We Are the Flesh

Think Luis Buñuel spliced with Hieronymus Bosch.

Viewers expecting a garden-variety horror flick will likely recoil, but those seeking new voices in Mexican cinema may well hail Minter's effort.

Filmgoers who brave We Are the Flesh may regret seeing it. Forgetting it is another matter entirely.

This is dirty, abusive, sticky, heartfelt (?), enlightened (??), intellectual (???), deranged, offensive, damningly provocative filmmaking at its…most…unhinged?

Until the thought-provoking, from-left-field twist ending, We Are the Flesh mostly seems like a series of sick tableaux, dredged up from the director’s subconscious and then splattered across the screen. But there’s genuine artistry even to this film’s most exploitative moments.

We Are the Flesh, its abundance of repellent imagery notwithstanding, has an air of the academic about it.

For every moment of sick visceral genius (e.g. whenever Hernandez or Evoli are left to their own devices), there’s another of clumsy metaphor (e.g. the limp punchline of the movie’s final minutes).