In the opening seconds of I’m Still Here (2024) – which won the Oscar for Best International Feature Film – before we get to lay eyes on any of the characters, we hear the muddling slap of helicopter blades approaching in the distance. We then see a woman floating relaxedly on the sea of Rio de Janeiro, oblivious until the aircraft passes over her and flies toward the beach where four of her five children are enjoying themselves. Later in the movie, after taking a picture with her family and friends on the same beach, a close-up of the woman’s face suggests that she’s the only one who notices army trucks on the avenue in front of her house.

“A virtuoso performance by Fernanda Torres”

Of course, the opening crawl has forewarned us that it is 1970 and Brazil is living “under a military dictatorship.” But these little invasions are out of place in the never-ending summer of the Facciolla Paiva family to which we are introduced. Once we learn about the tragedy that upends this idyllic existence, a Paradise Lost interpretation seems to be in order. And yet, fortunately, things are not as simple as that.

Based on Marcelo Rubens Paiva’s 2015 memoir of the same title, I’m Still Here, directed by Walter Salles, revolves around the forced disappearance of Rubens Paiva (Selton Mello), a civil engineer and former congressman from São Paulo who was tortured and murdered by the authoritarian regime that ruled Brazil from 1964 to 1985. This inscribes the film within a cinematic tradition that has regained momentum in recent years, with movies such as Chile ’76 (2022) and Argentina, 1985 (2022) insisting that the battle against dictatorships is unfinished business. This is why Rubens’ wife Eunice Facciolla Paiva — in a virtuoso performance by Fernanda Torres — answers with a resolute “No” when a reporter asks her older self whether the government doesn’t have “more urgent issues than fixing the past.”

Like democracy, family is depicted by Salles as a very fragile structure. More than the devastating crimes of the dictatorship, the film centres on the aftermath of Rubens’ disappearance and its effect on his wife and children, one of whom was actually friends with Salles during his teenage years in Rio. (To give you some context, this is the kind of father who helps his daughter find the perfect spot to bury her baby tooth and eloquently tells his children that their mother is “the most beautiful woman in the world”).

The beachfront house itself reflects the impact of Rubens’ abduction. Brimming with gossip, music and intellectual freedom, it is a space that has not yet been corrupted when the film begins. Two contemporary influences come to mind here. On the one hand, the socially committed ethos of Brazilian ‘Cinema Novo’, with filmmakers such as Glauber Rocha or Nelson Pereira dos Santos. On the other hand, the legacy of Tropicália music, which is well-represented in the movie by singers like Erasmo Carlos, Tom Zé and Juca Chaves. It is therefore unsurprising that immediately after Rubens is taken away, both the cinematography and the soundtrack are deprived of the colours, the tunes and the verbosity that characterised the house in its happier days, which are superbly shot in Super 8 and 35mm.

“Family is depicted by Salles as a very fragile structure”

While the absence of Rubens underpins the rest of the film, it is Eunice who carries its spiritual and moral arc, transforming it into a powerful behind-the-handlebars tale that lingers with us long after leaving the theatre. From the moment she realises there is no going back, she is gradually compelled to assume a Stoic role to protect her children and seek justice. Even though the plot gives us access to the darker stages of their bereavement, we learn that the family is not torn apart but reinvented. And while Rubens still occupies a very special place in it, it is Eunice who holds it together.

Never overplaying the emotional responses of the Paiva matriarch (which are often conveyed by gesticulations rather than by tears or words), Fernanda Torres embodies the character so persuasively that she creates a firm hold on our feelings and lectures us on how we can conceivably survive such a traumatic experience. That said, Murilo Hauser and Heitor Lorega’s screenplay portrays Eunice’s transition from housewife to lawyer and activist without falling on didactic pretences.

In one of the most memorable scenes, while having a picture taken with her children for a magazine article, Eunice is adamant that they should all smile despite the editor’s request for a sad photograph. “We’re going to smile,” she declares with conviction. This is a process that comes full circle in the epilogue, with the legendary Fernanda Montenegro joining her daughter (and by extension Eunice) in reminding us that holding on to life and our liberty is perhaps the greatest weapon we possess to honour the victims of totalitarian regimes.

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