Juan Gabriel: I Must, I Can, I Will

The Architect of Joy

Celebrity documentaries often suffer from a fatal flaw: they are either hagiographies polished to a blinding sheen or tabloids masquerading as truth. It is rare to find a film that understands the chasm between the person who lives and the persona who performs. *Juan Gabriel: I Must, I Can, I Will* (2025) avoids these traps by surrendering the narrative to the only person qualified to tell it: Alberto Aguilera Valadez. Directed by María José Cuevas, this four-part limited series is less a biography and more of a séance, summoning the spirit of Mexico’s "El Divo de Juárez" not through talking heads, but through the lens of his own camera.

The series’ greatest triumph is its visual language, which relies heavily on a treasure trove of never-before-seen personal archives. For decades, Aguilera obsessively documented his life with a Super 8 camera, turning the lens on himself long before the era of the selfie. These grainy, intimate sequences create a suffocating sense of reality that contrasts sharply with the glitz of his stage performances. We see the artist in his bathrobe, in quiet moments of reflection, and in the candid chaos of backstage life. Cuevas expertly juxtaposes these home movies with the polished, operatic grandeur of his public appearances—most notably the legendary Bellas Artes concert. The editing does not just move us through time; it moves us between two distinct realities: the lonely silence of Alberto and the roaring adoration of Juan Gabriel.

At its human core, the documentary is a study of survival through self-invention. The narrative does not shy away from the trauma that forged the icon—the poverty, the abandonment, and the heartbreaking revelation of abuse suffered in his youth. Yet, the film refuses to paint him as a victim. Instead, it frames his artistry as an act of defiant will. When we watch the footage of him navigating a fiercely machista Mexico in sequins and silk, we are not just watching a performance; we are witnessing a combatant. The "duality" often cited in reviews is here rendered not as a split personality, but as a shield. Alberto created Juan Gabriel not to hide, but to protect the fragile boy within.

There is a profound melancholy that underpins the joy of his music, a tension the documentary captures beautifully. In one poignant sequence, the adulation of thousands fades into the solitude of a hotel room, reminding us that the applause eventually stops. The series demands we look past the caricature of the flamboyant showman to see the architect of his own destiny.

Ultimately, *Juan Gabriel: I Must, I Can, I Will* succeeds because it respects the mystery of its subject. It pulls back the curtain, yes, but it reveals that the man behind it was just as mesmerizing as the wizard he projected. In an era of over-exposed celebrity, this film stands as a testament to the power of controlling one’s own narrative, right up to the final bow. It is a heartbreaking, triumphant reminder that while Juan Gabriel belonged to the world, Alberto Aguilera always belonged to himself.