What to know about San Antonio's Latino film festival
Why it matters: The festival spotlights the city's Latino heritage and culture for an international audience.
This year, it takes place as San Antonio seeks to grow its reputation as a film destination with expanded state incentives.
How it works: The festival features screenings at the Carver Community Cultural Center on the East Side, Santikos Mayan Palace on the South Side, and SAY Sí on the West Side. It's presented by the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center.
Zoom in: Major highlights this year include showings of:
" Selena y Los Dinos," a documentary featuring never-before-seen footage from the Quintanilla family archives, which premiered at the Sundance Film Festival this year. Screenings are at 5pm Saturday and 12:30pm Sunday at the Jo Long Theatre.
" Take it Away," which traces the rise of Tejano and regional Mexican music to Johnny Canales, who was known for jumpstarting the careers of Tejano musicians like Selena through his variety-style TV show. Canales died last year. Showing at 5pm Sunday at the Jo Long Theatre.
What they're saying:"The two great documentaries about Tejano music set the tone to a program that proudly represents the diverse tapestry that American culture and society are fortunate to be," CineFestival director Eugenio del Bosque said in a statement.
"Family, immigration, citizenship and civil rights are also strongly represented in the program."
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Eater
2 hours ago
- Eater
A Beloved Chinatown Space Is Reborn as a Mexico City-Inspired Cafe and Bar
As the sun sits high over Chinatown, the front foyer of Cafe Tondo is bathed in pink light, casting a warm glow on the well-worn concrete floors that were once the home of a tire shop. Opening on July 25, the Mexico City-inspired cafe and bar takes over the former Oriel under the A Line train tracks, bringing a new destination to the neighborhood for everything from early morning coffee and conchas to afternoon spritzes and salsa after dark. Cafe Tondo, which translates to circular in Spanish, comes from a collaboration between first-time restaurateur and Mouthwash Studios co-founder Abraham Campillo, Mike Kang of Locale Partners, and chef Valeria Velasquez. Drawing on his upbringing in Los Angeles's Mexican culture and memories of his mother's hospitality, Campillo set out to open Cafe Tondo as a place for the community to settle in, especially as he sees public spaces that encourage gathering slowly disappearing. 'As designers who often do digital things, we feel specifically within our community that algorithms are pushing us further [apart],' he says. Campillo saw those spaces, where friends could spend hours, slipping from espresso to wine without having to move locations, across Latin America and Europe, but felt like they were missing from Los Angeles. 'LA has the best weather,' he jokes, pointing to places like Canyon Coffee and Seco as in line with what he envisioned for Cafe Tondo. Sean Davidson Sean Davidson At Cafe Tondo, Velasquez explores dishes from Campillo's childhood, her upbringing in Bogota, and years living in Mexico City, starting with piloncillo and cinnamon-tinged cafe de olla and croissants in the morning, and then Milanesa at night. Before joining Cafe Tondo, she worked with 108 and Amass in Copenhagen, Café Altro Paradiso and Mattos Hospitality in New York, and Rosetta in Mexico City. 'It's like a celebration of Latino culture, especially Mexico City's vibrant culture,' Velasquez says of the menu. 'I am Colombian. I was born and raised there, but I now live in Mexico City. I've been [in Mexico City] since the pandemic started, and it's definitely shaped my style as a cook.' Cafe Tondo marks her first project as a head chef in the U.S. Starting at 7 a.m., the Cafe Tondo will serve drip coffee and espresso drinks with beans from Verve, alongside mate, cups of slow-simmered bone broth, matcha lattes made with Rocky's Matcha, hot chocolate, and suero, a classic Mexican drink made with sparkling water, salt, and lime juice. A weathered wood pastry case from Rosetta sits on the counter at the front, with conchas, pan de muerte, pan de elote, and more pastries made using Velasquez's recipes. Larger plates include chilaquiles verde, eggs al gusto, and hot cakes made with masa from Mercado La Paloma's Indigenous Mexican restaurant Komal. Starting in the afternoon, a menu of wine, spritzes, and beer will be available, including Tecate or Modelo-based cheladas, micheladas, and vermouth spritzes. Those looking for a non-alcoholic option can sip on ice-cold bottles of Jarritos or Mexican Coke, or a Tondo mocktail. Coffee will be available all day. Emily Ferretti At 4 p.m., the daytime menu is replaced by Colombian empanadas with a yellow-hued flaky masa crust, and tortas filled with carnitas or mushrooms. Smaller bites include marinated olives, chips and salsa, gildas with skewered anchovies, and fries. Only two larger dinner plates are on the menu: chicken Milanesa with arugula salad and aioli, and steak frites drizzled with a verdant chimichurri. 