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Real Madrid and Barcelona offer messages of support following train crash as Spanish football orders Copa postponement.

Spain’s national football federation has postponed all 24 Copa del Rey games scheduled for Wednesday because of a train accident that killed at least 30 people in the country’s central region.

About 80 people were injured and the death toll could rise, authorities said, after a high-speed train slammed into the rear of another one that had stopped on the track.

“Shocked by the tragic train accident,” the Royal Spanish Football Federation (RFEF) said.

It said it ordered the postponement of the games “in solidarity with the victims”.

“The entire Spanish football community stands united in grief over this tragedy and has made itself available to the authorities to assist the victims of this devastating accident,” RFEF added.

It said it would later provide a revised tournament schedule. First-round games on Thursday have not been postponed. Games were played on Tuesday as well.

The Spanish league has not announced any postponements for the weekend’s games.

Among Wednesday’s games to be postponed were Navalcarnero against Real Betis, Salamanca against Celta Vigo and Tavernes against Valencia.

Several Spanish football clubs expressed their condolences and solidarity following the incident.

“The club wishes to convey its support and solidarity to the families and friends of the victims and to wish all those injured a speedy recovery,” FC Barcelona said on social media.

Real Madrid also offered condolences and in a statement said the club shared “in the grief of everyone impacted during these moments of profound sadness”.

Sevilla FC took a moment of silence ahead of their training on Wednesday and cancelled manager Luis Garcia Plaza’s press conference, which was scheduled for Wednesday ahead of their match against Sporting de Hortaleza.

Amid all the turmoil of 2026, some may yearn to dial the culture back to 2016 — in all its rainbow-saturated, Rio de Janeiro Instagram-filtered glory.

Neoperreo, the Latin American genre born of that internet era, turns 10 this year. Artists built it as a reimagining of reggaeton music, by and for femmes and freaks: cis and trans women, as well as the frikis from Latin America’s punk and alt scenes, who never fit the mold. For them, this cutting-edge sound and the internet community around it offered a lifeline.

A decade after the term first circulated, neoperreo (as in, the new perreo) has exapanded from SoundCloud and DIY parties into a global network of artists, DJs and festivals.

The genre takes a distinctly techno-infused approach to the dembow rhythm, stripping reggaeton of any acoustic elements and assembling them anew on a laptop to sound colder and faster. With the bass hollowed out and Auto-Tune cranked up, the vocals take on a metallic sheen — as women spit risqué verses claiming their rightful place as subjects, as opposed to the sex objects that men would relegate them to.

Both released in 2016, two of the songs that defined the genre early on — Tomasa del Real’s “Bien y Mal” and Ms Nina’s “Tu Sicaria” — pair hooks you can perrear to with beats that sound like they were built in a bedroom, because they actually were.

Beyond its sound, the genre created worlds: digital networks where outsiders across the Americas and Europe found each other, and parties where queer, trans and friki Latines could show up exactly as they were.

As trans and Latine communities face mounting attacks on their rights and safety, those spaces, alongside the new ones they’ve inspired, keep carrying weight.

“It didn’t have a name yet, but it was born from this desire to experiment and create something new at its core,” says Elisa Espinoza, the 34-year-old Swiss Army knife of an artist known as DJ Lizz. Raised in the southern Chilean town of Hualpén, she traces that initial spark to her country’s history.

“Chile is a country [that experienced] a dictatorship, a country that always sought a kind of homogeneity — a sickness that hopefully we’d all think the same, look the same, act the same,” she says. “At that moment, everyone was trying to create something, to identify with [who] we really are. Out of that constant search comes experimentation, which goes hand in hand with sexual liberation, liberation from social class. That spoke to a revolutionary spirit.”

For Espinoza, that liberation meant reclaiming a femininity she had once feared, by drawing from drag culture and the ’80s vogue tradition. “I hypersexualized myself, I hyperfeminized myself, just like a drag queen — and that somehow empowered me even more,” she says, recalling men who yelled obscenities at her on the street or tried to grab her ass when she wore shorts.

“Men were the owners of women’s sexuality, and now we’re the owners of our sexuality,” she says.

From the other end of the country, artist Tomasa del Real, born Valeria Cisternas, began to approach music with a similar ethos in her hometown of Iquique, which sits on Chile’s northern coast. When both eventually moved to, and met in, Santiago, they realized that other artists from around the world were chasing the same idea.

“On the internet, people found freedom they didn’t find in their own country or city,” says Espinoza. “We were all united by the same search.”

From this virtual community came neoperreo’s signature sound: a hedonistic mix of reggaeton and Latin rhythms with industrial, electronic, funk and trap elements. “What came out was, for some people, a work of art; for other people, a monster,” says Espinoza.

