Entertainment
Are we living in the golden age of Tejano documentary filmmaking?
A spate of documentaries focusing on the lives of Tejanos have found platforms over the last six months, showcasing how diverse, nuanced and entertaining our lives can be.
You can find the contemplative radicals of “Hummingbirds” trolling the streets of Laredo over on PBS; the determined detectives of “The Chicano Squad” solving crimes in Houston on A&E; and a dozen or so student musicians competing in “Going Varsity in Mariachi” on Netflix. On Max, the third episode of the Texas docuseries triptych “God Save Texas” takes an intimate and personal look at border life in El Paso, while Tubi has become the new home for “As I Walk Through the Valley,” an in-depth look at the history of rock ‘n’ roll in the Rio Grande Valley.
And that’s just what you can stream right now. “The In Between,” a doc about grief and reconnection set in the small border town of Eagle Pass, is currently making its way through the festival circuit and is set to air on PBS next spring. Even Texas Monthly is executive producing a documentary about iconic Tejano television host Johnny Canales. (Disclosure: De Los editorial director Fidel Martinez is featured in this project.)
As a border native, I’ve become used to a specific kind of narrative when it comes to how my homeland is depicted on screen, so this new wave of Tejano filmmaking is not only remarkable, it’s long overdue. But how did we get here?
The mainstreaming of Latino culture within the U.S. over the past decade has certainly helped, making it easier for filmmakers to convince streamers there’s an audience for their films. Alejandra Vasquez, a proud Tejana and one of the directors of the Sundance-award-winning “Going Varsity in Mariachi,” admits that Bad Bunny and other superstars are helpful for the broader Latinx media consumption moment, but more specifically, she says, people are just tired of the same sad story about the border being told over and over again. You know the type (Disney’s National Geographic has been making shows like “Border Security: America’s Front Line” and “Border Wars” since 2010): dour tales about violence, the hazards of immigration, and the frustrating politics that follow.
“Those of us who grew up near the border and who are intimately familiar with the cross-cultural exchange that is so inherent of living on the border are like, ’Hey, that’s not the only story, that’s not the only side to this,” said Vasquez, adding that she and co-director Sam Osborn deliberately wanted to make an underdog sports movie where the balls and jerseys were swapped out for music and sombreros. “We wanted to have people on the edge of their seats.”
Mario Diaz, who directed “The Chicano Squad,” agrees that there’s a fatigue that has set in for audiences but says there’s also a desire to be entertained by the stories they’re consuming.
“Latin audiences want to have a good time,” Diaz says, noting that he worked hard to incorporate both the important cultural context of Mexican immigration in Houston with cool crime-solving swagger in “The Chicano Squad.”
Perhaps then the stale story of the border, the one of tragedy and turmoil, has created an ever-growing audience of filmgoers hungry for border stories that are both nuanced, and dare I say, fun?
“I just don’t think we’ve been given the opportunity to tell these stories before,” Diaz said. “Now, because of our own making, we’re pushing these stories out into the world.”
Diaz, who hails from Puerto Rico but who has taken a shine to Tejanos and our stories (his next project is also based in Texas), argues that this moment is more than just a trend, and that it is one of the community’s own making. Vazquez says a small group of like-minded Tejano artists have started a private network online to share resources and know-how and to connect experts to continue growing the field. “No one else is giving us that opportunity,” she says. “Once we get together, things happen. We’re like, OK, let’s do it, vamos!”
Charlie Vela lived the DIY filmmaking experience when he and co-director Ronnie Garza made 2017’s “As I Walk Through the Valley,” a head-banging sociological sojourn through the punk rock music history of the Rio Grande Valley. When the duo began filming in earnest back in 2015, neither had any professional experience with filmmaking. They did, however, have a deep understanding of their subject and a scrappy get-it-done-no-matter-what attitude.
“We did our film for no money,” said Vela. The goal, he added, was to tell the story and entertain his friends. “That’s how I’ve sort of approached anything creative I’ve ever done and it’s yielded surprising results.”