'We all grew up eating [Milanesa], in every [Latino] culture,' Velasquez says. 'It's something that is so international, but also so close to home.' For dessert, Cafe Tondo will offer affogato de olla, rolled out on a revamped dim sum cart — a nod to Chinatown. Aunt Studio designed Cafe Tondo; the group is also behind Mouthwash's headquarters in Chinatown. The group drew inspiration from the building's prior lives — as a tire shop, massage parlor, and most recently Oriel — retaining original elements such as the patinated concrete floor, exposed ceilings, and painted white brick walls. In the evenings, neon lights cast a red-pink glow on the exterior of the compact building, reminiscent of the light that fills Cafe Tondo during the daytime. A gray-hued stone bar sits just inside the main room, flanked by a mirrored column with a window that peeks into the kitchen. On the other side of the bar, wine glasses and bottles sit on dark wood shelving, above a reflective metal La Marzocco espresso machine. Stools with white upholstery offer seating at the bar, while cushioned banquette seating and two-tops line the outer edge of the room. In a small room tucked to the side, the dining room flows into the outdoors as a glass garage door opens directly onto the enclosed patio. While the entire main dining room is available on a walk-in basis only, the patio and secondary room can be reserved for private events or booked for seated reservations. 'The art is from my house. The food is the food I grew up with, the music is the music I grew up with. I see the beer my uncles would drink late at night. It's a very personal thing. But then again, I think the beauty is in the sharing.' — Abraham Campillo The heavy, scalloped tables throughout Cafe Tondo were built by Ombia Studio in Mexico, and the ceramics adorning the walls are from Isabella Marengo of Bugambilia. All of the art at Cafe Tondo is from Campillo's personal collection; he jokes that moving the pieces from his home to the cafe will just allow him to collect more. More than just the dining room will be familiar to those who knew it as Oriel. Campillo kept the restaurant's kitchen staff, paying them even during the three-month transition and the buildout. With such a small back-of-house footprint, it was essential to have a team that was already familiar with working in it. Patio after dark. Sean Davidson Campillo approached Cafe Tondo with the intention of it being for the Chinatown community, including keeping prices relatively accessible as the cost of living in the area continues to rise. All the dishes on the breakfast menu are under $20, with the steak frites being the most expensive at $30. Glasses of wine range between $15 and $17, while cans of Tecate are only $5. He also views local businesses — both old and new — as part of the community, rather than competition, emphasizing that there is room for all types of spaces in the neighborhood. Campillo also plans to program regular performances at Cafe Tondo, including weekly Sunday jazz, DJ residencies, bolero, and salsa, which he hopes will lead to some dancing. 'I'm most excited having a place where you can have a concha, a pan de elote with a coffee or mate, and then you can come later in the day, and you can have Milanesa or empanada, and you can dance as well,' he says. Campillo feels the vulnerability of sharing Cafe Tondo with the world. 'The art is from my house. The food is the food I grew up with, the music is the music I grew up with,' he says. 'I see the beer my uncles would drink late at night. It's a very personal thing. But then again, I think the beauty is in the sharing.' Cafe Tondo opens on July 25 and will hold hours from 6 p.m. to 11 p.m. on Sunday, 6 p.m. to 11 p.m., Tuesday to Thursday, and 6 p.m. to 2 a.m. Friday and Saturday. Starting August 1, the cafe will be open from 7 a.m. to 11 p.m. on Sunday, 7 a.m. to 11 p.m. Tuesday through Thursday, and 7 a.m. to 2 a.m. on Friday and Saturday. It is located at 1135 N. Alameda Street, Los Angeles, CA 90012. Pan de muerto. Emily Ferretti Concha. Emily Ferretti Emily Ferretti Passageway to the secondary dining room. Sean Davidson Cafe Tondo operates as a cafe during the day, and a bar at night. Sean Davidson Milanesa. Emily Ferretti Gildas. Emily Ferretti Milanesa torta. Emily Ferretti Vermouth spritz. Emily Ferretti Chelada. Emily Ferretti Cafe Tondo after dark. Sean Davidson
USA Today
8 hours ago
- USA Today
'Sorry, Baby': How Eva Victor turned 'very personal' trauma into a must-see comedy