As cisgender, straight women, the community they describe both includes and extends beyond their own identities. “It was the first time someone said, ‘No, this music I make, at least in Latin America, isn’t for men.’ It’s for women, and it’s for gays,” Espinoza says.

The term “neoperreo” came about almost by accident. On an episode of Red Bull Radio in 2016, Cisternas, now 39, says she tried to explain in her “basic English” that she wasn’t really sure the music she made should be called reggaeton at all. Reggaeton came from Puerto Rico, by way of reggae en español; her lyrics and rhythms were different, and the people collaborating with her came from electronica, not the island.

She didn’t want to appropriate a culture that wasn’t hers, so she reached for another way to describe it: not as the new reggaeton, but the new music you can perreo to. Twerking, she wanted to explain, a woman can do alone; but perreo takes two. “So I meant to say el nuevo perreo, but in English, I said neo — neoperreo,” she says.

And the name just stuck.

That same year, Cisternas and Espinoza started throwing parties in Santiago under the hashtag #NeoPerreo. They called in a crowd from society’s margins: a community “of DJs, dancers, strippers, tattoo artists, of the alternative world, the more gothic world, the misfits themselves,” says Cisternas.

At their first event, the line wrapped around the block.

“It was a really important moment for the history of reggaeton, because there were no spaces where someone gay could show up with [both] their metalhead friend and their crazy girlfriend to dance reggaeton. Those spaces didn’t exist; reggaeton was very marginal, completely removed from society. This brought us closer,” says Cisternas.

The scene also became a way to make money. “It gave work to a lot of us who didn’t have access to money that immediately; we created a lot of work for ourselves,” she says. “A lot of people built their careers at that moment too.”

Jorgelina Andrea del Valle Torres, the Argentine neoperreo artist known as Ms Nina, also remembers those first parties affectionately. “It widened the audience,” she says. “In the end, we created a community where everyone feels seen and safe.”

But neoperreo wasn’t always received so warmly. “People didn’t understand it because they weren’t used to it. They were used to basic reggaeton,” Torres says. “There was a scene in Spain too, with trap and reggaeton built on SoundCloud and turned-up Auto-Tune. [But it was] a new kind of music nobody else was making. Everybody kind of hated it. And now everybody’s doing it.”

Growing up in central Argentina, Torres always felt judged and bullied for being different; she’s spent the last 20 years in Alicante, Spain, where she says she finally feels free to explore her bisexuality. Still, the cumbia villera of her childhood — a heavily synthesized subgenre born in the outskirts of Buenos Aires in the late 1990s — runs through everything she makes.

Argentina, like Chile, was barely a generation out from a military dictatorship when it had partnered with Augusto Pinochet’s regime to hunt down dissidents. Music of the margins — which before neoperreo was punk rock and hip-hop — had been framed in opposition to polite society.

Although reggaeton originated in the streets, the genre hit its zenith in the mainstream this year, thanks to Bad Bunny’s historic Super Bowl halftime show and Karol G’s headlining set at Coachella. Yet Cisternas, despite having performed at Coachella herself in 2019, argues that neoperreo will never be mainstream in the same way.

“It’s too weird — and that’s fine,” she says. “The weirder, the better.”

For the often overlapping worlds of sex work and queer nightlife, the underground movement provided a natural shelter for those unsafe to be themselves in the mainstream, from the leading artists who candidly promote their music alongside erotic content on OnlyFans, to trans artists like Sasha Sathya, who discuss gendered violence and labor in their lyrics. And as governments in Argentina and the U.S. roll back protections for queer and trans people, the freedoms cultivated on the dance floor remain far from assured outside it.

“Above all, because of the trans laws, that’s where there’s still a long way to go,” she says. “It’s important that we keep going.”

Yet now, 10 years in, the movement’s heirs may not call themselves neoperreo at all.

On another late summer night in New York, under the red glow of the DJ booth and a canopy of globe string lights, the rooftop’s wooden floorboards dip beneath scores of platform heels. An outdoor thermometer clocks a temperature of 100 degrees as the sounds of Y2K-era reggaeton reverberate. There’s no shortage of snapbacks, piercings, baby bangs and baggy jorts.

For queer people who never had the canonical experience of grinding in their high school gym, a party called Trakata fills that primal need — and operates on the same queer, rebellious frequency as neoperreo.

At these incandescent parties, Trakata founder Tani Shimizu, a 26-year-old trans man, can be found entrenched on the dance floor, often perreando with one or more beautiful, curly-haired femmes. At a local Caribbean cafe, complete with pastel floral tiles, plastic-covered couches, and the trills of guitar from “Pa’ Que Retozen” echoing through maxed-out speakers, he explains how it all began.

When looking to fundraise for his top surgery last winter, the 26-year-old joined together with some friends from the trans collective Body Hack to throw a queer-friendly perreo party. Hosted at the Bush, a Brooklyn lesbian bar Shimizu had been infamously bartending at, the first event drew close to 600 attendees. “People were like, ‘Oh, my God, we’ve been dying for this,’” he says.

