And there’s much to admire in resilience…

Yes, he is confident and there’s much to be said for confidence. There’s a sexiness to him…a humor in the absurdity of him…in his boldness. But it’s not just that.

Then it hit me. Marty Supreme is an avant garde lean into a Capraesque story.

Yes! That’s what it is! A celebration of good ole American ingenuity.

The whole way through it, Marty is beating the odds. He’s giving the finger to all of those who turn their noses up at him, to all those who say “who do you think you are?” (Just like the rest of the world did to the good ole US of A after we saved a lot of Europe from the Nazis.) That’s why the film is set in the early post WWII era when the American dream was coming so tantalizingly close to becoming a reality.

And because it’s an American story, it’s an immigrant story too. Because all Americans (except the native ones) are immigrants. And Marty’s Jewish.

But wait. What about the stereotypes?

The shrewdness? The loudmouthiness? The audacious arrogance?

What about the lewdness?

Josh Safdie leans into it. That’s what.

Consider Marty’s surname: Mauser. Now consider the name of the lead character’s surname in the Safdie brothers Uncut Gems: Ratner.

You don’t think that’s a coincidence do you?

That’s outrageous! That’s antisemitic!

Yes. But Josh Safdie is Jewish.

Then it’s an exercise in self loathing.

Well, it would be, perhaps, except that the essence of the film lies not within its celebration of ambition and ingenuity; not in its homage to Capra, the American underdog and the spectacle of sport. No; not even in the masterful, showstopping performance of its star.

The beauty of Marty Supreme is its culture–not so much a celebration of it, but a testament to it–warts and all. Not of just endurance, but potential. Not just legacy, but of promise.

That’s where the “there’s something more to Marty than…” comes into play. And when it does, Marty aces it.