Eva Victor fell in love with acting in a high-school production of the musical 'Spring Awakening.' 'I was the tallest Wendla in the history of the world,' deadpans Victor, 31, whose lanky 5-foot-11 frame is a frequent punchline in her comedy. 'I was like, 'This is my life.' It was very formative for me. I could do the whole 'Mama Who Bore Me (Reprise)' for you right now.' The former theater kid is now a first-time filmmaker, winning a best screenplay prize at Sundance Film Festival for the beautifully tender and wryly observed 'Sorry, Baby' (in theaters nationwide July 25). The movie follows a newly tenured English professor named Agnes (Victor) as she discovers that her best friend, Lydie (Naomi Ackie), is pregnant. But while Lydie and their grad-school classmates are checking off major life milestones, Agnes is still emotionally stunted after being raped years earlier by a thesis adviser, Decker (Louis Cancelmi). Join our Watch Party! Sign up to receive USA TODAY's movie and TV recommendations right in your inbox 'It's a very personal story and I took great joy in it being narrative fiction,' says Victor, who uses they/she pronouns. 'Naomi said this thing that really stuck with me, about how trauma becomes like a stone in a river. You don't get to choose that it's put there, and a lot of the pain is trying to get rid of the stone. But that's actually not possible – it's really about figuring out how to move and grow around it.' 'Sorry, Baby' is disarmingly funny despite the serious subject matter, as Agnes finds comfort in her sheepish neighbor, Gavin (Lucas Hedges), and butts up against the clinical ways that people in power speak to her about assault. Victor, who gained prominence with their viral comedy videos during the pandemic, drew from a wide swath of cinematic influences, ranging from 'Juno' to 'Fargo' to 'Singin' in the Rain.' Victor recently chatted with USA TODAY about the film: Edited and condensed for clarity. Question: There's a moment that really moved me, when Agnes says, "I don't see myself getting older or having kids. I don't see myself at all." What does that line mean to you? Eva Victor: Agnes had this youthful lust for life and her career and her creative expression, and among the many things that were taken from her through this experience, one of them is that dreaming ability. I imagine a world where Agnes is able to dream again, but she is robbed of imagining the future and forced to confront the daily tasks of the world that were once easy and are now extremely hard to get through. I think when she says, 'I can't see myself,' she's speaking to, 'My mind is empty when I imagine what could happen next. People around me are able to see things, but right now, I can't.' So that line means a lot to me, too. Agnes and Lydie often tell each other, "Please don't die." It's a seemingly grim yet relatably heartfelt sentiment – where did that come from? I had a playwriting teacher in college that said this thing I think about all the time, which is that saying 'I love you' is wonderful, but how do these characters say 'I love you?" What is the way that they're able to communicate that in their own private language? On 'Grey's Anatomy,' Cristina and Meredith say, 'You're my person,' and in this movie, I feel like that might be Agnes and Lydie's version of it. There are many quiet scenes of characters supporting Agnes, whether it's through a long hug or a sandwich. Did you ever have to resist the urge to make it "more Hollywood?" There's a part where Agnes gets lighter fluid from Gavin, and I remember writing, 'Oh, she goes to Decker's office and tries to light it on fire.' But the next day, I looked at it and was like, 'That's not what she wants.' Instead, she goes home and she's like, 'I almost did something crazy.' In moments that I wanted to indulge in more movie energy, I tried to remember what this person would actually do. Also, I wanted the world to have people in it who aren't very good at reading the room, like the doctor and the HR women. When Agnes goes to jury duty, there are a bunch of prying questions that feel very scary and make her retreat back into her hole. So I wanted it to be what felt true to me: this combination of people who are lifesaving and holding this person, and then people who are not able to see her pain. How did your experiences making videos for social media, and writing for the satire site Reductress, inform your work on this movie? The muscle of putting something into the world when no one's asking for it from you is embarrassing and necessary. I never had the experience of someone coming in like, 'You should play this!' I've always been making stuff in order to make stuff happen, so the scrappiness was helpful, like, 'Just keep working!' Also, those videos got me in the habit of watching myself and quickly making decisions about whether it was a good take for me or whether I wanted to do it again. That relationship with myself was already figured out by the time I got to set. Have you started to think about what's next? I'm going to cuddle with my cat. I've been doing so much traveling and I really have missed him. It's so funny, when I was writing 'Sorry, Baby,' the only thing I wanted was to share it with the world and open all the floodgates of my feelings. Now that that's happening, I think going back to a private space is going to be just the perfect remedy I need and we'll see what comes.
