'¡Gaytino!': His Two True Selves

The history of showbiz and the showbiz of history figure prominently in "¡Gaytino!," the autobiographical solo piece Dan Guerrero performed at the Kennedy Center's Terrace Theater on Tuesday and Wednesday. But those epochal themes did not seem to be the catalysts for the enthusiasm (cries of recognition, a standing ovation) that greeted his turn on opening night. Rather, the sizable audience seemed to be responding to Guerrero's utter unguardedness as he evoked his life as a gay Hispanic with a passion for the arts.

Dressed in white shirt and brown pants, Guerrero -- who occasionally tossed off a few low-key Broadway or disco dance steps -- spoke confidingly, as if addressing a roomful of friends. Projections of old photos (childhood snapshots, theater facades) and video footage (César Chávez's funeral) on a screen behind him added visual texture to his tale.

Raised in Los Angeles as the son of Chicano music icon Lalo Guerrero, he experienced his childhood and early adulthood in the 1950s and '60s as a poignant series of light-bulb moments: He was, well, different. He was of Mexican descent ("This was way before we had 'Hispanics'!"). He was gay (and this was back when "Liberace was just flamboyant!"). He loved musicals (records became a "magic carpet of black vinyl").

After moving to New York, he forged a career as a talent agent, representing the likes of Fran Drescher and a young, pint-size Sarah Jessica Parker. Later, he found a calling as an avid promoter and producer of Latino art and television -- booking Chávez on talk shows, for instance, or directing the Kennedy Center's Pablo Neruda celebration. Yet he also has wondered whether his emphasis on cultural identity was limiting him.

Directed by Diane Rodriguez, the 75-minute "¡Gaytino!," which has played in Los Angeles and elsewhere, cradles two bittersweet personal through-lines: the story of Guerrero's rapport with his father (whose music seemed "tacky" to the young, would-be thespian) and the saga of Dan's decades-long friendship with visual artist Carlos Almaraz, who died of AIDS-related illnesses in 1989. (A few of Almaraz's haunting paintings appear among the projections.)

On Tuesday, the sad and reflective moments were more than balanced by wry, insider-y jokes and anecdotes: a recollection of scandalizing the Nixon White House with risque Cole Porter lyrics; an exasperated passing reference to "Cats" (need we say more?); a deadpan observation that Rita Moreno and Chita Rivera are, in fact, "two different women!"

The humor and Guerrero's air of candor made this sociologically trenchant show a disarming twist on the triumph-of-the-human-spirit theme.