How to Survive a Dictatorship
Based on a true story, I’m Still Here isn’t just one of Brazil’s best ever films. It’s a cautionary tale for the state of our democracy today.
good.film
16 days ago
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For most of us, floating in the ocean next to a Brazilian beach probably sounds like a blissful escape. Wind back the clock to 1970 and it might sound even nicer. No email, no TikTok, and an ice-cold Coke so cheap, the Paiva girls use it as suntan lotion. It feels like a peaceful scene, and that’s the point. It IS peaceful, right up until the deafening chopper blades thud through the air above.
Okay, context: in Rio de Janeiro at that time, Brazilians lived under the grip of a brutal military dictatorship which lasted over two decades. Think censorship, torture, and disappearing “subversives” – essentially anyone who opposed the regime. That resistance is a core theme of Brazilian filmmaker Walter Salles’ work, from Central Station and City of God to The Motorcycle Diaries. And while the real events of I’m Still Here took place over half a century ago, Salles’ latest film is a startlingly current look at oppression (that old global chestnut), and the power of those who stand up to it.
Eunice Paiva (Fernanda Torres) was one of those powerful souls. Born in 1929, she became a lawyer, activist, and human rights advocate. But in 1970, she was “just” a busy mother of 5 and wife to Rubens (Selton Mello), an engineer and former left-wing politician. That instantly marks her family out. You really are sitting ducks, their liberal friends insist, as they share stories of the resistance in the Paiva’s living room while watching kidnappings on the news. Other friends flee to London and encourage them to join, saying bluntly: Brasilia is a ticking time bomb.
Across its runtime, I’m Still Here steadily increases the volume of this slow ticking. It begins as a domestic time machine: Salles cleverly gives the eldest daughter Vera (Valentina Herszage) a Super-8 camera, so we often see life through her vintage lens. Carefree days at the beach, or the family laying the foundations for the new home they’re building – on land that lies just below the outstretched arms of Christ the Redeemer, no less. The flickering film makes life look idyllic and gives us a sense that they’re looking on safety to what’s happening, at a distance… until they’re stopped at a police blockade and interrogated at gunpoint.
How does I'm Still Here explore the idea of political oppression?
The history books give us key moments in time. It’s easy to look back now and see the clear lines in black and white; dates when democracies fell and dictatorships arose. But for those living through that “history”, things were never that clear. It’s the way these dangers creep slowly into the Paiva’s life that make I’m Still Here so effective.
Rubens has been out of politics for years, but he still runs in the same liberal circles. His former colleagues warn him, It’s getting too dangerous here Rubens. But he & Eunice never seriously consider leaving. Like the classic frog in a pot metaphor, they’ve grown accustomed to the dictatorial changes in the climate around them. They don’t see the need to jump out, even though the water’s nearly boiling. When they decide that their eldest daughter Vera can travel to London, notice the words they use that reflect their frame of mind: Let's send her with them. At least until this phase is over.
But there’s no real “safe phase” to a dictatorship, and I’m Still Here puts us right in the Paiva’s shoes when armed men arrive without warning to take Rubens for a “routine deposition” and he never returns. In a heartbeat, Eunice is living with a queasy kind of powerlessness; she has no recourse and she’s given no explanation. This lack of options and info is the point of a dictatorship; designed to eradicate hope.
If you’re wondering How could things come to this?, that’s exactly Salles’ intent. Democracy is a fragile system, he firmly reminds us – and bit by bit, authoritarian forces can purposefully squeeze the oxygen out like a python. “Routine” events like traffic stops slowly become more extreme. Questionings become kidnappings. Depositions become disposals. To frame it with a modern lens, think of how the Trump administration recently barred the Associated Press, an independent news organization, from covering certain White House events – because it refused to refer to the “Gulf of Mexico” as the “Gulf of America”.
What does I'm Still Here have to say about resilience and strength?
There’s a shift in energy in I’m Still Here’s midsection, as Salles builds on the idea that there’s a fire inside Eunice. There are so many reasons for Eunice to collapse in anger and despair, but rather than Ruben’s disappearance snuffing her out, it’s like there’s a gust that makes her burn brighter. Her way to resist the dictatorship? Refuse to lie down. There’s several ideas that get introduced here as Eunice mounts a kind of quest to find Rubens – or at least find out more.
