Movies
‘Memories of a Penitent Heart’ celebrates filmmakers’ late uncle
60-minute documentary airs July 31 on PBS
![](https://www.washingtonblade.com/content/files/2017/07/Cecelia_Aldarondo_460x470_courtesy_Blackscrackle_Films_LLC.jpg)
![Cecilia Aldarondo, gay news, Washington Blade](https://www.washingtonblade.com/content/files/2017/07/Cecelia_Aldarondo_insert_courtesy_Blackscrackle_Films_LLC.jpg)
Family mementos filmmaker Cecilia Aldarondo used to piece together her late uncleās life story. (Photo courtesy Blackscrackle Films LLC)
Filmmaker Cecilia Aldarondo only met her uncle Miguel Dieppe once in 1987 when he returned to Puerto Rico to visit his family. He died six months later and his funeral had a deep impact on her.
āWe went to Puerto Rico for his funeral when I was 6,ā she says, āand it was my first ever brush with death and grieving adults. It was a really indelible experience.ā
In the wake of her sonās death, Aldarondoās grandmother Carmen put together a scrapbook of her sonās life. It was filled with pictures of happy family gatherings and Miguelās theatrical performances.
āHe had this kind of legendary status in my family,ā Aldarondo says.
But, she later realized her grandmother had created āa scrapbook of the son she wanted, not the son she had.ā
Aldarondoās investigation into her uncleās life began on 2008 when she was helping her mother Nylda clean out the garage. Knowing that her daughter was a film buff (Aldarondo was working on her PhD in film studies at the time), Nylda asked if Cecilia wanted a box of 8-millimeter home movies she had found.
āShe made me a deal,ā Aldarondo says. āIf you put them on DVD, you can do whatever you want with what you find there. I donāt know if she knew exactly what she was signing up for when she said that.ā
The resulting film is the 60-minute documentary āMemories of a Penitent Heart,ā which follows her process of piecing together her late uncleās life. The broadcast is a co-presentation of the POV documentary series and Latino Public Broadcasting and airs Monday, July 31 on PBS (at 10 p.m. in the Washington market).
As Aldarondo watched the movies, she ājust started thinking more about this uncle and how he died. I knew he had died young; he was only 31. I had this sense that there was something awry in the way people talked about his death. Something smelled wrong. The more I talked to people about it, the more I talked to my mom, we just started talking about the fact that he was gay and he had this partner who disappeared. I felt like I needed to know more. It became a kind of detective story at that point.ā
Aldarondo finally tracked down her uncleās partner Aquin and learned about her uncleās life as a gay man in New York City. Miguel called himself Michael and worked as an actor and bartender. He and Aquin were together 12 years and led an active social and sexual life in the cityās gay community.
At the same time, Miguel was engaged in a passionate correspondence with his mother. She begged him to renounce his gay lifestyle so he could go to heaven; he refused and died of AIDS in 1987. Before her death in 1996, Carmen told her friends and family that Miguel had repented on his deathbed; Aquin denies that his lover ever renounced his true identity.
āAt a certain point,ā Aldarondo says, āI realized it was such an interesting story it should be a documentary film.ā
Aldarondo began shooting the film in 2012 when she was still a graduate student at the University of Minnesota (she now teaches film at Skidmore College).
āThe first shoot that I did, I essentially stole some equipment from my university and I roped some friends into flying to Puerto Rico with me,ā she says. āWe went and filmed in the cemetery where my uncle was buried and the church where his funeral was held. I learned everything along the way by just doing it and making a lot of mistakes. I was definitely flying by the seat of my pants.ā
She says it was a rewarding learning process, though.
āBy the time I had finished the film I had become a filmmaker. It was really a trial of fire.ā
āMemoriesā is an assembly of artifacts and interviews that reflects both Aldarondoās academic interests and her approach to filmmaking. The documentary includes not only the films from her motherās garage, but also a treasure trove of documents from her mother and from Aquin. There are letters and photographs, clips from Carmenās radio show, excerpts from Miguelās play āIsland Feverā and voiceover commentary from the filmmaker herself, all supplemented by onscreen interviews with Nylda, Aquin, friends of Carmen from Puerto Rico and friends of Miguel from New York.
Aldarondo uses these documents both to spur peopleās memories and to confront them with contradictions in their statements.
