Latinos

A “brujo,” a “magician,” “a social arsonist” and the “father of Chicano Theater” — these are just a few of the monikers that have been bestowed upon Luis Valdez over the course of his decades-long career. The 85-year-old filmmaker and playwright is responsible for “La Bamba” and “Zoot Suit,” films that raised a generation of Latinos and are now upheld as classics — both were inducted to the National Film Registry of the U.S. Library of Congress.

Valdez awakened a movement, bringing Chicanos from the California fields he grew up working in to stages and screens all over the world. His stories shifted the frame, placing us at the forefront of the American story, allowing us to see our dreams, anxieties and struggles reflected back at us. In David Alvarado’s upcoming documentary, “American Pachuco: The Legend of Luis Valdez,” it’s the celebrated storyteller’s turn to be on the other side of the lens.

The film traces Valdez’s beginnings as the son of migrant farmworkers in Delano, Calif., to his early days in theater helming El Teatro Campesino — a traveling performance troupe who worked alongside Cesar Chavez to mobilize farmworking communities, raising awareness about strikes and unions through skits and plays. Incorporating folk humor, satire and Mexican history, their work later evolved to include commentary on the Vietnam War, racism, inequality and Chicano culture more broadly.

Narrated by Edward James Olmos, who broke out as the enigmatic pachuco with killer style and a silver tongue in 1981’s “Zoot Suit,” the documentary was awarded the Library of Congress Lavine/Ken Burns Prize for Film last year.

De Los spoke with Olmos and Alvarado ahead of the film’s world premiere on Thursday at the 2026 Sundance Film Festival.

This interview has been lightly edited for clarity.

David, what was your introduction to Luis’ work? And how did it influence you as a filmmaker?

David Alvarado: I grew up watching things like “La Bamba” with my dad, and it made a huge impression on me, but at the time, as a kid, I didn’t really know the name Luis Valdez. Then in 2006, I was an undergrad at the University of North Texas, and I got a Hispanic Scholarship Award. At the celebration, Luis gave a speech and I was just blown away. I was a young wannabe filmmaker trying to learn how to make movies, and somebody like me was up there onstage telling a story about how he got there. I felt really inspired and I always carried that with me. Then in 2021, I was at a juncture in my career where I had told these science and technology stories, and I loved it, but I wanted to do something more personal. I thought back to Luis Valdez. Where was his story? So I reached out to him and that’s where this all started.

Mr. Olmos, your breakthrough came from playing El Pachuco in “Zoot Suit,” first in the play and then the film. What was your first impression of the story?

Edward James Olmos: I remember I had been doing theater for years, and I was walking out of an audition for another play at the Mark Taper Forum when I heard someone say, “Hey, do you want to try out for a play?” And I said, “Excuse me?” And she said, “Well, do you or don’t you?” And I said, “OK, what do you want me to do?” I didn’t know who she was, or what the play was about, but the next day, I was standing there with 300 other guys getting handed a little piece of paper with the opening monologue [for “Zoot Suit.”] I knew from reading it that this was serious, really serious, so I just became the character immediately.

I remember when they called me and asked me to do the role, it was on a Friday night, around 8 o’clock, and they were going to start rehearsals on Monday morning. I hadn’t gotten any phone calls, so I thought [the part] was gone. Then all of a sudden, the phone rang and they asked me if I wanted the role of El Pachuco. I said it would be my honor, my privilege. I hung up the phone and I slid down the side of the wall crying. I just completely lost it.

DA: Eddie really stole the show. I mean, it’s just undeniable. What he brought [to the production] was exactly what Luis was looking for, and I think it’s what Chicanos wanted to see and hear at the time. He really struck a nerve, and that was a huge part of the success of “Zoot Suit.” What Luis tapped into with this collaboration with Eddie, with the Teatro Campesino, or later with “La Bamba,” that was his gift: finding people who could represent the true nature of what it means to be Chicano.

