To me, Man on the Moon is one part of an unofficial trilogy–alongside the documentaries Jim & Andy: The Great Beyond and Thank You Very Much. These three cinematic siblings form a kaleidoscope of perspectives, where each one is trying to peel back the masks and answer the impossible question: who was the real Andy Kaufman? Yet, the beauty lies in the unknown because no one truly knows the answer.

Kaufman died in 1984 at the tender age of 35, from large cell carcinoma of the lung; a devastating illness often linked to heavy smoking. Perhaps it was through his alter-ego Tony Clifton, who was much more careless, where Andy’s health started to decline. Kauffman himself was famously elusive even in the details of his health, and within the many personas he performed lived a deeply sensitive and gentle soul. Was it the burden of being the eldest sibling? Or perhaps the solitude of his childhood because he was so unique? In some ways he was all alone and misunderstood; so a young Andy created a friend to witness his playful acts and become his non-judgmental audience, made out of a Howdy Doody puppet and his imagination.

In the mid-1950s, television had just begun to revolutionize the US media-consumption, for many kids this framed-portal became not just a source of entertainment but a 4:3 window of empathy and joy. For Andy, the TV set was like a mini-stage where he began to craft not just jokes, but an identity. As he grew older, he seemed increasingly aware of how society policed emotion and behavior. And so, he turned toward performance–not just comedy, but confrontation, provocation, and play. He was in need of the audience’s symbiotic energy, not just for the applause, but for that reciprocal connection. That need was spiritual, almost existential. Perhaps even aided by a few mind-expanding substances.

Andy’s comedic talent was often misunderstood–which tends to be the case with many geniuses. But Andy, even though he stumbled over many rocks along the way, always managed to pick himself back up. He grew up during the height of the Vietnam War and the rise of Elvis Presley, a time supercharged by the influence of hallucinogenic drugs and shifting cultural tides. Through Andy’s unique lens, this heightened experience became a filter-a way to channel the culture of the time and poke fun at just how fragile and absurd the human mind can be.

Maybe it was transcendental meditation (TM) that kept him grounded. Maybe that was the thing that saved him. Through that practice, he was able to quiet the noise, find stillness, and tune into his inner voice. He followed what he called his “God feeling,” and used it as a compass–one that would later help him bend minds, twist expectations, and pull laughter out of people who weren’t even sure why they were laughing. That’s not easy. That’s war. A hard, epic battle–one that very few are willing to fight, and even fewer win. But those who do… they become timeless. They speak for a generation. Their art lives on, ready to be rediscovered at any moment.

That’s the legacy of Andy Kaufman: someone who made friends with fear and let life pull the ultimate prank on him. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was all in the cards. But when he was discovered by George Shapiro, his life changed forever. Shapiro’s manager-protector archetype played a huge role in Kaufman’s career. George helped propel Andy into the upper echelons of comedy in the 1970s… and from there on, Andy never looked back. Fame followed. So did confusion. But through it all, Andy remained uncompromising, fully committed to the bit. Like a true artist, with raw talent who made comedy into performance art, and performance art into something closer to myth.

If you don’t know much about Andy’s life–or if you’ve never seen Man on the Moon, Jim & Andy, or Thank You Very Much–start with whichever one calls to you. Watch that one. Then watch the other two. It doesn’t matter the order. Let it be your journey. These three cinematic siblings–one biopic, two documentaries–are a powerful trilogy. Each one offers a different lens into Andy’s world. Together, they paint a portrait of a comedian who made rejection his muse, a testament to an artist who had absolutely no fear of awkward silence. An artist who didn’t just do comedy. He turned it into art. After all, some performers aim to be liked. Andy Kaufman aimed to be unforgettable.

PS: If you ever have a chance… take the bus to get your milk and cookies.

Back in 1999, I was a young dreamer living in Argentina, with a Kaufmanesque attitude toward making my Hollywood dreams into a reality. I was completely convinced that the Argentine government was on the verge of collapse, and that the only viable shot at a better life for my mom and I was to move to the U.S. I was passionate. Stubborn. Maybe even a little delusional. But I was determined to convince my mom to help me chase this dream.

Our relationship at the time felt a lot like what you see in Man on the Moon–the dynamic between Andy (Jim Carrey) and his manager Shapiro (Danny DeVito). For me, watching DeVito felt like watching a parental figure–a version of my own mom… joining me on a wild ride into the unknown. Watch Danny DeVito talk about Andy and the conception of Man on the Moon.

I remember watching the making of featurettes, catching glimpses of the behind-the-scenes of Man on the Moon, and getting completely hyped. MTV I had R.E.M. on repeat. I’d rewatch their music video, the one with footage of the real Andy Kaufman, over and over. I even saw the E! True Hollywood Story about him. His highs and lows, his joy, his weirdness, his sweetness–it all pulled me in.

At one point, I had a full-blown tantrum trying to convince my mom we had to move to the U.S. Back then, MTV was kind of like what Twitter (I’m old school) and Instagram are now—it’s where you got your pop culture fix. So when the ads for Man on the Moon started airing, I told my mom the only way I’d finish school was if we moved to the States. No joke.

In a true act of rebellious teenage drama, I took a bus to the local shopping mall and bought a matinee ticket to see Man on the Moon. Money was tight back then, so this wasn’t just about seeing a movie–it was my one shot. I had to make it count. I told the cinema staff that my mom was out shopping and I was just catching a film on my own. Pretty good acting, honestly. I was either a future Oscar winner or a mini con artist… I’ll let you decide.

I had the whole cinema to myself. Pure bliss. But halfway through the film, a security guard slowly walked down the aisle and asked me to come with him. Next thing I knew, I was at the police station, waiting awkwardly with my very confused and very embarrassed mom. The cops weren’t mad. They clearly had bigger things to deal with. But I think, deep down, they were kind of amused by the whole thing.

Fast forward 25 years, and here I am… living in the city where cinematic dreams do sometimes come true. You just have to be resilient enough to ride the waves. These days, the film industry in L.A. has had more downs than ups, but I still believe the pendulum will swing back. It always does. And when it does, new opportunities will rise–just like they always have, for those stubborn enough to keep believing.