Vox
14 hours ago
- Vox
The taboo that Americans just can't seem to break
is a lesbian journalist and author based in New York City. Her work has been featured in New York Magazine, Cosmopolitan, the New York Times, and many others. When Alana Romero was a child, they'd leave their bed in the middle of the night, sneak through her family's darkened home in South Florida, and slip into her sisters' bedrooms. But they didn't want to play, gossip, or otherwise annoy her siblings — she wanted to make sure they hadn't died in their sleep. 'I would wake up, crawl to my sister's room, just put my hand under her nose and make sure she was still breathing,' Romero, now 26, recalls. 'If she was snoring, that was a good sign.' Romero would then check on her little sister one room over. Is she breathing? Yes. Reassured for the moment, Romero would return to their own bed. Romero didn't know exactly why she was making these anxious nighttime visits at the time — she kept them to herself. What they did know was that in their Catholic, Latino family, death wasn't something that was acknowledged, much less discussed. 'It's like, don't talk about death, don't do the taboo things, maybe don't even prepare for [death] because if you just don't talk about it, don't prepare for it, maybe it won't happen,' Romero says. Vox Culture Culture reflects society. Get our best explainers on everything from money to entertainment to what everyone is talking about online. Email (required) Sign Up By submitting your email, you agree to our Terms and Privacy Notice . This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply. When a loved one did pass, the circumstances of their death, and the events of their lives, weren't brought up again, at least not with Romero. It felt like once a family member was gone, they were gone for good. So, like many other children with questions but no answers, Romero carried on as best as they could. She worried, she wondered, she woke up in the middle of the night. In the US, we've long approached death with secrecy and silence. Despite the fact that, according to one survey, nearly half of Americans think about death at least once a month — and a quarter of them think about it every day — many keep these thoughts to themselves. When asked to rank their willingness to talk about various taboos, from money to sex to religion, respondents ranked death dead last, at 32 percent. Furthermore, a 2018 survey conducted by the Institute for Healthcare Improvement found that while 92 percent of Americans agreed that discussing their end-of-life preferences was important, only 32 percent actually followed through. In other words, people struggle to bridge the gap between an internal awareness of death, and the actual external preparation for it. 'Death is the ultimate loss of control. It's the ultimate uncertainty.' There are any number of reasons why people avoid these conversations. You may not know where to begin. You may not want to upset others. You may not know how to answer your child's questions. You may be afraid of aging, illness, the callous indifference of insurance companies, and the creeping of medical debt. You may be superstitious. You may feel too young or too old to worry about it. Or you may hate to confront, once and for all, that you are afraid of what you can't prevent, contain, or wish away. 'Death is the ultimate loss of control. It's the ultimate uncertainty,' says Claire Bidwell Smith, therapist, grief counselor and author of Conscious Grieving: A Transformative Approach to Healing From Loss. 'We can really get very clear and focused and organized about so many aspects of our lives, yet death is the one that we cannot. We can't predict it, we can't control it.' This studious avoidance of death has real consequences: Less than half of US adults have a will, which dictates financial and estate preferences after death. Likewise, only about 45 percent of adults have a living will, which dictates wishes around medical care. These numbers may be surprising given the Covid-19 pandemic, which exposed a generation of Americans to the existential dread, systemic failures, and grief of a global death event. But after a brief uptick in estate planning during the pandemic, interest waned. These cultural seeds have long been sown by organizers, spiritual leaders, academics, medical and funeral professionals — and much of this work pre-dates the pandemic. The contemporary death positive movement, which advocates for a transparent, unabashed approach to death and death care, began in earnest in the early 2010s when author and mortician Caitlin Doughty founded the advocacy group The Order of the Good Death. This movement has deep roots in the hospice care, green burial, and home funeral movements. Still, despite the pandemic's fresh lessons — and the ancient knowledge that death comes for us all — many of us still cannot bear to talk about death. Even when we know it's important. Even though we may want to. So why not? And what would we stand to gain if, instead, we learned to speak about dying more openly? How death became laden down with euphemism American attitudes around death and dying are fairly modern