The turnout convinced Shimizu there was a market for the party, along with the chance to create paid work for himself and others. “I cared a lot about how this could be an opportunity for people to make money, myself included,” he says. “I believe in compensating people fairly, even my friends.”

Shimizu, a first-generation Peruvian from Los Angeles, admits he isn’t too familiar with the specifics of neoperreo. Though Ms Nina’s “Tu Sicaria” makes its way onto the playlist some nights, his resident DJs mostly stick to the classics at their parties, and that’s intentional.

Whereas artists back home innovate to push against the status quo, in predominantly white U.S. spaces — especially for queer Latines — the older reggaeton tracks feel more alt.

“Trans and queer people are often pigeonholed to this idea of being really alternative in sound,” he says. “There’s something arguably subversive about going, ‘No, it’s actually OK to honor culturally what we have always held onto’ — and what was principal in our identities, regardless of these other subversive or subaltern identities that we embody.”

While the sonic identity of the space roots itself in nostalgia and reconnection, Shimizu strives to balance novelty in the construction of the space, while reaffirming the desire for Trakata to reflect what has been historically true of queer gatherings.

“There’s this deeper desire and this deeper politic. It just so happens to take place in the context of a club on a Friday, or Saturday night, at these hours.”

Nearly a year into his transition, he reflects on a newfound enlightenment. “Transness has given me the liberty to not be so consumed with what I look like,” Shimizu says. “I’m not dwelling any longer, which is really freeing. [It] gives you a lot of mental space to focus on things that are more important.”

That freedom from the mirror is core to neoperreo’s mission: The pursuit of a dance floor where your body, and everyone else’s, are besides the point. Shimizu has built that into Trakata’s foundation. “I want people of all body types and existences,” he says.

Shimizu also wants to make it clear that Trakata isn’t for people who just want to look hot online. “It’s anyone who is interested in engaging with the cultural experience that we’re co-creating, and if you want to come to dance, and you want to stay off your damn phone.”

Trakata wasn’t created with neoperreo in mind; but with the same sweaty dance moves and the same people finding each other, it’s hard to tell where one stops and the other begins. Since Cisternas and Espinoza threw their first neoperreo party 10 years ago, their legacy has carried over to popular Boiler Room sets and underground queer sanctuaries in equal measure.

“[For] anyone who felt like a bit of a misfit, unwelcome in reggaeton,” says Cistnernas, “neoperreo is their home.”

This story was produced in partnership with the Trans Journalists Assn.

EXCLUSIVE: His co-star Tessa Peake-Jones, who played Raquel, says it was ‘poignant and quite sobering’ watching the comedy legend grapple with the past

Only Fools and Horses star Tessa Peake-Jones has told how Sir David Jason felt saddened watching himself playing Del Boy in lost archive clips, as he hankered to be back in his prime.

The actress, who played his wife Raquel from 1988 for 15 years, says she enjoyed sitting with him, and other actors from the hit BBC sitcom, to watch newly discovered gems that they all believed had been lost many decades ago.

But she revealed that at times the 86-year-old became maudlin as he looked back. “You know, he’d just been knighted, he was in every programme going, Darling Buds of May, all of them. And he said, ‘There I am in my prime, and now here I am as an old man sitting watching it.’ I found that really quite moving.

“He just said, ‘Oh, I’m finding it very sad,’ and I said, ‘What do you mean?’ I ended up becoming his therapist on the sofa and he said, ‘I just I look at myself then in my prime as the best I could possibly be,’ which of course he was then – in his forties and fifties, he was more famous than anyone in Britain on telly.

“And I knew what he meant when he said he felt sad because this is us looking back on what we were, particularly for him because he was at his absolute peak. It must have felt very peculiar. You’re not ever going to be what you were then.”

And she added: “He’s still a very vibrant man, he’s got a lot of energy, he’s doing things all the time, but it was just very poignant and quite sobering.”

At the end of the first episode, which airs on Tuesday, David can’t get over how good the pair of them looked back then. “It is difficult because we are looking back at a time when we were both beautiful,” he says. Tessa responds with positivity, telling him: “Maybe we still are but we don’t see it as easily.”

But speaking afterwards she said she had also found watching the lost archive clips and outtakes difficult at times too. “Some actors really like looking at themselves. I will run a mile, I absolutely loathe it. So it was slightly torturous for me, particularly because not only are you watching scenes that you’re acting in, but you’re 30 years older.”

She believes that the secret of the comedy’s longevity is that its humour, written by the late John Sullivan and also starring Nicholas Lyndhurst as Rodney, had universal appeal. “John didn’t leave anyone out. He really cared about family and he cared about what people shared watching on telly.

