From an obituary by the New York Times' Amanda Holpuch:

Ángel Salazar, a stand-up comedian known for his wacky routines and an actor best known for playing Chi Chi in the 1983 cult classic “Scarface,” died on Sunday at a friend’s apartment in Brooklyn. He was 68.

His death was confirmed by a representative, Roger Paul, who said Mr. Salazar had an enlarged heart and was found unresponsive.

He was an established comedian and actor who built his career in New York City comedy clubs after fleeing Cuba when he was young.

He acted in stage plays, television shows and films, including “Carlito’s Way” in 1993, but none of these roles would surpass the renown of his part in “Scarface,” in which he played Chi Chi, a henchman of the drug lord Tony “Scarface” Montana (Al Pacino). In the 1983 film, Chi Chi backs Montana, a fellow Cuban refugee, on his violent campaign to reach the top of Miami’s cocaine trade.

In 2017, more than 30 years later, after the film had secured generations of fans, Mr. Salazar told The Record of Bergen County, N.J., that he still answered to “Chi Chi” and didn’t mind when people brought DVD copies of “Scarface” to his comedy shows to be signed.

Ángel Salazar was born on March 2, 1956, in Cuba. He acted in theaters there before fleeing the country in the early 1970s, swimming across Guantánamo Bay to reach the U.S. naval base there, as he told The Philadelphia Inquirer in 1996. From there, he was flown to Miami and then moved to New York, where he was placed in a foster home in the Bronx.

Information on survivors was not immediately available.

In New York, he had trouble finding acting jobs, but he could make people laugh and at age 18 decided to test how far that could get him by performing at a comedy club’s open mic night.

“I had 10 minutes,” Mr. Salazar told The Inquirer. “And I think I had one joke. The rest of the time I said, ‘Check it out,’ over and over again.”

Eventually, he was a comedy club regular, and “Check it out” was a staple of his wacky comedy routines, which included costumes, props and impersonations of celebrities such as Madonna, Bruce Springsteen and Tina Turner.

About an hour after that screening event comes to a close at the Inspace screening room, a 50th anniversary screening of De Palma's Phantom Of The Paradise will take place at the Summerhall Red Lecture Theatre:

Celebrate the 50th anniversary of Brian De Palma’s rock opera masterpiece.

A Faustian tale of betrayal and obsession playing out in the gaudy halls of a concert hall, this deliriously entertaining musical features the legendary Paul Williams as cynical music producer Swan who tricks naive composer Winslow Leach (William Finley) into sacrificing his life’s work.

Featuring a knockout soundtrack, spectacular production design and De Palma’s characteristic swagger and infectious joy in filmmaking, prepare for a sensory delight.

– Paul Ridd

Therefore, the 1983 Scarface focuses on the very specific concern of Cuban immigrant criminals. Across the Scarfaces, there is a migration from North to South, but also a dilation from a large, shapeless thug population to a specific, statistically expressed infestation by a single people. In keeping with the agitation expressed in their title cards, the films rely on the performance of real events to instill awareness and concern in audiences. Thus, the 1932 version depicts such real atrocities as the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, while the 1983 version includes real-life footage of Fidel Castro and the Mariel boatlift. Furthermore, both films rely on the real-life, criminal issue of trafficking—but the illegal substance has changed; the alcohol smuggling in the original, and in history, is a kind of gateway drug for the cocaine smuggling that emerges in the 1983 adaptation and its corresponding cultural moment.

Similarly, while Scarface is essentially the same character in both films, his background is changed; he is drawn the same way across the two, but colored in differently in each. Tony’s scar, for example, is in virtually the same place across both of his faces—and both times, when he is asked about it, he gives an ambiguous answer. It does not matter how he has become Scarface, as much as it matters that he is Scarface, a figure who comes to stand out from the crowd—a mold to be filled. Anthony “Tony” Camonte, though, is an Italian Scarface in a cultural moment when his nationality does not matter beyond its association with the mob (the known existence of Italian gangsters such as Al Capone, whose nickname was “Scarface”). Scarface is born again in 1983 as Antonio “Tony” Montana, a Cuban immigrant—because in the early 1980’s, the Mariel boatlift brought many Cuban criminals into the country, and because the emergence of Latin American drug cartels (operating largely from Colombia) at the end of the Cold War became a national concern. Therefore, a Latino Tony is a generalized amalgamation of two cultural “problems,” and not based on one concrete example; the film smashes together two contemporary social concerns to create a more fictional Scarface than the Capone-esque one.

