Pee-wee and Me - Minority Mindset

When I set out to create a documentary featuring someone, I compose a heartfelt message, much like a love letter. Over the past 20 years of filmmaking, I’ve penned numerous such letters – to Siegfried & Roy, soap opera stars, and secluded musicians. Sometimes I tap into their desire for admiration, other times their belief that they’ve been mistreated. Consistently, though, I sign off these letters with the same sentiment: “Trust should not be demanded. It must be proven.

Over many years, Paul Reubens has been the ideal subject for my dream documentary. His innovative TV series, “Pee-wee‘s Playhouse,” greatly impacted a generation of eccentric kids like myself. During my childhood, a Pee-wee pull-string doll hung above my bed, and I’d often gaze at it before drifting off to sleep each night.

Five years ago, I began making connections with Reubens via different intermediaries. In a heartfelt letter, I proposed a sophisticated portrayal of this artist. At the time, Pee-wee was widely recognized as an icon, yet few knew much about his creator beyond what they read in the gossip columns. It seemed that Reubens valued his privacy, and like many of my documentary subjects, he was an eccentric visionary who was overdue for a fresh evaluation.

In the course of our relationship, Paul agreed to spend 40 hours with me for interviews, which were recorded on camera. We looked back at his past, discussing his upbringing in Florida, his beginnings as an artist, and his swift climb to fame. He also shared intimate details about his sexuality and the love he sacrificed for his career, information that was revealed for the first time. The documentary I produced, titled “Pee-wee As Himself“, took four years to create, nearly pushing me to my limits. Paul maintained a tight grip on the project, resisting complete control. He delayed our final interview about the incidents that tarnished his reputation, causing significant delays in our production. At one point, he stopped communicating with me, and I worried the project would never be finished. It was Paul’s last private act that enabled me to conclude his story. Unfortunately, on July 31, 2023, a week before our final interview was due to take place, I learned, along with everyone else, that he had passed away from cancer. This news came as a shock to me. My childhood idol, the person I had invested countless hours getting to know, sharing laughter and arguments with, had been battling cancer without my knowledge.

For years, I’ve been considering the creation of a documentary about my life, but I found myself disenchanted with directors I encountered, as they were hesitant to incorporate my ideas into the project. However, the Safdie brothers, long-standing friends of mine, who were rumored to be negotiating with me for their next Pee-wee Herman film, requested a conversation with me instead.

At the height of the lockdown, we connected over Skype with Reubens. When he joined the call, I found myself momentarily speechless due to starstruck awe. His face was reminiscent of almonds and, if you squinted, there was a hint of Pee-wee Herman. However, the man before me wasn’t his on-screen persona; he was Paul. Seated comfortably on a vibrant orange couch, in front of a stylish flagstone fireplace and panoramic view of Los Angeles, Paul was nothing like his TV character might suggest. I praised his home, presuming it mirrored the real-life playhouse from his children’s show, but he chuckled and admitted it was an online image. Paul preferred to keep his actual living space private. I had been cautioned that he could be challenging, and indeed, there were tales of professional disagreements. Yet, I always assured my doubting colleagues, “I get along well with complex individuals.

Beyond sharing our sexual orientation, we had little in common due to our age difference and his status as a famous figure. However, it was significant that we both identified as gay. Unlike me, Paul hadn’t enjoyed the same level of freedom as a young, openly gay filmmaker. He’d chosen to hide his sexuality to pursue mainstream success. For most of his life, Paul compartmentalized his personal and professional lives. I understood his decision as a survival tactic for gay men of his generation, but it brought him feelings of shame and insecurity. He was adamant about his story not being portrayed through a queer perspective. “I don’t want to be seen as a gay icon,” he said, “but I do want to come out in the documentary.” I hadn’t perceived Paul as closeted, but he had never publicly discussed his sexuality, and it wasn’t until later that I realized he had likely only revealed his sexual orientation to a select few. Convincing him to openly acknowledge this on camera would prove to be a difficult task.

For several months, we had frequent conversations – some casual and others more formal, discussing aspects like Paul potentially impacting the narrative. Navigating the relationship between a documentarian and subject can be complex. While it may seem collaborative, it’s often more so than people realize because as documentary filmmakers, we delve deeply into subjects’ lives with our equipment and crew, capturing personal moments and images that are later scanned and digitalized. We also require the subjects to sign release forms allowing us to use their life experiences as creative material. Although Paul and I were growing closer, our interactions were also about figuring out what we both needed from each other in terms of content for the film.