Vela was shocked when the film was accepted into that year’s South by Southwest Film Festival, where it premiered on his daughter’s first birthday to critical praise and national media attention. The movie never found a buyer, but through co-director Garza’s grit and determination, the film now has a home on Tubi, where millions can stream it for free.
“I’m just relieved it’s in a place where it’s accessible,” Vela says. “And folks don’t have to hit us up for a link anymore.”
Both Vela and Vasquez point to institutions like the Laredo Film Society and Entre, a Rio Grande Valley-based cooperative community film center, as important spaces where production teams can find local staffers for projects, filmmakers and artists can network and audiences can see different types of storytelling about the border. LFS has existed in some form since 2015, while Entre was founded in 2021.
“We’re helping to better define border stories and stories in this region,” says Entre co-founder Andres Sanchez. “A lot of folks tend to speak for the border and this community and use a lot of harmful rhetoric. We’re trying to do justice to this place we call home.”
Filmmaker and former LFS board member Karen Gaytán says these spaces play a critical role in sustaining and growing the movement, but that they are just a piece of the puzzle. “I don’t think we’re there yet,” she says, “but I think we’re seeing a very exciting genesis that I hope continues to grow.”
Everyone I talked to agreed that even with the success of this wave of filmmaking, there are still plenty of obstacles to overcome.
Vasquez says she and her “Going Varsity in Mariachi” team were lucky to find producers who came onboard early to support the production, but they struggled to sell or get distribution for the film. The documentary, she was told, was both too Mexican and not Mexican enough.
“We hear it over and over as Tejanos” she said. Eventually, they were able to secure a licensing deal with Netflix for 42 months, which Vasquez says has been a blessing.
Just making sure audiences know these stories are available is a challenge, says Diaz, whose A&E series is the rare exception: a network-backed story that got a full marketing push. More common, he says, are projects that are completed and then put out on a platform without so much as a whisper. “Even if productions are getting funded,” he says, “you’d never know about them. It puts the onus on the audience and the community.”
And so, even if we are in the golden age of Tejano documentary filmmaking, everything is not quite golden. This moment, however, does seem to have a name. Back in March, Carlos A. Gutiérrez, the executive director of Cinema Tropical, a New York-based nonprofit focused on highlighting Latin American cinema in the U.S., wrote about how multiple Tejano filmmakers were “defying hegemonic narratives,” dubbing this collective body of work as the “Border New Wave.” He says it can be traced as far back to 2014 when El Paso native Cristina Ibarra debuted “Las Marthas,” a film that follows Laredo’s high society set as they prepare for an annual debutante ball and pageant. The doc originally aired on PBS and is now available to stream on Kanopy. The marker signifies the beginning of a tidy decade of diverse Tejano films that are being seen by more people than ever.
“It adds up,” Vela says, creating more and more examples of success for executives to begin to understand the gradients of stories that make up the border. Not that Tejano filmmakers are making these films for executives anyway. “Even though the economics are complicated, I would hate for someone locally who wants to tell a story, but is discouraged because they think ‘Oh, I’ll never get it distributed,’” Vela says. “If you just want to make it, you can make it.”
It seems there’s no better time.
Luis G. Rendon is a Tejano journalist who lives in New York City and writes about South Texas food and culture. He’s been published in Texas Monthly, Texas Highways and the Daily Beast. You can find him on Twitter/X @louiegrendon and Instagram @lrendon.
Entertainment
The first book about the L.A. fires is really about ‘America’s new age of disaster’
On the Shelf
Firestorm: The Great Los Angeles Fires and America’s New Age of Disaster
By Jacob Soboroff
Mariner Books: 272 pages, $30
If you buy books linked on our site, The Times may earn a commission from Bookshop.org, whose fees support independent bookstores.
If journalism is the first draft of history, TV news is a rough, improbable sketch. As last year’s wildfires multiplied, still 0% contained, field reporters — tasked with articulating the unintelligible on camera — grieved alongside Los Angeles in real time.