“I know we all go, ‘oh, isn’t Del awful with all his scams’, but at the end of the day he’d do anything for anyone. He was kind. Looking at comedy these days, bar the odd brilliant one like Ghosts, some of them are quite cruel. It doesn’t make me laugh when you see someone being horrid about someone else.”

Tessa, now 69, says that she has received thousands of letters from fans over the years wanting to talk about her role as Raquel.

But even though she was in Only Fools for many years, she still gets more fan mail for one tiny role that she played in 2013.

“I had 30 seconds of screen time on Doctor Who,” she laughs. “But it happened to be when one Doctor becomes another. I was in a Christmas special when it happened – it was Matt Smith leaving and Peter Capaldi coming in. I must have had six lines in it, maybe seven. But I’ve had more fan mail about that 30 seconds of screen time than anything I’ve ever done in my career.”

She said the Only Fools fans aren’t far behind the Doctor Who ones. “We have many extremely obsessive fans who are almost as as powerfully connected.”

Tessa said the remaining cast from the hit sitcom were all astonished to hear that 66 bits of film, including full scenes and outtakes, had been discovered. “What’s so hilarious is that I believe all these bits and bobs were found in like a drawer at the BBC in White City,” she laughs. “Think what other gems are in drawers somewhere in those buildings. It’s extraordinary, isn’t it?”

She said it had been hard at times to work out if she even knew whether the clips had been cut from the original upsides. “I suppose you’re you’re wound up in the general whirly gig of all of it. You’re rehearsing constantly. You’re filming every weekend – life’s marching at quite a pace. So I suppose even when you record these things, if they don’t get put in, you sort of forget them.”

But, in the films, Sir David marvels at just how much ends up on the cutting room floor. He laughs: “I remember discussing it with John – we cut more jokes out than other shows had got in their entire episode.” The extra bits span 10 episodes from the 90s and cover the stories about blow-up dolls, Peckham Spring water, Cassandra’s miscarriage and Raquel giving birth to Damian., as well as the Jolly Boys coach trip to Margate.

By the time Tessa joined in 1988 the show had been on air for seven years and was a huge hit. The actress is enormously proud of the reaction her first episode got, when Derek Trotter first met Raquel on a blind date. “John wrote that brilliant script and it’s the only time the programme’s ever won a BAFTA,” she recalls. “He did that just to see what would happen for Del Boy’s character if if he was to fall in love.”

Having conceived Raquel as a one-off character, the writer quickly changed his mind. “John saw the public response and thought he could take this character of Raquel further – that it might change the dynamics of Derek and Rodney Trotter’s relationship. He thought, ‘Iet’s bring her back and see what happens’. And then a lot did happen. Such a lot.”

Unlike Sir David Tessa does not consider Only Fools to be the pinnacle of her career. “This was one of many, many things. I wouldn’t call it the thing I’m proudest of, I don’t think it’s my greatest achievement being in Only Fools, much as I’ve loved doing it. I’ve still got to meet my peak,” she laughs. “I might reach it next year.”

And well she might because 2027 brings viewers not only the last series of ITV’s Grantchester, in which Tessa has played vicarage housekeeper Sylvia Chapman since 2014, but also new Channel 5 crime series The Last Resort, in which she stars as a sixty-something sleuth alongside Caroline Quentin and Jason Watkins.

Tessa believes that, for fans, these new documentaries will be the last surprise from Only Fools and Horses, which is marking its 45th anniversary having launched in 1981.. “We’re all too old and also there is no one to carry John Sullivan’s mantle,” she says. “He was a one-off genius. So I don’t think there can be any other surprises. Thank God for things like UK Gold – who knows, in 100 years people might still be watching it.”

– Only Fools and Horses: The Lost Archive, U&Gold, Tuesday 20th & 27th October

Los Tigres Del Norte will perform this Saturday at Anaheim’s Honda Center. Ahead of rocking the Pond with its classic hits, the famed norteño band brought its signature sound and activism to NPR’s Tiny Desk Concert. The performance closed out the series’ Hispanic Heritage Month celebration, dubbed as “El Tiny.”

Composed of the Hernández brothers (Jorge, Hernán, Eduardo and Luis) and cousin Óscar Lara, Los Tigres Del Norte was founded in the late 1960s in the Sinaloan town of Rosa Morada and settled in San José. It has sold millions of records worldwide with songs about the drug trade, unrequited love and immigrant life in this country.

That theme of immigrant struggle within the U.S. was top of mind when the group performed at NPR’s Washington, D.C., offices.

The group was recently honored by the city of Minneapolis in September for defending the rights of immigrant communities for decades, and for standing in solidarity with the city following the large-scale immigration enforcement campaign that took place there earlier this year. Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey proclaimed Sept. 9 Los Tigres del Norte Day.