Both films, however, have cast Tony with an actor who does not share his heritage. Paul Muni (born in the region of Austria-Hungary that is now the Ukraine) plays the Italian-accented Camonte, while Italian-American Al Pacino plays the Cuban Montana. As committed to their accents as these actors are, it is audible that they are not of the nationalities they play. This consistency reinforces the adaptation Scarface as performing the original, but also calls into question the importance of Scarface’s cultural origins. In the 1932 Scarface, his mother has a thick Italian accent, Tony’s accent is less pronounced but still there, yet his younger sister Cesca speaks like a perky, fast-talking All-American gal. This is confusing, but nowhere is it explained where Tony Camonte was born. In the 1983 film, Montana’s mother and sister Gina have thick Cuban accents—having immigrated to the United States (before he did).

Therefore, Montana’s rise to power is more of an immigrant’s deranged pursuit of the American dream than Camonte’s quest for riches and power. The 1983 version reflects the worry that someone from somewhere else can enter the United States and take over or wreak havoc; Montana migrates over, and then climbs up. This, plus the 1983 version’s alignment of the Mariel boatlift with the 1932 film’s angry appeal for civilians to protest the government’s inefficient regulation of problems in the county, illuminates the main social problem in de Palma’s film’s not as gang violence or cocaine trafficking—but, rather problematically, immigration.

The film is xenophobic on its own, but it also attempts to undertake xenophobia as a theme, muddying its overall sympathies and concerns. The film’s attempt to critique xenophobia is expressed immediately—the first shot of the movie has Montana fiercely interrogated in English at an Immigration office. The officers, whose faces are chopped off by the camera’s suspicious, lingering revolution around Tony’s face, are surprised that he can speak the language so well, but still insensitively and disinterestedly accuse him of lying and smuggling and send him to “Freedomtown.” These officers are clearly represented as racist. “They all sound the same to me,” says the head officer about the Cubans he has spoken to, ordering Tony out. This scene, contrasted with the same moment in the 1932 version, where Camonte is interrogated in a police station and the question of nationality is never an issue, presents his immigration into the United States as a problem even before it becomes apparent that he is, actually, a dangerous criminal. Montana has to transcend oppositional cultural barriers just to get to America, and still faces them after he has arrived.

The adaptation of Tony’s love interest—the glaring, frowning, rail-thin blonde with a low-cut neckline—also transforms prejudice in the first Scarface into racism in the second. Poppy, the girlfriend of Camonte’s boss, is initially not interested in Camonte because he is poor; he grows on her when he begins to make money. Elvira, the 1983 counterpart, is originally averse to Montana also because he is poor as well as an immigrant. “I have enough friends, I don’t need another one,” she tells Tony, when he informs her that he would like to be her friend, “Especially one that just got off a banana boat.” A few seconds later, when they begin to argue, she snaps back at him, “Hey, José.” Poppy and Elvira are exactly the same character (in both films, for example, Tony needs to buy a new car to impress “her”)—but Elvira’s dialogue has been manipulated from Poppy’s to include a kind of modern, “white,” ignorant, agitation directed at immigrants. But, overall, in its ultimate representation of the immigrant Montana into a slimy crime boss, the film ultimately presents a case study in which white racist anxiety about immigration is represented as not entirely misplaced. In this way, the 1983 Scarface is a giant contradiction in a way that the 1932 film is not.

As Poppy does in the 1932 film, Elvira, too, warms up to Montana after he has made a lot of money; as the neon sign flashing “The world is yours” (on a blimp and then replicated on a statue in Montana’s home, and on a flashing billboard outside Camonte’s living room) predicts, Scarface does “get it all.” He also loses it all, at the pinnacle of greed. In both conclusions, he takes up a weapon to fight against the angry hoards invading his house, and his demise is spat out by the skinny mouth of a machine gun, and he collapses in close proximity to the flashing sign.

Therefore, regardless of the films’ interaction with their zeitgeist’s sociopolitical agendas and trepidations, the villains who represent the problem are ultimately defeated; when the Scarfaces end, the Scarfaces meets their ends. However, as cinema’s cyclical story-consumption reinforces, the Scarfaces (movies and archetypes alike) are always evolving, just as much as America’s own attitudes towards those it perceives as outsiders.

This baroque adaptation of James Ellroy's novel by Brian De Palma is a dense, exciting and generous thriller, which says everything about the complicated relationship that the filmmaker has with the dream factory...