Frequently, Paul would call me via FaceTime, and I’d always answer promptly. Our chats never ended in a mere 15 minutes; we’d often talk for at least two hours. I started having informal chats with him about his life experiences. He showed me old videos of his performances, TV appearances, and potential locations where rare recordings might be found if he hadn’t kept them himself. We compiled a list of nearly 100 possible interviewees – from an old crush to fellow celebrities. We were in what you could call the “honeymoon phase.” One evening, under the influence of marijuana and lying on the couch, I answered Paul’s call. A heavy pot user in the past, Paul knew how to make me laugh until I cried, and that night he was exceptional. My partner of 20 years, Carl, has witnessed the entire spectrum of these unusual relationships that blend professional and personal aspects, and after our conversation, he cautioned me: “Be careful. You two have no boundaries, and that could potentially lead to complications.

In July 2021, I moved to Los Angeles to start working on a project, which Paul had graciously invited me into his personal realm. His residence was a mid-century house brimming with archives and collectibles. Our discussions often took place at his kitchen table, adorned by the iconic Sputnik chandelier that graced the set of Pee-wee’s Playhouse. Every sunset, Paul would scatter corn and seeds around his driveway to attract wildlife, and we would spend evenings on a bench near the front door, enjoying the sight of deer appearing from the hills. I developed a strong bond with him. He welcomed everyone in his inner circle to converse freely with me, and I arranged several on-camera interviews. However, he requested to review the footage, which was unusual for me. I obliged since I had agreed he would be part of the process. This is when our disagreements began. Paul disliked the appearance of the first two interviews and almost demanded reshoots. Unbeknownst to me, he then asked the production designer for images of the interview sets.

In our roles, we’re accustomed to asserting control – myself as a director, and Paul in his own right. During discussions about editing, we enlisted producer Emma Tillinger Koskoff as a mediator. While Paul was promised meaningful consultation throughout the filmmaking process, I was to have final say over the edits. As our talk progressed, it became apparent that while Paul’s early input was crucial, documentaries are primarily shaped during post-production where his influence would be limited.

This point was raised by Paul when we were on our way to his storage units filled with props and artifacts from decades past. I chose my words cautiously, informing him that I intended to present him with early drafts of the film for his feedback, but it would be several months before any footage could be shared. The conversation soon turned heated, as Paul demanded access to the editing room. I stood firm on preserving my editorial independence. I had agreed to this project under the understanding that I wouldn’t have Paul constantly scrutinizing my work. He retorted, “That’s precisely what you signed up for.” Producer Emma then left us to settle our disagreement.

After stepping outside, we walked side by side without speaking for about a minute. Then he observed, “It seems there’s more in our shared experiences than you might realize. We both fear relinquishing control over our narratives – me, over my life story, and you, over your movie.

For three months, I worked with Paul’s acquaintances while he consistently declined to schedule his personal on-camera session. My concern that he might never reveal his tale in his own voice grew steadily. On the final day of filming, however, Paul was ready, but only if we didn’t shoot at his residence. At that point, I wasn’t picky; I just needed to carry on and capture the interview. I requested a couple of days to prepare, and we found a mid-century rental home for the shoot. We decided to use an Interrotron, a device created by documentarian Errol Morris, for filming. This gadget projects the interviewer’s face over the camera lens, allowing Paul to look directly at the audience throughout the documentary. To make him feel more comfortable, I asked our cinematographer, David Jacobson, to put up curtains around the camera so that only my image appeared in the interview chair, creating an effect similar to our video calls.

On the eve of Paul’s first interview day, I received an urgent call. He was worried that the setting and lighting wouldn’t seem fitting, and he wished for another day to make adjustments. I suggested we could postpone if he preferred, but after a thoughtful pause, I assured him, “I’ll ensure everything is taken care of for you.

On the following day, Paul found himself seated in the interview room. Instead of delving into his early memories or discussing the designs on the walls from his childhood bedroom for an hour as I had hoped, our conversation took an unusual turn. Whenever I attempted to guide the discussion further, he showed signs of discomfort, made light of my questions, or requested a brief pause. In response to each fresh question, he countered with a sarcastic comment or eccentric facial gesture. At times, he would answer a query only to launch into a lengthy, 30-minute anecdote about a school prank from his childhood. Despite my rising unease, I maintained a composed demeanor.