The first is the idea of misinformation. How pervasive it can be, and how much control it can exert. The papers say Rubens escaped, but it’s clearly a lie. The army is denying his arrest entirely. Eunice goes to the barracks to get his (distinctive) red car, and they say he’s not there, but can’t tell her where he’s been transferred. No, you need to check with the Federal Police. Sure, mate. For all we know, they’re the same forces that just held her captive.
“At the end of the day, this is a film about the reinvention of a family. From the moment Rubens is taken away so abruptly, the film becomes not just about loss, but also about how you can overcome loss. It’s a story in which you realize that nothing is unsurmountable when there is affection, when you’re surrounded by loved ones. That was very central to me.”
~ Walter Salles
Another element Salles explores is the economic prison that Eunice finds herself in because there’s no concrete information about her husband. He’s not officially detained, missing or dead, he’s just – not here. And while everyone knows what’s happened, no-one can actually say it, because to do so would be to speak out against the dictatorship. Added to that, because she’s a woman living in the 1970s with all accounts in her husband’s name, the bank won’t allow Eunice to withdraw any cash without Ruben’s approval – even though the bank teller knows both her and her husband.
For her family’s safety, Eunice has to keep up the pretense that Rubens is away overseeing some construction – but even as she pretends, she has to accept the reality that he’s likely not coming back. Watch for the dinner table scene where we see how this inner conviction gives her an unfathomable strength. Eunice decides to accept the present, grab hold of her future and become the breadwinner to keep her family united. She’s calm, gently smiling but fiercely determined, as she tells her children We're moving to Sao Paolo. I’m going back to college. On Friday, a truck is going to pull up. I want you to pack your own bags. Pass the salt.
Before they leave, there’s a key scene when Eunice is interviewed, and the newspaper sends a photographer to their home. The family bundle together on the steps, posing and smiling, as the snapper awkwardly tries to ask them Can you be less… happy? The family laugh harder when Eunice sums up what’s going on. The editor wants it sad, she decodes for her children. But she refuses. Eunice knows the game, and she’s hell bent on showing the world that while the regime may have taken her husband, it couldn’t break her family’s spirit.
How does I'm Still Here tap into the concept of legacy and memory?
One of the stronger themes of the film – and we’d suspect, part of its inspiration – is the desire to keep Rubens’ memory alive. It says a lot about Selton Mello’s jovial performance that, even though he (literally) disappears from the story after the first act, his presence pervades the rest of the film like an imprint. It strengthens the idea that everything Eunice did was to ensure Rubens WASN’T “erased” like the dictatorship wanted.
In reality, these events set Eunice Paiva on a new course. The film makes you wonder, if Rubens were never captured and forced to disappear, would she have ever set her sights on a law degree? It was highly uncommon at the time: in the 1970s, women made up only 13% of all lawyers in Brazil, and at 41, she was far older than the typical law student. But she was a widow with 5 children to support, and a contained fury burning inside her.
In the final act, I’m Still Here flashes forward to 1996, where Eunice is lecturing students about land rights for local Brazilians, pitted against corporations whose MO is built on greed. It locks in the feeling that Rubens DOES have a legacy; one that’s continued through her work. The 25 years of Rubens that was stolen from the Paiva’s lives can’t ever be repaid. But by dedicating her career to human rights, it’s as though the lost energy from those years was somehow paid forward. Building her work AND maintaining her loving family was Eunice Paiva’s own ultimate triumph.
So - what’s the takeaway from I'm Still Here?
Despite its subject matter, this isn’t a downbeat story. Walter Salles and his stoic lead, the luminous Fernanda Torres (an Oscar nominee for this role), combine here in a way that leaves you walking from the cinema feeling uplifted. There’s a Gandhi-esque quality at the core of I'm Still Here: the idea that resilience has more strength than any weapon, and that the Paiva’s emotional connection as a family can withstand their very profound grief.
At the film’s climax, Eunice Paiva says that Forced disappearances were one of the cruelest acts of the regime – because they take one person, but it condemns countless others to endless psychological torture. And yet there are still individual rays of light that pierce this darkness. The prison guard who whispers to Eunice I want you to know, I disapprove of what they're doing. The bank manager, a genuine friend who tells her he wishes he could do more.
Beautifully textured (that golden Super-8!), Walter Salles has made a film that feels alive, and perhaps it’s no accident. Among the reminders that the Paivas are indeed a real, living family is that recurring motif of a family photo, which Salles returns to in the final scene. Another 20 years has passed since ‘96, and there’s more members now than ever. More greys, more wrinkles. A wheelchair too. Yet, before the shutter clicks, they’re still smiling. They’re a family that remain unbroken.
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