“What are you supposed to say when the entire community you were born and raised in is wiped off the map, literally burning to the ground before your eyes?” Jacob Soboroff writes in “Firestorm,” out in early January ahead of the Palisades and Eaton fires’ first anniversary. “I couldn’t come up with much.”
Viewers saw that struggle Jan. 8, 2025. Soboroff, then an NBC News national correspondent, briefly broke the fourth wall while trying to describe the destruction of his former hometown, the Pacific Palisades.
“Firestorm,” the first book about the Great Los Angeles Fires of 2025, pulls readers inside Soboroff’s reporter’s notebook and the nearly two relentless weeks he spent covering the Palisades and subsequent Eaton wildfire. “Fire, it turns out, can be a remarkable time machine,” he writes, “a curious form of teleportation into the past and future all at once.”
The book argues the future long predicted arrived the morning of Jan. 7. The costliest wildfire event in American history, so far, was compounded by cascading failures and real-time disinformation, ushering in what Soboroff calls America’s New Age of Disaster: “Every aspect of my childhood flashed before my eyes, and, while I’m not sure I understood it as I stared into the camera…I saw my children’s future, too, or at least some version of it.”
In late December, Soboroff returned to the Palisades Recreation Center for the first time since it burned. Tennis balls popped from the courts down the bluff. Kids shrieked around the playground’s ersatz police cars, ambulance and fire trucks — part of a $30-million public-private rebuild backed by City Hall, billionaire real estate developer Rick Caruso and Lakers coach JJ Redick, among others.
The sun peeks through the morning marine layer as Soboroff stops at a plaque on the sole standing structure, a New Deal-era basketball gym. His parents’ names are etched at the top; below them, family, friends, neighbors. It’s practically a family tree in metal, commemorating the one-man fundraising efforts of his father, the business developer Steve Soboroff, to repair the local play area. It was also the elder Soboroff’s entry point into civic life, the start of a career that later included 10 years as an LAPD police commissioner, a mayoral bid and a 90-day stint as L.A.’s’ fire recovery czar.
“All because my dad hit his head at this park,” Soboroff says with a smirk, recalling the incident that set off his father’s community safety efforts.
He checks the old office where he borrowed basketballs as a kid. “What’s happening? Are people still coming to the park?” he asks a Recreation and Parks employee, slipping into man-on-the-street mode.
On a drive down memory lane (Sunset Boulevard), Soboroff jokes he could close his eyes and trace the street by feel alone. Past rows of yard signs — “KAREN BASS RESIGN NOW” — and tattered American flags, grass and rose bushes push through the wreckage. Pompeii by the Pacific.
Jacob Soboroff.
(Eric Thayer / Los Angeles Times)
At the corner where he once ran a lemonade stand, Soboroff FaceTimed his mother on national television to show her what remained of the home he was born in. Before the fires, he had never quite turned the microphone on himself.
During the worst of it, with no one else around but the roar of the firestorm, “I had to hold it up to myself,” he says. “That was a different assignment than I’ve ever had to do.”
Soboroff is a boyish 42, with a mop of dark curls and round specs, equally comfortable in the field and at the anchor desk. J-school was never the plan. But he got a taste for scoops as an advance man to New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg. MTV News once seemed like the dream, but he always much preferred the loose, happy talk of public television’s Huell Howser. MSNBC took notice of his post-grad YouTube and HuffPost spots and hired him in 2015.
Ten years later, he was tiring of breaking news assignments and stashed away his “TV News cosplay gear” to ring in 2025. But when he saw the winds fanning the flames in the Palisades from NBC’s bureau at Universal Studios, he fished out a yellow Nomex fire jacket and hopped in a three-ton white Jeep with his camera crew.
The opening chapters of “Firestorm” read like a sci-fi thriller. All-caps warnings ricochet between agencies. Smoke columns appear. High-wind advisories escalate. Soboroff slingshots the reader from the Palisades fire station to the National Weather Service office, a presidential hotel room, toppled power lines in Altadena, helitankers above leveled streets and Governor Newsom’s emergency operations center.