Despite the ten days allocated for filming, I wasn’t confident I could fully disarm Paul. He presented a multi-faceted persona – slick, rebellious, flamboyant, and at times profoundly contemplative and genuine, yet he remained guarded. At one point, he admitted, “I’ll keep some secrets, and even if I don’t, I naturally do.” He continued, “I’m the only person who truly knows everything about me, I believe. There are secrets we all harbor that make us intriguing, that maintain our air of mystery.” Now it’s clear to me that Paul wasn’t merely resisting my attempts to get him to open up. He was grappling with his own decision on how much to reveal in front of the camera.

On the fourth day, following a long stretch of interviews totaling 14 hours, Paul began discussing his college explorations with drag. I could tell he was anticipating my next question about his sexual orientation. He seemed restless in his seat, humorously requesting candy. Eventually, he confided in me, “I don’t know how to put this.” To which I responded, “Just say, ‘I’m gay.'” We shared a laugh. “Alright, if you insist,” he replied. Paul settled back into the chair, and I carried on asking him detailed questions, which he skillfully avoided while discussing the concept of sexuality in broad terms. Eventually, I interjected and asked directly, “Paul, are you gay?

He mentioned, “I’ve never discussed this topic before, but I have opened up about it with a psychologist and a therapist. I’ve shared it with some incredibly close friends too… At Cal Arts, my sexuality wasn’t a secret; people were aware of it, whether I explicitly stated it or not – it was known that I am gay.

All of a sudden, his entire physique loosened up. For the ensuing hour, he narrated to me the tale of his college sweetheart, his first genuine love, an artist named Guy. The heartbreak ensued when their relationship disintegrated. “I was as open about my sexuality as one could be,” he confided. “And then I retreated back into hiding.” They managed to stay in contact throughout the years until Guy fell ill with AIDS. Their final encounter occurred just hours before Guy passed away.

That evening, following our conclusion, Paul contacted me via Facetime. I worried he might rescind his approval, or say I couldn’t utilize the resources we gathered that day. However, he shared that he felt relieved instead.

Regardless of our significant advancement, Paul remained elusive throughout the entire filming process. Over a ten-day period, he scarcely spoke about the arrests, leaving us in a quandary. What made matters worse was his refusal to sign the release form, which meant we couldn’t utilize his interview, archival footage, or even share his story. Emma considered halting production altogether, and I found myself awake at night, fretting that we might miss out on the critical final interview. Weeks turned into months as Paul and the producers butted heads, stalling the project. Each time my phone rang, my heart would race, whether it was Paul voicing complaints or Emma delivering unfavorable updates.

In New York, I teamed up with editor Damian Rodriguez to compile the 40 hours of interviews I had taken from Paul, along with the 1,000 hours of archival footage that Brittan Dunham, our archivist, had already digitized. The project was running at a loss, but I believed if we could create a preliminary version, I could persuade Paul to move forward. He needed to understand what would be forfeited if the film collapsed.

Paul, it seems you are at odds with the producers, not me. The decision to move forward with the film is your own to make.

Five months passed by. My communication with Paul had ceased. A difficult period followed when we were forced to let go of our postproduction team, leaving me feeling desolate. My bond with Carl was under strain, my wellbeing declined, and I was uncertain about my employability after failing to complete the most significant movie project of my life. However, on my birthday, I received a text from Paul, containing a Betty Boop animated image. “Happy 40th,” it read. Given his strong beliefs in birthdays, this gesture suggested that our relationship might not have completely ended. The following morning, I woke up to another message from Paul, expressing his desire to talk. He was interested in finding a way to continue working on the film together.

Two years ago, my strong resolve to earn Paul’s trust had weakened. I was filled with doubt and pain, trying to focus on moving forward with my life and starting fresh ventures. However, I reached out to him as I happened to be in L.A. that week for a freelance project. “I’d like to share the first 45 minutes of the film with you,” I proposed. In just two days, we found ourselves in a screening room together.

Paul showed up accompanied by his long-time colleague, Allison Berry, who had spent almost four decades working alongside him. It was comforting to have her there since Allison wasn’t shy about expressing her views, and I knew she’d been backing Paul in completing the film. Before things started to spiral out of control, I remember sharing my concerns about Paul with Allison. “I believe he trusts me,” I ventured hesitantly. “Or perhaps he doesn’t, and that’s acceptable,” she replied.

I found myself seated behind Paul and Allison during the screening of the preliminary edit. Periodically, Paul would chuckle, yet he requested pauses every ten minutes for a restroom break. These breaks seemed to lengthen, leading me to surmise that Paul was using this time to immerse himself in the emotional journey of watching his life unfold on the screen. Among the scenes was one portraying Paul’s relationship with Guy, beautifully captured using nostalgic Super 8 film footage that Paul himself had filmed in the late 1970s.

