The first thing you need to know about Machete is how to properly pronounce the name. You begin with a brief dramatic break, and then, with the most gravity you can muster, say “Mahtchaeteeeh.” As in the sentence: “We are up against (pause) Mahtchaeteeeh. We’re all gonna die.” In this example, the “We’re all gonna die” part is silent, because by the time you’ve gotten to it, he’s already lopped off your head.

Reformed ex-con and all around badass Danny Trejo, as the movie’s main man, is apparently half jaguar, half crocodile, and all Mexican. An unstoppable, rampaging Aztec wrecking machine like this guy would, in any other movie, probably be hidden behind a hockey mask while dispatching teenagers in the woods. But here, the psycho killer is improbably cast as an ex-cop, driven to poverty and exile north of the border by the ruthless murder of his partner and family by a Mexican cocaine running kingpin.

Hulking and grotesque as he is, with the tools and talents for single-handedly leveling small towns, our hero’s got a heart of gold. It may be buried under an eighth of a ton of scarred, rippling sinew, but we’re led to trust that it’s beating in there somewhere.

Like all good legendary folk heroes, Machete stands up for the downtrodden (in this case, the huddled, hardworking masses of Texas’ illegal immigrant population), puts fear (and, often, pointed metal implements) in the hearts of his enemies, and defends some remarkably, ahem, thankful ladies. He’s like an unholy hybrid of Guy Fawkes, Shaft and Ghengis Khan, swinging a four-pound blade like John Henry swung a hammer. Putting the force in “workforce,” Machete repeatedly defeats the dismayed authoritarians foolish enough to oppose him using nothing but common kitchenware, cleaning supplies and handy gardening tools. The weed wacker scene is particularly precious.

Another thing worth understanding about “Machete” is that the movie simply gushes everything a discerning, self-respecting moviegoer should probably loathe: stilted, artificial dialogue; preposterously overstated music; excessive, unwarranted bloodshed; and lurid, unnecessary nudity, just to start. These qualities might be expected to render the film completely pointless if they were not so emphatically the point of the film, and a great walloping load of fun on top.

Troublemaking director Robert Rodriguez (“El Mariachi,” “Sin City”) flawlessly delivers on the overblown, ultra-violent, retro-chic promise of the fake “Machete” trailer he tacked onto the beginning of 2007’s “Grindhouse” double feature (which he also produced with Quentin Tarantino). Apparently having captured nearly half the movie’s footage in preparation for that trailer alone, perhaps he didn’t have to work all that hard to finish it off and send it rollicking along like it does.

The cast that worked so marvelously as a joke in that trailer, including Jessica “Sin City” Alba, Michelle “Avatar” Rodriguez, Steven “now we know why he didn’t bother with ‘The Expendables’” Seagal and, inexplicably, hilariously, perfectly enough, Robert De Niro, continue to all laugh their merry, bloody way through some of the most ludicrous situations committed to film since “Black Dynamite.” They all appear to be having the time of their lives, and their enthusiasm is absolutely infectious. “Dynamite” may have brought its own brand of smack-down on some very similar themes, but where that movie skewed more often than not into deliberately over-the-edge parody of the genre it was celebrating, “Machete” somehow just stomps right over this condescension to stand as a pure, modern, even respectful (if that’s possible with a movie so made of wrong) example of the genre itself.

It’s difficult to argue with a flick that rejoices so deeply in renegade federales, greasy drug lords, sharp-shooting priests, merciless politicos, twisted vigilante militia, back-stabbed backstabbers, reluctant snipers, Persian hit men, dispensable bodyguards, awesome music, lowrider car-madas, and taco-truck revolutionaries all in one crazy 102-minute span. What more could you want? Bikini girls with machine guns? Well, get in line, amigo. It’s got those, too.

Mexploitation films may never have quite gained the cultural cache of their Blacksploitation cousins, but yes, they do exist, and no, you probably won’t find a better model, then or now, than “Machete.”