“[Following the Immigration and Customs Enforcement raids], they told the people of Minneapolis, the Latino American community that we are one, that we are united and that we’re going to do everything possible for the people that we love,” Frey said in a September news conference.

Los Tigres’ director and lead vocalist Jorge Hernández told The Times the honor came as a surprise to the group, who was in town for the 39th annual Hispanic Heritage Awards to present the people of Minnesota with the Humanitarian Award for their collective acts of solidarity with the immigrant community throughout the ICE raids.

The frontman said he was humbled by the action and was touched to spend time with members of the Minneapolis community who worked on the front lines during the ICE surge.

“There were Latinos present who set an example for how to support people in [a time of chaos],” Hernández said. “Those who were documented brought food to families who were undocumented so that they didn’t have to go outside to face the problems that were made possible due to [the Trump administration]. It’s because of action like those that we showed up for the city.”

Immediately after its time in Minnesota, the band flew out to film the Tiny Desk set.

The performance was a long time coming, according to Hernández.

“It was something beautiful and historic for us which should’ve happened 10 to 15 years ago,” he said, blaming conflicting schedules for the delay.

Though postponed, the 73-year-old musician knew the band’s messages would land with as much timeliness as ever.

In his introduction for Los Tigres Del Norte, NPR’s “Alt.Latino” host and “El Tiny” coordinator Felix Contreras spoke about why he wanted the band to perform as part of Tiny Desk’s month-long celebration of Latinidad.

“Our community is under attack and it’s not the first time … and it takes away our humanity,” Contreras said before Los Tigres kicked off the set with their hit “Somos mas Americanos.” “And for as long as I can remember, these gentlemen have been giving us back our humanity.”

Opening with the 2001 track was notable as the song flips jingoist U.S. narratives about who can call themselves American. The lyrics assert that Mexicans are more American than “gringos” and highlight how a large swath of the U.S. once belonged to Mexico.

Los Tigres let their songs do all the talking as they played straight through a series of tunes from across several decades, including 1995’s “Golpes en el Corazón,” 1997’s “Quiero Volar Contigo,” 1989’s “Ni Parientes Somos” and the 1986’s bittersweet single “La Puerta Negra.”

Hernández said the group wanted to use the platform to bring further awareness to the struggles immigrants continue to face in this country with an audience that notably skews more American than Los Tigres is accustomed to.

“We performed songs that talk about the problematic systems [in the U.S.] that have been around for years, but that are right now worse than ever before,” Hernández said. “The songs we sang [for Tiny Desk] have a lot to do with our society. I hope the wider public can listen to it and translate the songs to English so that they can connect to the lyrics.”

He said he hopes that the band can set an example for younger people that political messaging through music can empower artists, not hinder them.

“We’ve been singing songs since the ’70s about immigration and problems our community faces,” Hernández said. “As an artist, if you see a problem that affects your community, no matter how much you ignore it, you must realize that you are an active participant. You can’t stay quiet, your songs should talk about your problems so that through your work you can connect with and inform people.”

One thing that has continued to surprise and inspire Hernández over the last few years is seeing younger generations of fans celebrate his group’s music.

“They are the future and we sing our songs to them so that they can hear about the problems in our community that have existed and that persist,” he said. “At some point in life you will face big problems and it will be important that you know your history, what you stand for and how to defend yourself. We want to help people know their rights and be prepared to know how to act in difficult times like right now.”

The minuscule yet distinctly humanoid figure of a fairy flaps its wings as it flies into the ancient ruins of a bygone kingdom. Guiding a young heroine to meet a mysterious faun, for a moment, the fantastical creature looks as though it might cross the threshold of the screen.

It is in that instant that Guillermo del Toro — wearing 3D glasses while sitting at the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures’ imposing David Geffen Theater for a tech check — chuckles with pride as if to say, “Look at that.” Later that night, almost 1,000 fans were transported into his entrancing 2006 masterwork, “Pan’s Labyrinth,” (a.k.a. “El Laberinto del Fauno”) at the premiere of the new 3D version.

Back in theaters across the country on Friday (which is also Del Toro’s 62nd birthday), “Pan’s Labyrinth” is celebrating its 20th anniversary with a new 4K restoration, available in both 2D and in the aforementioned 3D transfer that Del Toro himself oversaw.

Doug Jones, left, plays the faun that beckons to Ofelia, right, played by Ivana Baquero in “Pan’s Labyrinth.”

(Scott A. Garfitt / Andreea Alexandru / Invision / AP)

As brutal as it is spellbinding, the Mexican filmmaker’s modern classic unfolds during the Spanish Civil War — more precisely, in 1944 — as young Ofelia (Ivana Baquero) and her pregnant mother move into the camp run by the ruthless Capt. Vidal (Sergi López).