(Elizabeth Sunflower / Retro Photo Archive / Sundance Institute )

There’s so much incredible archival footage here from the Teatro Campesino. What was your reaction to seeing some of that early work?

EJO: That footage is priceless, and that’s one of the reasons this movie is really important, because Luis is truly someone that has given our culture a voice. He gave me my voice. When you want to learn about a culture, you try to study what’s been written about them, any documentation or books, but nothing compares to their art. Right now, I’m working on a piece with Luis called “Valley of the Heart,” a play that he wrote over the last 12 years. It’s a never-been-told love story between a Mexican American and a Japanese American in an internment camp during World War II. It’s been difficult to make, but once people see it, they’re going to be thankful because it doesn’t matter what culture you are, the humanity of it comes through. That’s how people will feel after seeing David’s documentary, too. It’s inspiring.

DA: I think people are ready for the real story of America. I mean, the documentary and “Valley of the Heart” are part of American history, they talk about a real American experience, and it’s not the kind that people hear anymore. People are thirsty for that kind of authenticity, and to re-evaluate what the American story really is.

One of the core themes within the documentary is how we as Chicanos view the American Dream: Can we achieve it by being ourselves, or do we have to assimilate? We see that identity struggle play out as Luis and his brother, Frank, take different approaches in their lives, and it’s later paralleled in the story of “La Bamba.”

DA: That’s such a core pillar of the film. We all want the American Dream, but what that dream is confusing to a lot of people. The quest to get there through assimilation is something that Chicanos, Latinos and other immigrants have tried at the expense of their own heritage and identity. They give it all up and lay it at the altar of the American Dream. They try to fit in, and be this other thing, and so often, that doesn’t work. In his own life, Luis’ answer to that was if America is supposed to be this multicultural beacon of democracy, then let’s have a space for Chicanos to play a role there. I’ll retain my culture and be an American.

He and his brother tried to make it together, but they weren’t taking the same approach. In Frank’s story, that caused him a lot of pain, and he never quite made it that way. Luis, in very important ways, did make it. The fact that his work speaks to those themes, and was part of his personal life, I couldn’t leave that on the editing room floor.

In the documentary, we see the triumph of “Zoot Suit” being the first Chicano production on Broadway, and then the crush of it being panned by critics who didn’t seem to get it. Mr. Olmos, you say that the reaction wasn’t a loss for you all, it was a loss for America. What did you mean by that?

EJO: Well, because it wasn’t going to be spread around the country and understood. To me, the theater is magic. When it really works, it’s amazing. But [those negative reviews] stopped us from that growth process. There was one critic from the New York Times, Richard Eder, who said it was street theater on the wrong street.

I have to tell you, though, the people who were given the opportunity to see that play in New York, even after the critics panned it, always gave us a cheering standing ovation at the end. They burned the house down every single night. Even in L.A., that play was monumental. But that criticism hurt Luis badly, it hurt us all. I think if we’d gone through Arizona, Texas, Chicago, Miami before hitting New York, we would’ve been a powerhouse that would still be running today. It’s one of those stories that deserves to be revived over and over again.

The story of “Zoot Suit” is set in the 1940s, during a time of intense scrutiny and discrimination for Mexican Americans. How did the story resonate in the 1980s, and what do you think it has to tell us now?

EJO: People came from all over the world to watch the play, but Latinos kept coming back. Some of them had never been to a theater before in their lives, and they were bringing in family, friends to come and see it every weekend. It was a beautiful experience, one that was like giving a glass of water to somebody in the middle of the desert. They cherished us for giving them the opportunity. Now, we’re needed more today than we were even then. Today’s time is uglier than almost any time.

DA: It’s ugly, and it’s crass. We’ve had so long to try to figure out racism and get the American experiment back on track, and yet it just feels so depressing. Like when is the cycle going to end? At the same time, I hope that there’s a little bit of optimism in the film that the community can come together, and that we can find a way through this.

The documentary does a great job of showcasing the power of art. The performances from the Teatro de Campesinos allowed the farmworkers to really see themselves in a way that helped build a movement and made for a successful collective action. What do you hope this documentary can teach a new generation of Latinos today?