creations, taking root in the 19th century. Until then, most people died at home. Rites were carried out by community members, bodies were washed and displayed in the home for mourners, and funerals were cheap, intimate and hands-on affairs. That is, until the Civil War. In the early 1860s, people were, for the first time, dying away from their homes en masse. To address this, embalming — the process of slowing down decomposition by replacing the body's blood with chemicals — was used to preserve bodies long enough to transport them back to those families who could afford it. Sarah Chavez, a writer, historian, and activist who is the executive director of Order of the Good Death and founding member of the death scholarship organization The Collective for Radical Death Studies, says embalming didn't truly captivate the American imagination until the death of President Abraham Lincoln in 1865. 'When [Lincoln] died, he was embalmed and went on a multicity tour, like he was a music artist,' Chavez says. 'People came out in droves to see the funeral train and his body. That really kind of cemented embalming as this new, American thing.' Embalming became more widely popular and laid the foundations for a new paradigm: dead bodies cared for outside the home by a buttoned-up, for-profit class of embalmers. Over the next few decades, embalmers and funeral workers, who Chavez says signaled wealth and elegance by setting up shop in Victorian-style homes, slowly gained a foothold in the United States. At the same time, during the turn of the 20th century, medical care was also leaving the home and entering more firmly into the purview of trained doctors, nurses, and hospital systems. 'The funeral industry and the medical industry rose up together and kind of partnered to position themselves as these guardians of health and safety,' Chavez says. (Seeking trained medical professionals has obvious benefits for the living, but keep in mind that dead bodies aren't dangerous, and embalming services aren't necessary for health or safety.) By the 1930s, the modern funeral industry had taken off and sold a new, 'dignified' version of death — one that rapidly isolated the living from their own dead. 'Their definition of what a [dignified death] was, is expensive, away from the home amongst professionals, devoid of signs of death through embalming,' Chavez says. 'They come in and they whisk away your person and they return them to you as if they look alive, as if they're sleeping.' If you've ever said 'passed away' instead of died, 'loved one' rather than dead body, or 'memorial park' rather than cemetery, you'll begin to see how thoroughly death has been obscured. There are, of course, vibrant counterexamples of this attitude across American culture. For marginalized communities in particular, elaborate, public displays of death and grieving offer the dead a dignity and power society never offered them in life. Homegoing rituals in Black communities, which often blend African and Christian practices, and political funerals and 'ash actions' during the AIDS crisis both come to mind. Still, throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, death became laden down with euphemism for large swaths of society. This was often encouraged by the funerary industry, whose professionals developed language to avoid talking about death while, paradoxically, talking about death. If you've ever said 'passed away' instead of died, 'loved one' rather than dead body, or 'memorial park' rather than cemetery, you'll begin to see how thoroughly death has been obscured from the common lexicon. This language, or lack thereof, can make every aspect of death more secretive and more confusing, from the actual physiological process of dying itself all the way down to funeral prices. These factors — embalming practices, the expansion of a for-profit funeral industry, and a developing taste for euphemism — gave birth to the modern American death taboo. The cost of silence When we avoid talking about death, we risk living and dying in ways that don't align with our values and needs. If you don't discuss end-of-life medical treatment, for example, you may receive invasive and expensive care you never wanted. Or as a caregiver, you may be forced to make quality of life, death care, and estate-related decisions based on your best guess rather than falling back on the information and documentation needed to confidently honor someone else's wishes. ' Many of us know so many people who've died and didn't have a plan,' says Darnell Lamont Walker, death doula and author of the Notes From a Death Doula Substack. 'And so when they die, the family is falling apart and everyone is thinking, Oh well this is what I think they would have wanted.' In that situation, it's easy for conflict to break out among even the most well-meaning family members. Talking about the logistic aspects of death ahead of time — including your legal and medical rights during and after dying — can help you, your loved ones, and your community act with clarity and conviction. But for some, talking about the logistics of death is the easier part — there are steps to follow, forms to fill out, bills to pay. Instead, it's the emotional consequences that are far more difficult to grapple with. This was the case for Kayla Evans, whose dad died in 2013. Growing up, her family didn't talk about death unless it was about practical matters. 