Amid the bloodshed, Ofelia discovers an underworld of magical entities, including the alluring faun (Doug Jones), who convinces her that she is a princess who must reclaim her royal status.

By winning three Academy Awards and being nominated for two more — one for Del Toro’s screenplay, the other for foreign language film, representing Mexico — “Pan’s Labyrinth” signified an artistic watershed moment in Del Toro’s career. These accolades came after he directed two comic-book adaptations for Hollywood studios: “Blade II” and “Hellboy.”

Beyond the recognition, the experience felt spiritually transformative for the Guadalajara native; not the least because of the hurdles he overcame to bring it to fruition.

“‘Pan’s’ marks a big divide in what I did before and what I did after. I became invested in a different way in filmmaking,” Del Toro tells me. “I don’t know how to describe it, but filmmaking became a religion, as opposed to something that I could do. It fused with me.”

Though the film is now regarded as one of the greatest works of the 21st century, when Del Toro set out to make it, the industry was not receptive to his ideas.

“Everything I thought I wanted to say about war in ‘Devil’s Backbone’ seemed obsolete, because we had gone through 9/11 and the world had changed,” Del Toro recalls. “I didn’t want to do an American movie. I was being offered a lot of comic- book movies and said, ‘I got to do a companion piece for “Devil’s Backbone” no matter what.’ But nobody wanted to do the movie.”

One key objection was the mature tone of the narrative, in which the child protagonist is directly confronted and endangered by the evils derived from fascist ideologies.

“They said, ‘If it’s a fairy tale then it should be a family movie,’ because I’d been offered ‘Narnia’ a year before by [former Walden Media chief executive] Cary Granat,” Del Toro tells me.

“He said, ‘Why don’t you do ‘Narnia’?’ And I said, ‘Because I want to do my own version of a fairy tale where the lion doesn’t resurrect and it’s about a pitiless world against a boundless imagination.’”

Del Toro’s interest in stories where the woes of children are taken seriously was spurred by ‘Los Olvidados,’ Luis Buñuel’s classic from 1950, about a group of neglected children surviving a harsh reality in the streets of Mexico City.

“When I saw ‘Los Olvidados,’ I was in my early teens,” says Del Toro. “I thought every time somebody told a story about a child that was unsentimental and that was a little brutal — it could be ‘The Spirit of the Beehive’ or ‘Los Olvidados’ or ‘The Red Balloon’ or even Bobby Driscoll in ‘The Window’ — whenever you saw a child in real danger, a child in jeopardy, a child in moral dilemma, like ‘The Fallen Idol,’ I really was transported.”

Children, Del Toro believes, are often invisible to adults. They are “cartoons” in the eyes of “regular adults.” Thus, when his mother started reading child psychology books to better understand a young Del Toro, he read them as well, so that he could try to manipulate her.

Del Toro laughs mischievously as he remembers his antics. “I would do exactly what the book said, and I realized I could work within that preconception and make my grandma buy me horror comic books or make my mom allow me to miss school,” Del Tor recalls. “Ofelia is very strong. That was the point of the movie for me. I wanted to see the clash of wills between a young kid and a fascist captain, and I wanted to see the kid win.”

(Teresa Isasi / Picturehouse)

Del Toro’s mother, Guadalupe, died in 2022. But she lives on in cinema, thanks to the 1985 landmark queer Mexican film “Doña Herlinda and Her Son,” by director Jaime Humberto Hermosillo, where she played the titular Doña Herlinda.

And if you look closely, you’ll also find Del Toro in the movie, which was filmed in Guadalajara.

“I have a cameo with my ex-wife in it. Lorenza. She’s the receptionist and I appear dancing in Chapala, but I’m super thin, so you can never recognize me,” he says. “I’m dancing with a girl that I liked, but I was already in the throes of dating the one who became my wife, Lorenza.”

Then there was the question of the picture’s language. Del Toro wouldn’t waver on making “Pan’s Labyrinth” in Spanish.

“Many of them said, ‘We’ll do it if you do it in English — set in Spain, same ending, the girl dies, no problem, but in English.’ And I said, ‘I can’t. It’s not true to the movie.’ I’m not saying you can never do that, but it’s always this ‘Zorro’ thing like, ‘Are you in a hurry, señor?’ or ‘Come to the hacienda,’” he says, doing a funny, exaggerated accent on the Spanish words.

“If you’re trying to contrast reality versus fantasy, the reality has to be in its language, in its location,” Del Toro adds, emphasizing his resolve to make the movie in his native tongue. “I thought, ‘This is about the reality clashing with the fantasy. I have to make the reality stylized, but I don’t want to do it in English, because then everything is a construct. Everything is just an idea.’”