DA: For me, it’s to understand who you are, and to do what it takes to make it work here in America. When Luis spoke to me from that lectern, the thing that really got me going was that he said, “Whatever it is that you’re trying to do, whatever your project is, just stop doubting yourself and do it.” I remember thinking, “Oh my God. Maybe I can be a filmmaker. Maybe I could tell stories for a living.” So I hope that that’s clear in the film: that if you believe in yourself, you can fit into America, you can make a place for yourself.

But also, know that creation is an act of joy, and that the whole point of life is to find happiness and share it with other people. Despite all the heavy things we’ve talked about so far, I do want to point out the film is a joyful one of exploration. Luis has his moments when the world pushes back on him so hard, and it’s painful, but he just has so much love to give, and that’s the point of making art. I want people to walk away thinking that they can do it too.

EJO: David nailed it. That’s it exactly.

When Fernando Mendoza won the Heisman Trophy this weekend with another Latino finalist looking on from the crowd, the Cuban-American quarterback did more than just become the first Indiana Hoosier to win college football’s top prize, and only the third Latino to do so. He also subtly offered a radical statement: Latinos don’t just belong in this country, they’re essential.

At a time when questions swirl around this country‘s largest minority group that cast us in a demeaning, tokenized light — how could so many of us vote for Trump in 2024? Why don’t we assimilate faster? Why does Supreme Court justice Brett Kavanaugh think it’s OK for immigration agents to racially profile us? — the fact that two of the best college football players in the country this year were Latino quarterbacks didn’t draw the headlines they would’ve a generation ago. That’s because we now live in an era where Latinos are part of the fabric of sports in the United States like never before.

That’s the untold thesis of four great books I read this year. Each is anchored in Latino pride but treat their subjects not just as sport curios and pioneers but great athletes who were and are fundamental not just to their professions and community but society at large.

Shea Serrano writing about anything is like a really great big burrito — you know it’s going to be great and it exceeds your expectations when you finally bite into it, you swear you’re not going to gorge the thing all at once but don’t regret anything when you inevitably do. He could write about concrete and this would be true, but his latest New York Times bestseller (four in total, which probably makes him the only Mexican American author with that distinction) thankfully is instead about his favorite sport.

“Expensive Basketball” finds Serrano at his best, a mix of humblebrag, rambles and hilarity (of Rasheed Wallace, the lifelong San Antonio Spurs fan wrote the all-star forward “would collect technical fouls with the same enthusiasm and determination little kids collect Pokémon cards with.”) The proud Tejano’s mix of styles — straight essays, listicles, repeated phrases or words trotted out like incantations, copious footnotes — ensures he always keeps the reader guessing.

But his genius is in noting things no one else possibly can. Who else would’ve crowned journeyman power forward Gordon Hayward the fall guy in Kobe Bryant’s final game, the one where he scored 60 points and led the Lakers to a thrilling fourth-quarter comeback? Tied a Carlos Williams poem that a friend mistakenly texted to him to WNBA Hall of Famer Sue Bird? Reminded us that the hapless Charlotte Hornets — who haven’t made it into the playoffs in nearly a decade — were once considered so cool that two of their stars were featured in the original “Space Jam?” “Essential Basketball” is so good that you’ll swear you’ll only read a couple of Serrano’s essays and not regret the afternoon that will pass as quickly as a Nikola Jokic assist.

“Mexican American Baseball in the South Bay”

(Gustavo Arellano/Los Angeles Times)

I recommended “Mexican American Baseball in the South Bay” in my regular columna three years ago, so why am I plugging its second edition? For one, the audacity of its existence — how on earth can anyone justify turning a 450-page book on an unheralded section of Southern California into an 800-page one? But in an age when telling your story because no one else will or will do a terrible job at it is more important than ever, the contributors to this tome prove how true that is.