A strange, imperfect but exciting object, "The Black Dahlia" has for Brian De Palma the air of a Hollywood last stand, a thwarted will. Produced by Art Linson, the man who financed "The Untouchables" and "Casualties of War" under classic conditions, this film is, this time, edited on the fringes of the studios, in line with the European projects shot by the filmmaker of "Femme Fatale" from the 2000s.

Relying on a myriad of foreign capital, it reconstructs in Bulgaria the Los Angeles of the 1940s, the setting for the investigation into the barbaric murder of Elizabeth Short, a beautiful and naive aspiring actress. Between concerns about economy and claimed scale - the presence of Scarlett Johansson, then at her peak, attests to this - the greenness of the staging and the deliquescent atmosphere, extreme stylization and explosions of savagery, "The Black Dahlia" traces a strange third way.

Its charm is nourished precisely by this ambivalence: in this, faithful to James Ellroy's novel, De Palma nestles in a profusion of trompe-l'oeil and colorful illusions, sketches lying and twin characters, weaves a maze of intrigues where vertigo and enthusiasm compete with a mixture of frustration and bitterness.

However, one must allow oneself to get lost in this semi-voluntary confusion to better appreciate the flashes of brilliance that emerge here and there, to cling sometimes to these captivating scansions that belong only to Ellroy (the lyrical voiceover), sometimes to the old obsessions of a filmmaker who, despite his brilliance and application, does not always manage to completely bend this rich material to his authorial vision.

However, "The Black Dahlia" awakens old "Depalmian" ghosts: the ashen photo of Vilmos Zsigmond, director of photography of "Blow out" (twenty-five years since they had filmed together), the furtive but traumatic presence of William Finley, the bespectacled actor of "Phantom of the Paradise", the spurts of hemoglobin and the large knives of "Sisters"... After this final swim in troubled waters, the filmmaker will definitively turn his back on Hollywood.

The ending of Snake Eyes has been a point of contention for many viewers and critics. Some feel it does not provide the cathartic resolution that the buildup demands. However, a defense of the ending reveals it to be consistent with the film’s overarching themes and narrative structure.

One of the primary criticisms of the ending is that it does not offer a traditional, triumphant conclusion for Rick Santoro. Instead, Santoro’s moment of redemption is followed by personal ruin—his exposure to the conspiracy leads to his downfall. This outcome, however, is more realistic and in line with the film’s thematic exploration of corruption and redemption. It underscores the idea that proper redemption comes with a price and that the path to integrity is fraught with personal sacrifice. Santoro’s fall from grace is a poignant reminder that actions have consequences, and in a world rife with corruption, doing the right thing often comes at a significant personal cost.

The ending also reinforces the film’s theme of perception versus reality. While Santoro manages to uncover the truth, the cost is high, and the resolution is far from clear-cut. The audience is left to grapple with the ambiguity of Santoro’s victory—he has done the right thing, but his life is left in shambles. This ambiguity is a deliberate choice by De Palma, reflecting the complexities of real-life justice and morality. It challenges the audience to consider the true nature of victory and whether it is always as clean and satisfying as we might hope.

Snake Eyes deliberately subverts the expectations of the crime thriller genre. Instead of providing a neat resolution, it leaves viewers unease and contemplation. This subversion is a bold move that distinguishes the film from more formulaic thrillers. By refusing to adhere to a conventional happy ending, Snake Eyes remains true to its themes and offers a more thought-provoking conclusion.

Snake Eyes is a film that delves into deep and complex themes, including corruption, the illusion of power, and the dichotomy of perception versus reality. Its ending, while controversial, is a fitting conclusion that aligns with these themes, offering a realistic and thought-provoking resolution. Brian De Palma’s direction and Nicolas Cage’s compelling performance make Snake Eyes a film that deserves to be revisited and appreciated for its ambition and nuance. The film challenges its audience to look beyond the surface and consider the more profound implications of its story, making it a genuinely unsung gem in the world of cinema.

“What the Devil hath joined together let no man cut asunder!” Future Lois Lane Margot Kidder plays French Canadian twins, one murderously deranged, the other dangerously protective of her, in De Palma's bravura deconstruction of Psycho, a Hitchcockian thriller that doubles as an inspired essay on the Hitchcockian thriller, one of scanty few New York City movies to remember that Staten Island is one of the city's boroughs, and a work of complete visceral pleasure from the first notes of Bernard Herrmann’s score (and the film's Candid Camera parodying rug-pull open) to the last blood curdling shriek. Having gotten his first real taste of blood in this, his first bona fide thriller, De Palma would keep on twisting the knife. There was no going back.