In 2026, the film’s bilingual appeal is a major component of the marketing strategy that Cineverse — the entertainment company that Del Toro approached to handle the restoration and rerelease of “Pan’s Labyrinth” — is implementing to reach audiences across the country.

“A lot of our messages are in English and in Spanish. The messaging around the making of the 3D — Guillermo likes to say ‘F— AI,’ but we positioned it as ‘Made for humans, for humans. Hecho por humanos, para humanos,’” says Yolanda Macias, chief motion pictures officer at Cineverse. “That’s a really strong message that has resonated with our fans.”

A Mexican American woman whose parents emigrated from Jalisco, Macias sees “Pan’s Labyrinth” as a timeless movie that’s as relevant today as it was two decades ago.

“We are not ignoring a very important segment of the audience, which is the Latino population who have always, in my experience, shown an interest in creators from Mexico or from Latin America,” Macias says. “And we are so proud of Guillermo for being that person for this audience.”

When first envisioning “Pan’s Labyrinth,” Del Toro found himself grappling with existential concerns related to the meaning and relevance of what each person leaves behind when they are gone. Can anything we mortals create stand the test of time? Does it matter?

(Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times)

“One of the things I was going through was I thought, ‘Is making movies worth it? You give them years and years and years, and then they just move down the current into the oblivion of the culture,’” Del Toro says. “A central theme in the film is, ‘Can we give our lives to something that doesn’t change the world?’ That’s why the movie ends with a little flower blooming in a dried tree. That’s all that is left of her story in the real world.”

His films will one day too become flowers left not only as proof of his time on earth, but perhaps as messages for those to come who have the sensibility to appreciate them.

“You can say, ‘Ofelia lived in the other kingdom,’ but in the real world, there’s only one tiny flower. And that’s why it says, ‘For those that know where to look.’ Because that’s what we do as filmmakers. When you ‘discover’ a filmmaker, you say, ‘I discovered this guy Fellini.’ Well, he’s been there for a while, but sure. Or you discover Miyazaki or Mamoru Oshii … They’re continents, but they are only in maps that are very secret. I like that image.”

So long as they are found, Del Toro doesn’t worry that much about how people encounter them.

“[Films] live on to a certain degree. Like when we were shooting ‘Frankenstein,’ I said, ‘We will live forever in the Netflix queue,’” he recalls, trying not to laugh. “Theatrical is the best. There’s no comparison. But I remember my childhood, I saw all the Universal monster movies on TV, and they were monumentally important for me. There’s something to be said about accessibility that is also important.”

I agree with him — and mention that some of the most revelatory movie-watching experiences for me as a young cinephile happened thanks to bootleg DVDs, which I would buy as a teen in Mexico City.

“I love the pirate DVDs in Mexico,” says Del Toro with a laugh. “I’ll tell you a little story: We went to promote ‘Hellboy’ in Mexico City, and we were having coffee. A guy came in and said, ‘You want to buy movies?’ And he had ‘Hellboy’ already, opening week … and it didn’t have a cover either!”

Another distinction that “Pan’s Labyrinth” holds is that it was the last film in Spanish that Del Toro directed. But that could change, he says; he still has another project he’d like to make in Mexico.

“I actually have an idea that I would love to shoot, but I want to make it a drama. I don’t want to make it a fantasy movie,” he explains. “I have a great story that I want to shoot one day. It’s a kidnapping scene from three points of view. The victim, the people doing the pickup, and another component that I will not reveal.” (Del Toro’s late father, Federico, was famously kidnapped in Guadalajara in the late 1990s.)

The thought of Del Toro making another Mexican film in the future, reminded me that the original screenplay for his period ghost story, “The Devil’s Backbone,” was set in Mexico, but a lack of funding forced him to shift the production to Spain, with the help of Pedro Almodóvar’s company El Deseo.

“It was about a traveling circus during the [Mexican] revolution with a mother, a father and a boy. It was full of jarred fetuses. The boy was a clown, and the father was a magician. I was trying to do Bergman’s ‘Hour of the Wolf’ or ‘The Magician’ — modest but creepy,” he explains. “But it was very different. I had the orphanage, I had the legend of the fetuses and a ghost; and I had the devil live in the monastery.”

In any language, Del Toro is a fierce advocate against the use of generative AI in artistic creation. He believes that anything touched by humans has a better chance to endure. The love audiences still hold for “Pan’s Labyrinth” is a testament to this sentiment.

“[Pan’s Labyrinth”] is very truthful to who I was. And whenever you are able to be truthful, people feel that it matters to you,” Del Toro says. “And when you think it matters to someone, you cherish it.”

The 39th annual Hispanic Heritage Awards — which will honor the contributions and accomplishments of Latinos in the U.S. and Latin America — will air nationwide Friday on PBS.

