That's the way the title appears on screen, and that's the way the script proceeds throughout, with lots of instant redundant translation back and forth between two tongues. A larger problem with the script, but a mere symptom of still deeper problems with it, is the quantity of prose entrusted to "Paco the Narrator" (Edward James Olmos). Quite apart from the cloying chumminess of the writing -- and Paco is a writer by profession! -- the dependence on a narrator to bridge gaps, fill in holes, smooth down bumps, pave ways, is a dead giveaway to a lack of feeling for the medium. A lack that carries over into the visual side, too. Gregory Nava's salute to several generations of an Hispanic-American family in East L.A., and by extension to the culture as a whole, is armed with earnest intentions and not much else: a sure recipe for moviegoer guilt and embarrassment. The director seems especially awkward (or impatient) with actors, especially very young ones, settling for a standard of performance on a par with the Sunday-school Christmas pageant. Some of the more experienced ones manage to take care of themselves quite well, and even to inject some independent life into the movie. The most enlivening injections of it come from Esai Morales and Elpidia Carrillo in separate dance routines. With Jimmy Smits, Constance Marie, Jenny Gago. (1995) — Duncan Shepherd
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