After the movie ended, he grinned. For the past two years, when I proposed an idea to him, the most positive feedback I received was, “I don’t argue against that.” I would ask, “Does that mean you support it then?” He would explain, “That’s a different category.” Paul revealed that in the restroom, he was contemplating what he should tell me about the film. His final decision was, “I’m eager to aid you in improving it further.

After our encounter in L.A., I found myself brimming with inspiration and hopeful for the first time in a long while. Yet, the journey to fulfilling Paul’s agreement, gathering the rest of his archives, and arranging that concluding interview was by no means clear-cut. Progress was made, only to hit roadblocks again.

Every time I expressed optimism for a resolution, we’d find ourselves back at square one, arguing about editorial control. When Paul delayed discussions, I thought he might have been hesitant or fearful about discussing the arrests. I even speculated that he had planned to assert control over the film during post-production. However, trying to decipher his intentions was pointless. The project appeared to be on its last legs.

Suddenly, it appeared as though news came unexpectedly that Paul was prepared to progress with his plans. His team suggested we schedule his interview for two weeks from then. I was taken aback by the readiness of Paul and the fact that he had already signed off on his release. Prior to the recording, he phoned me. His voice seemed unusually weak, and he requested me to take a seat. It was clear that something was amiss.

He admitted he might not be as actively involved in the project as initially planned, but expressed confidence that I would still make the movie we talked about earlier,” he said. “He apologized for his emotional behavior over the past few years, and I acknowledged any actions of mine that may have upset him.” He reassured me kindly, saying, “You didn’t do anything wrong.” After a moment of silence, he added sincerely, “I trust you.” This left me speechless, and all I could manage to say in response was, “I promise to act in your best interest.

After ending the call, I was left feeling swamped with emotions. The situation seemed confusing and weighty. A week later, while working on another freelance assignment prior to my trip to L.A. for an interview with Paul, I received a text from an HBO executive. Her message read, “Is this genuine?” accompanied by a screenshot from Pee-wee Herman’s Instagram account. The post announced, “Last night we bid farewell to Paul Reubens, a legendary American actor, comedian, writer, and producer … Paul courageously battled cancer for years in private.

My legs started to give way, and within moments, my phone was bombarded with a flood of messages. Emma phoned me, her tone shaking, as other calls poured in. Soon after, I received news from Kelly Bush Novak, who is Paul’s friend and spokesperson.

My legs began to wobble, and almost instantly, my phone was swamped with a barrage of texts. Emma rang me, her voice trembling, as one call after another arrived. Then came word from Kelly Bush Novak, who is not just Paul’s friend but also his publicist.

Kelly told me she had attempted to contact me prior to the news becoming public, but couldn’t get through to me in time. She shared with me that Paul had recorded something for me the night before he passed away. A few days later, I was in her office listening to Paul’s final audio recording. It was heart-wrenching. However, there was no time for mourning as the project I thought would never be completed now had an end. That night and the following year, I entered filmmaking mode. In the editing room, there were moments when I winced watching our interactions. At one point, I reminded Paul that if he hadn’t trusted me a little, we wouldn’t be here. He responded, “Given how many documentaries you’ve made, you only like one of them – the one I made?” Other parts of the recording revealed things I didn’t fully understand at the time. I tried to remember any signs that he might have been unwell. The only thing that stood out was a casual comment he made: “The secret to keeping a secret is not telling anyone.

In January, the movie I created about Paul debuted at Sundance. Although I was still bitter over how he acted towards me and felt remorseful that he wasn’t present, in the end, there were boundaries to our relationship that Paul established. It took some time for me to comprehend why this was so. Throughout his adult life, Paul concealed himself behind a persona, and it required great courage for him to reveal his inner self to me. He created breathtaking art about accepting oneself, but he couldn’t find that acceptance within himself. I believe the sadness lies in the fact that he was on a path of growth.

Recently, I found myself composing a letter for someone new. As I prepared to insert my standard line, “Trust isn’t something that should be expected; it must be earned,” a memory of Paul surfaced. We were in a peaceful phase, and I was discussing with him how I envisioned narrating his story. He remarked, “You know, you’re essentially creating a love letter in the form of a film for me.” I acknowledged that he wasn’t wrong. Now, with Paul gone, I understand more clearly that he was correct. Through my film, I managed to convey my love for him.

Pee-wee As Himself is streaming on Max.

2025-05-28 14:56

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