Between live shots with producer Bianca Seward and cameramen Jean Bernard Rutagarama and Alan Rice, Soboroff fields frantic calls from both loved ones and the unexpected contacts, desperate for eyes on the ground. One is from Katie Miller, a former White House aide who cut contact after the reporter published “Separated,” his 2020 book on the Trump family separation policy. Miller, wife of Trump advisor Stephen Miller, asks him to check on her in-laws’ home. “You’re the only one I can see who is there,” she writes. Soboroff confirms the house is gone. “Palisades is stronger than politics in my book,” he replies. For a moment, old divisions vanish. It doesn’t last.
Jacob Soboroff at McNally Avenue and East Mariposa Street in Altadena.
(Eric Thayer / Los Angeles Times)
He returns home to Frogtown, changes out of smoke-soaked clothes and grabs a few hours’ sleep before heading back out. “Yet another body blow from the pounding relentlessness of the back-to-back-to-back-to-back fires,” he writes. Fellow native Palisadian and MS Now colleague Katy Tur flies in to tour the “neighborhood of our youth incinerated.”
After the fires, Soboroff moved straight into covering the immigration enforcement raids across Los Angeles. He struggled to connect with others, though. Maybe a little depressed. The book didn’t crystallize until April, after a conversation with Jonathan White, a captain in the U.S. Public Health Service Commissioned Corps, who is now running for congress.
Fire, White tells him, has become the fastest-growing threat in America and, for many communities, the most immediate. Soboroff began tracking down people he’d met during the blaze — firefighters, scientists, residents, federal officials — and churned out pages on weekends. He kept the book tightly scoped, Jan. 7–24, ending with President Trump’s visit to the Palisades with Gov. Newsom. He saved the investigative journalism and political finger-pointing for other writers.
“For me, it’s a much more personal book,” Soboroff says. “It’s about experiencing what I came to understand as the fire of the future. It’s about people as much as politics.”
Looking back — and learning from the fire — became a form of release, he said, as much for him as for the city. “What happened here is a lesson for everybody all across the country.”
Rudi, an L.A. native, is a freelance art and culture writer. She’s at work on her debut novel about a stuttering student journalist.
Movie Reviews
Movie Review – SHAKA: A STORY OF ALOHA
Entertainment
Tommy Lee Jones’ daughter reportedly found dead at San Francisco hotel on New Year’s Day
Victoria Jones, the daughter of Academy Award-winning actor Tommy Lee Jones, was reportedly found dead at a hotel in San Francisco on New Year’s Day. She was 34.
According to TMZ, the San Francisco Fire Department responded to a medical emergency call at the Fairmont San Francisco early Thursday morning. The paramedics pronounced Victoria dead at the scene before turning it over to the San Francisco Police Department for further investigation, the outlet said.
An SFPD representative confirmed to The Times that officers responded to a call at approximately 3:14 a.m. Thursday regarding a report of a deceased person at the hotel and that they met with medics at the scene who declared an unnamed adult female dead.
Citing law enforcement sources, NBC Bay Area also reported that the deceased woman found in a hallway of the hotel was believed to be Jones and that police did not suspect foul play.
“We are deeply saddened by an incident that occurred at the hotel on January 1, 2026,” the Fairmont told NBC Bay Area in a statement. “Our heartfelt condolences are with the family and loved ones during this very difficult time. The hotel team is actively cooperating and supporting police authorities within the framework of the ongoing investigation.”
The medical examiner conducted an investigation at the scene, but Jones’ cause of death remains undetermined. Dispatch audio obtained by TMZ and People indicated that the 911 emergency call was for a suspected drug overdose.
Jones was the daughter of Tommy Lee and ex-wife Kimberlea Cloughley. Her brief acting career included roles on films such as “Men in Black II” (2002), which starred her father, and “The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada” (2005), which was directed by her father. She also appeared in a 2005 episode of “One Tree Hill.”
Page Six reported that Jones had been arrested at least twice in 2025 in Napa County, including an arrest on suspicion of being under the influence of a controlled substance and drug possession.
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