A brief review of Made in L.A (Hecho en Los Angeles), the Emmy-winning documentary, below the trailer.

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Made in L.A. follows the remarkable story of three Latina immigrants working in Los Angeles garment sweatshops as they embark on a three-year odyssey to win basic labor protections from a trendy clothing retailer. In intimate verite style, Made in L.A. reveals the impact of the struggle on each woman’s life as they are gradually transformed by the experience.

Compelling, humorous, deeply human, Made in L.A. is a story about immigration, the power of unity, and the courage it takes to find your voice.

—MadeInLA.com

HERE IS MY WRAP-UP of Season Two of Battlestar Galactica, the Re-Imagining. Episodes include (among others) Epiphanies, Scar, Sacrifice, Lay Down Your Burdens (Pts 1&2). Thank you for joining us here in our dim, warm, popcorn-scented meeting space!

Last post I focused specifically on problematic uses of the Cylon character. » I also talked in general about the use of Sci-Fi and the practice of analyzing Sci-Fi through a socio-cultural/racial and “Feminist” lens. »

I’VE BEEN WATCHING BATTLESTAR GALACTICA a lot lately. (BSG, the Re-imagining, not the original series.) I don’t have TV programming, so I’ve been getting them otherwise and I’m almost done with Season 2 now. Not having TV has made it clear to me how much of my Internet society (from blogging to Twittering) is actually tied to TV programming, but that makes sense, right? In the future, I would like to be current on the media I review and in general. My comments here stand regardless, though it is probable they could be augmented by what happens in Season 3. (On that note, if you have insight along the points I’m making from being current, I’ll ask that you handle the spoilers carefully, please!) I am watching this aspect intently. And when I say “this aspect” I mean the racial dynamics behind the Cylon in particular. (Note:  Despite the fact that my post title might indicate as much, I’m not proposing that the Cylon is a metaphor for people of another race/ethnicity. Not at all. I’ll make myself clearer as we go on.)
  

written Jan 26 2007

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AND NOW, a review of The Host, a Korean film by Bong Joon-Ho.

I’ve tried my best to avoid giving too much away, and in fact, I purposely don’t show even one image of THE HOST (the monster in this movie, that is). And in case you click no further, know that I heartily recommend it as an unusual and effective Horror film.

written mar 03, 2007

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In this installment of At the Movies With Nezua I’m talking about a 1988 animated WWII film made in Japan called Grave of the Fireflies. I don’t know that I would call it a “children’s film” so much as a “war film,” so don’t let the cartoons fool you. This is a moving, tragic, haunting movie. And although I put it on without thinking of the parallels that must always exist between any wars, it has special resonance during this shocking and awesome world we now live in. And that’s really why I’m bothering to write this commentary on the film. Because the film doesn’t fit into the original intent for the series (which, unless I’m flexible about will no longer exist). That is, it does not focus on race or subverbal dialogues about race. But the problem with reading too much Newsweek, or Jonah Goldberg, or hearing too much CNN or Tony Snow is that you begin thinking of this Iraq war as a political item. As a “Long Haul” sort of thing, some ideological object. Some chatter to Have or Not to Have on any given War Subtopic. ‘Splozhuns that Happen On Your TV.

And this film reminds us that war is something far simpler to a human being. It is pain, and it is the deepest sorrow, and it is—many times over—death.

Not since watching Tool videos, or seeing Sauron in Peter Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings have I seen such a creepy character as this one that guards a table of food in Pan’s Labyrinth, the Pale Man. Beautiful. He sits at the head of a sumptuous meal that our protagonista, Ofelia, is told she cannot eat from—no matter what. (Of course we know what this means.)

The Pale Man does not eat, does not see, has no eyes, no real face, does not move. As if in a dream, a perfectly still and sour nightmare from which there is no escape his presence fills the room regardless. He has only two bloody orbs on his plate and this sits between his bloodstained, blackened, lengthy and pointed fingers; between the feast and himself.