āEvery time I sat down with somebody, I would bring stuff that I had,ā Aldarondo says. āFor example, with my mom, I show her this letter that my uncle wrote to her that she claims he never wrote to her. Itās a strategic choice on my part. Itās almost like sheās on the witness stand and Iām a lawyer in the courtroom presenting her with evidence. The film explores contradictory memories; itās not necessarily trying to tell you the truth of what happened.ā
Movies
āOutstandingā doc brings overdue spotlight to lesbian activist Robin Tyler
āWhatever they do to us, they need to know that there will be consequencesā
![](https://www.washingtonblade.com/content/files/2024/06/Pat_Harrison_and_Robin_Tyler_insert_courtesy_Robin_Tyler.jpg)
In the new Netflix documentary āOutstanding: A Comedy Revolutionā ā now streaming on the Netflix platform ā filmmaker Page Hurwitz takes viewers behind the scenes of a landmark 2022 performance featuring an all-star lineup of queer stand-up comedians. She also reveals the powerful queer activism that has been pushing mainstream boundaries over the past five decades and beyond through a collection of out-and-proud comics that reads like a āwhoās whoā of queer comedy icons.
In doing so, its spotlight inevitably lands on Robin Tyler, who ā after becoming the first lesbian comic to come out on national television and co-starring in a network series with her partner, Pat Harrison ā incurred the wrath of sponsors (after an on-air remark aimed at notorious anti-LGBTQ mouthpiece Anita Bryant) and wound up unceremoniously dropped by the network.
Tyler persisted, and her passion led her to activism, where her contributions are likely well known to many Blade readers. She organized and produced the first three national marches on Washington for LGBTQ rights, including 1987ās āmock weddingā of hundreds of queer couples; she and her future wife (the late Diane Olsen) were the first couple to sue the state of California for the right to be married ā leading to the seven-year legal battle that culminated in marriage equality. If you are currently in a same-sex marriage in the United States, you have her to thank.
![](https://www.washingtonblade.com/content/files/2024/06/20130325_Diane_Olson_and_Robin_Tyler_at_Supreme_Court_1_c_Washington_Blade_by_Michael_Key.jpg)
We spoke to her about the film and her legacy, and, as always, she pulled no punches. Our conversation is below.
BLADE: āOutstandingā highlights your removal from āprime timeā as a setback for queer visibility, but do you still think of it as a setback for your career?
ROBIN TYLER: You know what? Everybody says, āOh, she gave up this career, she could have been a star,ā but what they mean is I could have gotten mainstream acceptance. Itās like saying to Richard Pryor: āIf you didnāt tell the truth, maybe white people would have loved you.ā The best thing that happened to us is that we didnāt get picked up, because then we could go and be free. It takes your life away, having to live a lie. We gained our freedom and lost nothing.
I donāt care about mainstream acceptance, if it means being in the closet. Donāt forget, 75 million Americans are MAGA supporters. To me, thatās the mainstream.
BLADE: As an organizer, you spearheaded the fight for marriage equality. How did that happen?
TYLER: In 1987, two men from L.A. wanted me to do the āmock weddingā as part of the ā87 march on Washington. I took it to the board ā thereās always this board of 68 people, itās different people, but the same attitude, with every march ā and they voted it down. They said, āno oneās interested in marriage,ā and I said āfine.ā And I did it anyway, and 5,000 people came. Obviously it was an issue we were interested in.
It was also interesting that a march board would try to decide what people want or not. Well, we did want it, and we got it, now.
BLADE: And yet, it seems weāre still fighting for it.
TYLER: I agree, and I think with this Supreme Court weāre in trouble ā but passion is much better than Prozac, so we need to keep aware and be ready to get into the streets again. We canāt just be āarmchair activistsā on the internet, you know? Because then weāre just reading to each other.ā
BLADE: It does seem that the internet has made it easier for us to live in our comfortable bubbles.
TYLER: Yeah, but Iām an organizer, and itās wonderful for that. I was the national protest coordinator when we stopped Dr. Laura [Schlesinger, the anti-LGBTQ talk radio āpsychotherapistā whose transition to television was successfully blocked by community activism in the early 2000s], and we did all the demonstrations locally. We worked with a guy who knew the internet, and we were able to send out information all over the country for the first time. I remember when we just had to go to parades and bars and baseball fields and had to leaflet everyone. This is easier. Less walking.
BLADE: Still, social media has become a space where ācancel cultureā seems just to divide us further.