'There was a very utilitarian response,' Evans recalls. 'Like, it's sad, but we have to move on.' From her mother, there was an unspoken message that 'people who were very sentimental about death were silly.' 'Nobody taught me how to deal with grief and nobody taught me how to deal with death.' Then, when she was 18, during her second week as a college freshman, Evan's father died unexpectedly. 'Nobody saw it coming,' Evans, now 30, says. 'As he was dying, my mom was like, We need to transfer your name over to these financial documents … the administrative tasks that follow death, things like that, were very well taken care of. I don't think any of us together processed the emotional side of it. That was something I had to do on my own.' Without anyone to talk to, Evans turned to 'extreme productivity' as a coping mechanism in the months after, piling on projects and jobs and schoolwork — a strategy that came at the expense of her relationships and emotional wellbeing. ' I would like to say I grew from [my father's death] or something, but honestly it was just really fucking hard,' Evans says. 'Nobody taught me how to deal with grief and nobody taught me how to deal with death.' Twelve years later, 'I feel it still trails [my mother] especially, and it trails me, too,' Evans says. Talk about death is, weirdly, life-affirming It's not always easy to have conversations about death. But, clearly, it's not easy to avoid them, either. If you want to start grappling with the reality of death, the first step is to ask yourself questions about the end of your own life, though it can feel scary. What does a life well-lived look like for you? How do you want to die? How do you want to be remembered? Taking the time to reflect on your own can help you clarify what you want and better prepare you to tell others what you need. When approaching loved ones about end of life wishes — either your own or theirs — Kathryn Mannix, physician, palliative care specialist, and author of With the End in Mind recommends breaking down the conversation into two parts: the invitation to talk and the conversation itself. For example, you may say something like, Dad, I want to be able to step up and care for you when the time comes. Do you think we could talk about the care you do and do not want towards the end of your life? Could we talk sometime over the next few weeks? 'Talking about our wishes at the end of life is a gift to our future self and to the people who love us.' Alternatively, if you'd like to start the conversation about your own wishes, Mannix suggests something like: Kids, I'm not getting any younger and there are things I'd like to talk about to put my mind at ease. When can we talk? This approach matters because it allows the conversation to happen when all parties have had time to think and prepare. 'Talking about our wishes at the end of life is a gift to our future self and to the people who love us,' Mannix wrote in an email. 'Talking about dying won't make it happen any sooner, but it can make it happen a great deal better.' But these conversations shouldn't just be about end-of-life care or medical decisions — it's also an opportunity to give and receive stories, explore your spiritual beliefs, get existential with your kids, and connect over grief, joys, and regrets. For example, you may approach an elder and ask: What are some of the defining moments of your life? You may ask a child, What do you think happens after we die? Or you may ask a friend, Have you ever navigated death and grieving? Finding your own way to incorporate death into your life can also serve as a corrective to a wider culture of silence. 'I'm currently getting more and more comfortable with death through spiritual practice and connecting to my family's roots of Santeria,' says Romero, who checked their sisters' breathing at night. She connected to Santeria, an Afro-Caribbean religion that originated in Cuba and blends traditional Yoruba practices and Catholicism, through her grandmother, who was recently diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. 'I also find that I'm coping a hell of a lot better than other people in my family because I do have this comfort in knowing that … I will always have a relationship with her, even in the afterlife, through my spiritual practice.' Evans, whose father died when she was 18, decided to talk about death and grief during her wedding earlier this year. In her vows, she talked about the sensation of watching her husband sleep at night, and the 'creeping dread' of knowing he was going to die some day. ' I think that other people appreciate when you talk about things like that, even if it's hard to, and it was important for me,' Evans says. 'I did feel kind of empowered, or at the very least like I had confessed something, you know, it was a relief.' For Evans, talking about her preemptive grief wasn't morbid — it was a testament to her deep regard for her husband.
