Director: Kristen Brown
Release Year: 2024
Kristen Brown’s 2024 documentary Juana on Fire opens with a quiet street in Santa Clara before dawn, the kind of street that seems to hold its breath. Then Juana Candela steps into the frame, and the hush dissolves. She walks with the steady confidence of someone who has fought long battles and learned, through grit rather than privilege, that dignity can be claimed even in places determined to deny it. As the first openly trans woman in Santa Clara, she carries her history in her posture. Brown’s film treats that history with the reverence and curiosity it deserves.
Juana is introduced in the larger context of Glitter From Dust, a six-part series that unearths queer Cuban lives often excluded from official narratives. Her episode becomes an anchor for the entire project, because Juana is not only an individual but a living archive of the country’s contradictions. She is celebrated now, but her story begins in a time when being publicly trans in Cuba meant risking everything. Her early adulthood unfolds under the weight of social hostility and state surveillance. She has endured imprisonment, and it was there, surrounded by danger and uncertainty, that she earned the affectionate title “Queen Mother,” a reminder of the strength she offered others even when she herself was under threat.
Brown does not portray Juana as a saint, a victim, or a symbol. Instead, she allows Juana to be gloriously human. The camera lingers on her laugh, which is warm and loud and unmistakably triumphant, but it also registers the exhaustion in her eyes when she reflects on the years when she had to fight simply to exist. She recalls moments of persecution with a mixture of anger and humor that feels distinctly Cuban, and her presence on screen becomes a form of resistance. There is no self-pity here, only a rugged honesty that makes the viewer understand why younger trans women in Santa Clara describe her not as a relic of history but as a guide.
The documentary reveals how Juana’s personal story traces the broader trajectory of LGBTQ life in Cuba. Her memories of early clandestine drag gatherings echo the origins of queer nightlife in the country, moments of joy carved out of silence and fear. She speaks about friends lost during the HIV crisis, when many queer Cubans were forced into isolation under policies that are now widely condemned. She remembers the sting of being treated as disposable and the stubborn belief that their lives had value even if the system insisted otherwise.
Brown balances this painful history with scenes of an evolving society. Viewers see Juana in present-day Santa Clara, greeting neighbors, chatting with shopkeepers, and embracing young trans women who approach her with a mixture of respect and awe. In these moments, the past and present sit side by side. Juana survived a world built to erase her, and now she stands in the open, no longer a secret whispered in backrooms but a recognized elder whose existence alone signals change.
What makes Juana on Fire particularly compelling is its refusal to flatten Cuba into either tragedy or triumph. The film acknowledges the violence and discrimination that shaped Juana’s life, yet it also captures the vibrant resilience that has allowed the LGBTQ community to carve out spaces of belonging. Juana becomes a lens through which we see this complexity. She is rebellious by instinct and tenacious by necessity. She jokes about having a stubborn streak that kept her alive, yet she also speaks with softness about love, friendship, and the importance of intergenerational support within the queer community.
As part of Glitter From Dust, her episode enriches a collective portrait that includes pioneers of drag performance, survivors of forced medical isolation, and activists who challenged state policies long before activism was safe. Each person in this series adds another thread to the tapestry of Cuban queer history, and Juana’s thread shines brightest because she has lived through nearly every chapter of it. Her life reflects the cruelty and the courage, the silence and the defiance, the despair and the creativity that have defined Cuba’s LGBTQ struggle.
The documentary ultimately positions Juana as both witness and warrior. She has seen the worst the country could offer, yet she remains fiercely loyal to her community and to the idea that transformation is possible. Brown films her with tenderness, allowing her to articulate her own narrative rather than having experts or academics do it for her. It is a choice that honors the documentary’s purpose. These stories were not recorded for decades, and now that they are finally given space, they speak for themselves.
By the time the episode ends, Juana has become more than a subject. She feels like someone you might meet in a crowded plaza, someone who would wave you over, tell you a joke, offer you advice, and remind you that survival can be a kind of art. Her story is not neat or easy, but it burns with a clarity that gives the documentary its title. She is on fire because she has refused to be extinguished.
Juana on Fire stands as one of the most moving portraits in contemporary LGBTQ documentary filmmaking. It preserves a piece of history that was nearly lost and celebrates a woman whose life continues to inspire a new generation of queer Cubans. In capturing her story, Kristen Brown does more than document resilience. She illuminates a path forged by those who dared to live openly when openness was dangerous. Juana walked that path first. Now, because of her, it is brighter for everyone who follows.
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