TYLER: That term was created by the right. They can go ahead and say anything they want, but we get to not be called names anymore. At least we have a way to fight back. They call it ācancel cultureā and we call it ādefending our rights.ā
And you know what? Even today, people like Dave Chappelle are doing homophobic jokes, and itās not just that theyāre doing it, itās that these people sitting in the audience are still laughing at it. They still think they can get away with ridiculing us. You can always punch down and get a laugh. And why is it so bad, with people like Chappelle or Bill Maher? Because anytime you dehumanize anybody, when you snicker at them because you donāt understand, youāre giving other people permission to attack them. Theyāre attacking these people that are being brutally murdered, and theyāre using humor as the weapon.
We didnāt accept it in the ā70s, so why are we accepting it now? And why arenāt we calling out Netflix for giving it a platform? Itās not enough to put out āOutstandingā and showcase pro-gay humor. If a comic says something racist, their career is over, yet itās OK for Chappelle to do homophobic stuff? What if I stood up and changed what heās saying to make it about race instead of transgender people?
And itās not just about ārightā vs. āleftā anyway. Even with the Democrats in, they never deliver. Since 1970, they promised us a āgay civil rights bill,ā and we still donāt have one. Why not? Democrats have held power in Congress, the Senate, the presidency, and they never pushed it through. We still canāt rent in 30 states, we can get fired; the United States is not a free country for queer people, and we must hold the government accountable. We have to fight for marriage separately, we have to fight for this and that, separately ā and all it would take is one bill!
Itās been 54 years. Isnāt it time? We have to look at who our friends are ā but donāt get me wrong, Iām still voting for Biden.
BLADE: So, how do we fix it?
TYLER: Hereās what I believe in: a woman walks into a dentist office, and heās about to drill her teeth when she grabs him by the balls and says, āWeāre not going to hurt each other, are we?ā I believe in that approach. Whatever they do to us, they need to know that there will be consequences.
And, also, at Cedars-Sinai they have just one channel in the hospital, and itās comedy, because laughter is healing. Maybe we should we end on that?
![](https://www.washingtonblade.com/content/files/2024/06/Robin_Tyler_insert_courtesy_Robin_Tyler.jpg)
Movies
Gender expression is fluid in captivating āPaul & Trishaā doc
Exploring whatās possible when you allow yourself to become who you truly are
![](https://www.washingtonblade.com/content/files/2024/06/Paul_Whitehead_and_Tricia_van_Cleef_in_Paul_and_Tricia_insert_courtesy_Gravitas_Ventures.jpg)
Given the polarizing controversies surrounding the subject of gender in todayās world, it might feel as if challenges to the conventional ānormsā around the way we understand it were a product of the modern age. Theyāre not, of course; artists have been exploring the boundaries of gender ā both its presentation and its perception ā since long before the language we use to discuss the topic today was ever developed. After all, gender is a universal experience, and isnāt art, ultimately, meant to be about the sharing of universal experiences in a way that bypasses, or at least overcomes, the limitations of language?
We know, we know; debate about the āpurposeā of art is almost as fraught with controversy as the one about gender identity, but itās still undeniable that art has always been the place to find ideas that contradict or question conventional ways of viewing the world. Thanks to the heavy expectation of conformity to societyās comfortable ānormsāĀ in our relationship with gender, itās inevitable that artists might chafe at such restrictive assumptions enough to challenge them ā and few have committed quite so completely to doing so as Paul Whitehead, the focus of āPaul & Trisha: The Art of Fluidity,ā a new documentary from filmmaker Fia Perera which enjoyed a successful run on the festival circuit and is now available for pre-order on iTunes and Apple TV ahead of a VOD/streaming release on July 9.
Whitehead, who first gained attention and found success in Londonās fertile art-and-fashion scene of the mid 1960s, might not be a household name, but he has worked closely with many people who are. A job as an in-house illustrator at a record company led to his hiring as the first art director for the UK Magazine Time Out, which opened the door for even more prominent commissions for album art ā including a series of iconic covers for Genesis, Van der Graaf, Generator, and Peter Hammill, which helped to shape the visual aesthetic of the Progressive Rock movement with his bold, surrealistic pop aesthetic, and worked as an art director for John Lennon for a time. Moving to Los Angeles in 1973, his continuing work in the music industry expanded to encompass a wide variety of commercial art and landed him in the Guinness Book of World Records as painter of the largest indoor mural in the world inside the now-demolished Vegas World Casino in Las Vegas. As a founder of the Eyes and Ears Foundation, he conceived and organized the āArtboard Festivalā, which turned a stretch of L.A. roadway into a ādrive-through art galleryā with donated billboards painted by participating artists.
