It’s a witty piece of genre deconstruction that’s curiously drunk on pomo knowingness for both the mofo mystique of ‘70s blaxploitation and the mojo bullshit of James Bond.
It could be the most authentic representation of wilderness life ever put on screen.
David Lynch is less concerned with self-reference than he is with charting the uncomfortable crawlspace between boyhood and manhood.
El Bruto is relatively apolitical but that’s because Luis Buñuel is drunk on animal magnetism.
Luis Buñuel jabs at society’s oppression of women are limp and the finale is entirely too facile for a film that deserved a more Hitchcockian wind-down.