“Mexican American Baseball in the South Bay” is part of a long-running series about the history of Mexican American baseball in Southern California Latino communities. What’s so brilliant about this one is that it boldly asserts the history and stories of a community that too often get overlooked in Southern California Latino literature in favor of the Eastsides and Santa Anas of the region.

As series editor Richard A. Santillan noted, the reaction to the original South Bay book was so overwhelmingly positive that he and others in the Latino History Baseball Project decided to expand it. Well-written essays introduce each chapter; long captions for family and team photos function as yearbook entries. Especially valuable are newspaper clippings from La Opinión that showed the vibrancy of Southern Californians that never made it into the pages of the English-language press.

Maybe only people with ties to the South Bay will read this book cover to cover, and that’s understandable. But it’s also a challenge to all other Latino communities: if folks from Wilmington to Hermosa Beach to Compton can cover their sports history so thoroughly, why can’t the rest of us?

(University of Colorado Press)

One of the most surprising books I read this year was Jorge Iber’s “The Sanchez Family: Mexican American High School and Collegiate Wrestlers from Cheyenne, Wyoming,” a short read that addresses two topics rarely written about: Mexican American freestyle wrestlers and Mexican Americans in the Equality State. Despite its novelty, it’s the most imperfect of my four recommendations. Since it’s ostensibly an academic book, Iber loads the pages with citations and references to other academics to the point where it sometimes reads like a bibliography and one wonders why the author doesn’t focus more on his own work. And in one chapter, Iber refers to his own work in the first person — profe, you’re cool but you’re not Rickey Henderson.

“The Sanchez Family” overcomes these limitations by the force of its subject, whose protagonists descend from Guanajuato-born ancestors that arrived to Wyoming a century ago and established a multi-generational wrestling dynasty worthy of the far-more famous Guerrero clan. Iber documents how the success of multiple Sanchez men on the wrestling mat led to success in civic life and urges other scholars to examine how prep sports have long served as a springboard for Latinos to enter mainstream society — because nothing creates acceptance like winning.

“In our family, we have educators, engineers and other professions,” Iber quotes Gil Sanchez Sr. a member of the first generation of grapplers. “All because a 15-year-old boy [him]…decided to become a wrestler.”

Heard that boxing is a dying sport? The editors of “Rings of Dissent: Boxing and Performances of Rebellion” won’t have it. Rudy Mondragón, Gaye Theresa Johnson and David J. Leonard not only refuse to entertain that idea, they call such critiques “rooted in racist and classist mythology.”

(University of Illinois Press)

They then go on to offer an electric, eclectic collection of essays on the sweet science that showcases the sport as a metaphor for the struggles and triumphs of those that have practiced it for over 150 years in the United States. Unsurprisingly, California Latinos earn a starring role. Cal State Channel Islands professor José M. Alamillo digs up the case of two Mexican boxers denied entry in the United States during the 1930s, because of the racism of the times, digging up a letter to the Department of Labor that reads like a Stephen Miller rant: “California right now has a surplus of cheap boxers from Mexico, and something should be done to prevent the entry of others.”

Roberto José Andrade Franco retells the saga of Oscar De La Hoya versus Julio Cesar Chávez, landing less on the side of the former than pointing out the assimilationist façade of the Golden Boy. Mondragón talks about the political activism of Central Valley light welterweight José Carlos Ramírez both inside and outside the ring. Despite the verve and love each “Rings of Dissent” contributors have in their essays, they don’t romanticize it. No one is more clear-eyed about its beauty and sadness than Mondragón’s fellow Loyola Marymount Latino studies profe, Priscilla Leiva. She examines the role of boxing gyms in Los Angeles, focusing on three — Broadway Boxing Gym and City of Angels Boxing in South L.A, and the since-shuttered Barrio Boxing in El Sereno.

“Efforts to envision a different future for oneself, for one’s community, and for the city are not guaranteed unequivocal success,” she writes. “Rather, like the sport of boxing, dissent requires struggle.”

If those aren’t the wisest words for Latinos to embrace for the coming year, I’m not sure what is.