Pereraās film catches up with Whitehead in the relatively low-profile city of Ventura, Calif., where the globally renowned visual artist now operates from a combination studio and gallery in a strip mall storefront. Still prolific and producing striking artworks (many of them influenced and inspired by his self-described ācloset Hinduismā), the film reveals a man who, far from coming off as elderly, seems ageless; possessed of a rare mix of spiritual insight and worldly wisdom, he is left by the filmmaker to tell his own story by himself, and he embraces the task with the effortless verve of a seasoned raconteur. For roughly the first half of the film, we are treated to the chronicle of his early career provided straight from the source, without ātalking headā commentaries or interview footage culled from entertainment news archives, and laced with anecdotes and observations that reveal a clear-headedness, along with a remarkable sense of self-knowledge and an inspiring freedom of thought, that makes his observations feel like deep wisdom. Heās a fascinating host, taking us on a tour of the life he has lived so far, and itās like spending time with the most interesting guy at the party.
Itās when āArt of Fluidityā introduces its second subject, however, that things really begin to get interesting, because as Whitehead was pushing boundaries as an in-demand artist, he was also pushing boundaries in other parts of his life. Experimenting with his gender identity through cross-dressing since the 1960s, what began tentatively as an āin the bedroomā fetish became a long-term process of self-discovery that resulted in the emergence of āconverged artistā Trisha Van Cleef, a feminine manifestation of Whiteheadās persona who has been creating art of her own since 2004. Neither dissociated āalter egoā nor performative character, Trisha might be a conceptual construct, in some ways, but sheās also a very authentic expression of personal gender perception who exists just as definitively as Paul Whitehead. They are, like the seeming opposites of yin and yang, two sides of the same fundamental and united nature.
Naturally, the bold process of redefining oneās personal relationship with gender is not an easy one, and part of what makes Trisha so compelling is the challenge she represents to Paul ā and, by extension, the audience ā by co-existing with him in his own life. She pushes him to step beyond his fears – such as his concerns about the hostile attitude of the shopkeeper next door and the danger of bullying, brutality, and worse when Trisha goes out in public ā and embrace both sides of his nature instead of trying to force himself to be one or the other alone. And while the film doesnāt shy away from addressing the brutal reality about the risk of violence against non-gender-conforming people in our culture, it also highlights what is possible when you choose to allow yourself to become who you truly are.
As a sort of disclaimer, it must be acknowledged that some viewers may take issue with some of Whiteheadās personal beliefs about gender identity, which might not quite mesh with prevailing ideas and could be perceived as āproblematicā within certain perspectives. Similarly, the depth of his engagement with Hindu cosmology might be off-putting to audiences geared toward skepticism around any spiritually inspired outlook on the world. However, itās clear within the larger context of the documentary that both Paul and Trisha speak only for themselves, expressing a personal truth that does not nullify or deny the personal truth of anyone else. Further, one of the facets that gives āArt of Fluidityā its mesmerizing, upbeat charm is the sense that we are watching an ongoing evolution, a work in progress in which an artist is still discovering the way forward. Thereās no insinuation that any aspect of Paul or Trishaās shared life is definitive, rather we come to see them as a united pair, in constant flux, moving through the world together, as one, and becoming more like themselves every step of the way.
Thatās something toward which we all would be wise to aspire; the acceptance of all of our parts and the understanding that we are always in the process of becoming something else would certainly go a long way toward making a happier, friendlier world.
Movies
New Cyndi Lauper doc brings overdue spotlight to queer ally
āLet the Canary Singā captures a unique, era-defining star
![](https://www.washingtonblade.com/content/files/2024/06/Cyndi_Lauper_insert_courtesy_Paramount_Plus.jpg)
Every era in our cultural memory has given rise to popular artists that helped to define them, but few can be said to have made as definitive an impact as Cyndi Lauper in the early ā80s. Splashing onto our airwaves and across our television screens (courtesy of the newly minted MTV) with a defiantly upbeat and colorful blast of society-shifting energy, her proclamation that āGirls Just Want to Have Funā caught the world off guard with a feminist anthem disguised as a good-time party song, and her sense of quirky punk style became an iconic influence over the ālookā of an entire decade. In some ways, you could almost say Cyndi Lauper was the ā80s.
For many people who grew up or came of age during her rise from unknown girl singer to pop music phenomenon, that might be the extent of their knowledge of her life and career. Despite the success (and Grammy Award) she achieved with her first few hits, the ever-roving eye of public attention inevitably moved on to the next new superstar, and her later efforts ā while not exactly ignored ā never managed to garner as much attention.
