Walter Salles’ I’m Still Here (Ainda Estou Aqui) isn’t just a film; it’s an emotional gut-punch, a reckoning with Brazil’s unhealed wounds through the eyes of a family that refused to be erased. This deeply personal and politically charged story earned a ten-minute standing ovation and the Best Screenplay award at Venice, and I’m not surprised.
Salles’ long-standing connection with the Paiva family lends the film an authenticity that’s hard to fake. Adapted from Marcelo Rubens Paiva’s memoir, I’m Still Here follows Eunice Paiva’s relentless pursuit of truth after her husband, Rubens, disappears under Brazil’s military dictatorship.
The early ‘60s in Brazil carried the promise of change with the election of left-leaning João Goulart, who aimed to tackle inequality and empower the working class. In 1962, Rubens Paiva, a former leader of the “Oil is Ours” movement, was elected as a federal deputy and launched investigations into U.S.-funded efforts working to destabilise Goulart’s government. The Kennedy administration was pouring millions into so-called “democratic” organisations that served as fronts for imperialist interests to undermine progressive leaders in Latin America. That support helped fuel the 1964 military coup which toppled Goulart and unleashed two decades of repression.
On April 1, 1964, Brazil was plunged into a dictatorship marked by censorship, torture, and assassinations. Rubens delivered a defiant radio address urging people to resist peacefully, before having to seek asylum abroad. Despite the danger, and with a U.S report branding him a “leftist extremist,” Paiva returned to Brazil in 1965 to be with his family and resumed his career as a civil engineer. But the regime never stopped watching.
I’m Still Here opens by immersing us in the warmth of the Paiva household in 1970 – laughter, books, intellectual banter and a record player that’s always spinning. Adrian Teijido’s cinematography captures this with textured 35mm visuals and nostalgic Super 8 footage. Filmed in a real house and with incredibly meticulous 1970’s design anchors us firmly in the home. The music – which is entirely diegetic – features artists of the time, some of whom were persecuted under the dictatorship.
Yet danger lingers. Rubens takes late-night phone calls, meets with old allies. Eldest daughter Vera and her friends are stopped at gunpoint by military officials searching for left-wing ‘terrorists’ who had kidnapped the Swiss ambassador. Concerned for Vera’s safety due to her activism, Rubens and Eunice send her to London.
Four days after the release of the Swiss ambassador in exchange for 70 political prisoners, the humiliated regime unleashes hell. Military officers knock on the Paiva’s door, demanding Rubens come with them for “questioning.” He never returns.
Salles resists over-dramatisation; the film unfolds with quiet devastation. Fernanda Torres delivers a stunning performance as Eunice, every bit of praise she’s received is more than deserved. Selton Mello’s Rubens is so deeply felt that his absence haunts the film long after he’s gone. If there’s one flaw, it’s in the pacing – it lingered a bit too long towards the end and seemed like it couldn’t decide on an ending. But that’s a minor quibble in an otherwise powerful piece of work.
At its core, I’m Still Here is about memory as resistance. Eunice’s refusal to let her husband’s story be buried is an act of defiance against a regime determined to erase dissent. Through letters, photographs, and even forced smiles in family portraits, she fights to keep his legacy alive. (This persistence drove her beyond survival—at 48, she put herself through law school and became one of Brazil’s leading experts on Indigenous rights.)
Without people like Eunice, there may never have been a truth commission. No truth commission, no Marcelo Paiva book. No book, no film.
Brazil’s dictatorship ended in 1985, but with no accountability—just a negotiated transition that let perpetrators walk free. That failure to confront the past breeds apathy, which in turn allows far-right movements to flourish. It’s how we get figures like Bolsonaro, who openly celebrated the coup and in 2014 literally spat on Paiva’s statue in Congress, calling his family terrorists.
The fact that I’m Still Here has reignited calls to reopen the Truth Commission and pushed the hashtag #SemAnistia (“No Amnesty”) into the mainstream proves its impact. By telling the Paiva family’s story, Salles reminds us that the fight for justice isn’t over, and that the personal is always political.
9/10