In a historic decision by the Hispanic Heritage Foundation, which presents the annual awards, the event departed from its home base of Washington. Instead, Latino luminaries gathered at the Orchestra Hall in Minneapolis, where the celebratory occasion was taped for broadcast Sept. 10.

The move to the Midwest was a timely decision for members of the Hispanic Heritage Foundation, a nonprofit organization established by the White House in 1988. They took into consideration Minnesota’s response to a large-scale immigration enforcement campaign that began in December, known as “Operation Metro Surge.”

“We went to Minneapolis because we wanted to recognize what’s great about our community, [our] courage, resilience, strength, unity and looking out for each other,” said Antonio Tijerino, president and CEO of the Hispanic Heritage Foundation, in a phone call with De Los.

The Department of Homeland Security called the undertaking the “largest DHS operation ever” earlier this year on X, with an estimated 2,000 agents deployed to the Minneapolis–St. Paul metropolitan area. Thousands of Minnesota residents rallied against the tactical and militant methods used by Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents.

Civil unrest hit a boiling point following the killings of Renée Good and Alex Pretti on Jan. 7 and 24, respectively, by federal agents.

“ We actually went with a delegation of national Latino leaders to offer our support of the community during this crisis and we were overwhelmed by the heroism,” said Tijerino, who recalled a group visit to Minneapolis in February. There, he and his colleagues learned more about the rapid response efforts underway in the city.

“It was an American story that we wanted to tell,” he added.

At the 39th ceremony, Los Tigres del Norte presented a bit of that story to the people of Minnesota — who were collectively honored with the Humanitarian Award.

“Peaceful, hard-working communities of immigrants and refugees found themselves in fearful chaos as more than 4,000 parents, grandparents, neighbors, friends and families were taken by force, U.S. citizens among them,” Los Tigres del Norte announced in English while presenting the award. The players closed the show with a rendition of their 1984 song “Jaula de Oro,” which speaks to the plight of the undocumented community.

“I think Minnesota [is] a reflection of all of our Latino communities across the nation,” said Henry Jiménez, president and CEO of Propel Nonprofits, who was one of the individuals on stage representing the people of Minnesota.

“It uplifted the people. I think people felt validated for all of their hard work and effort that they’ve had to endure, not just the last couple months, but really a lifetime of work,” said Jiménez, whose organization helps consult and raise funds for budding nonprofits.

The relocation of the Hispanic Heritage Awards also comes as D.C. deals with the temporary closure of the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts — which hosted the Hispanic Heritage Awards in years prior.

The Kennedy Center closed its doors indefinitely on Sept. 15 after an inspection found acute public safety concerns, among them roofing issues. In a letter to Congress, various former employees allege that leadership was aware of the issues but halted plans for repair in April.

The closing also comes after a federal judge blocked the board’s decision to include President Trump’s name on the building in September. Trump’s takeover of the Kennedy Center began in February 2025, when he dismissed half its board members and installed himself as chairman.

“We were [at the Kennedy Center] for a very long time. It brought a lot of prestige and to fill a historic venue like that with Latinos was wonderful,” said Tijerino. “After many years of being at the Kennedy Center, we decided we wanted to go to another venue.”

In April 2025, the Hispanic Heritage Foundation announced that it would host its 38th annual awards at the Warner Theater instead; previous versions of the ceremony have also taken place at the historic Warner Theater venue, including in 2015 for the 28th Annual Awards and 2017 for the 30th celebration.

Hosted by comedian Anjelah Johnson-Reyes, the other honorees of the 39th Hispanic Heritage Awards included Venezuelan artist Oscar D’León, the salsa singer behind notable hits such as “Llorarás” and “Me Voy Pa’ Cali,” who received the Legend Award for his lifelong contributions to the genre.

Chilean singer-songwriter Mon Laferte, the vocal powerhouse behind power ballads like “Tu Falta de Querer” and “Amárrame (feat. Juanes),” also received the Social Justice Award. The Latin Grammy-winning artist has long championed feminist causes and challenged sexual harassment in the entertainment industry — a topic central to her 2024 Netflix documentary, “Mon Laferte, Te Amo.”

Puerto Rican rapper Eladio Carrión, whose trap flow famously featured in songs like “Coco Chanel” with Bad Bunny and “Sigue Bailandome,” was also honored with the Inspira Award.

Mexican singer-actor Ximena Sariñana, whose early composition appeared on the soundtrack of the 2002 teen film “Amar Te Duele,” received the Music Award as well.

Following the success of their Minneapolis awards show, the Hispanic Heritage Foundation is now toying with the idea that the ceremony can take place anywhere where there is a strong Latino presence.

“Who knows if L.A. is the [next] spot!” said Tijerino, who hails from Long Beach,

Though Jiménez assures that he is not swayed by any particular city at the moment, he offers one idea: “I hope that the community that’s chosen [to host] doesn’t have to go through a difficult time to be chosen.”