That doesnāt mean she has been inactive, though, as her die-hard fans (and there are many) well know; this is especially true in the queer community, where she has long been recognized and celebrated as a staunch ally ā which is why it seems apt that Pride month should coincide with the release of āLet the Canary Sing,ā a new documentary profile of Lauper that premieres on Paramount Plus this week.
Directed by Emmy-winning documentarian Alison Ellwood, āCanaryā takes its name from a comment made by the judge in a legal case that opened the door for Lauperās stardom ā no spoilers here, youāll have to watch the movie to find out more. It undertakes the telling of a well-rounded and comprehensive life story to cast that stardom in a new light. Maintaining a comfortable sense of chronology, it begins with Lauperās childhood, growing up in Brooklyn (and later, Queens) in a close-knit family as the middle child of three with a divorced single mother, and follows the trajectory of her life ā rebellious, risk-taking teen to driven, passionate artist and activist ā through her love of music, her rise to fame, her struggle to evolve in an industry that rewards predictable familiarity, her emergence as an LGBTQ advocate, and her expansion into a genre-leaping artist whose reach has extended beyond pop culture to earn her renown for her versatility. It also covers her accomplishment as the first woman to win a Tony Award as sole composer of the music and lyrics of āKinky Boots,ā the Harvey Fierstein-scripted drag-themed Broadway musical which made a star of Billy Porter ā and nabbed her another Grammy (for its Original Cast Recording), to boot. Bolstered by extensive current interview footage with Lauper herself, as well as elder sister Elen, younger brother Fred, and other important figures from her personal and professional life, it finds an arc that reveals its subject as an authentic and uncompromising visionary dedicated to ālifting upā the entire human race.
That would sound hyperbolic ā and probably more than a little disingenuous ā if Lauper did not come across so palpably on camera. Whether itās footage from a decades-old Letterman show or newly filmed commentary shot specifically for the film, her ātrue colorsā come shining through (forgive us for that one, we couldnāt resist) to provide ample evidence that, even if she didnāt always know where she was going, she always knew it would be the direction of her own choosing. Indeed, as the movie makes clear, much of the reason behind Lauperās fade from the pop spotlight was the result of her refusal to repeat herself, to compromise her own path by delivering pale copies of the formula that had made her an āovernight successā after 15 years of trying. Although the documentary doesnāt insinuate this, itās impossible for us not to suspect that homophobic backlash following her public embrace and advocacy of the queer community ā something surely intertwined with her close bond to sister Elen, an out lesbian who is positioned in Ellwoodās film as a key pillar of both emotional and artistic support in Lauperās life ā may have had something to do with the mainstream music industryās ambivalence toward her as she pursued her artistic impulses beyond the flashy appeal of her debut album.Ā
In any case, āSheās So Unusual,ā as a debut album title, proved to be an ironic foreshadowing of the very reasons she was unable to āstay in her own laneā well enough to remain in the good graces of a public (or, perhaps more truthfully, of record executives) that only wanted more of the same. Lauper has never been one to conform, and itās made her vulnerable, like so many other unrelenting female voices both before and after her, to the mainstream insistence on reinforcement of the comfortable over the breaking down of boundaries.
āLet the Canary Singā captures all of this succinctly, yet with layered and sophisticated nuance, as it pays its tribute to a pop icon whose seminal work has continued to resonate after more than 40 years. Unavoidably, perhaps, it sometimes feels like a āBehind the Musicā episode or a āpuff pieceā for an artist about to launch a new project ā indeed, Lauper announced a āfarewell tourā of 23 cities, as well as a ācompanion pieceā greatest hits album release, on the eve of the movieās streaming debut ā but it pushes past such irrelevant comparisons thanks to the palpable sincerity conveyed onscreen, not only from her, but from all the people in her orbit whose comments about her are included in the film.
Of course, it must be said that anyone whoās not a “Cyndi Lauper fan”, whether by virtue of generational gaps or personal tastes, will probably not be drawn to watch a filmic love letter to her, and thatās a shame. It (and she) has the power to make viewers into true believers not only in her talent, but in her message of acceptance, inclusion, and unconditional love. Part of that, hinges on Ellwoodās skill as a filmmaker and teller of real-life stories, but the lasting impact rests on the persona of the star herself, who exudes a genuine air of transcendence and makes us not only feel instantly comfortable, but completely āseenā and validated, no matter who we are or which spectrum we might be on.
Itās hard to fake the kind of sincerity that makes that possible, and nothing about āCanaryā suggests that Cyndi Lauper has any interest in being fake, anyway.
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