I'm Still Here

The realisation that her husband is gone for good is a gradual process that plays out, largely without words, on Torres’s face, in a performance of extraordinary intelligence and emotional complexity.

I’m Still Here is a movie about remembrance – of a family and a nation. The necessity to acknowledge injustice is its timeless clarion call.

Salles never over-labours the film’s emotional beats, relying instead on Torres’ magnificent, intricately layered performance to drive the picture.

Walter Salles’ latest, and most accomplished film, I’m Still Here, allows international audiences into this world of quiet resilience and powerful response to the whims of a dictatorial regime.

What’s remarkable is how [Torres] never overplays anything, or goes for easy histrionics and rending of garments even when the movie itself becomes heavy-handed in the back half.

I’m Still Here is an evocative, nuanced portrait of family and the lasting imprint of politics.

On this occasion Salles has somehow failed to find the right cinematic framework for this biopic storytelling. The film feels uncalibrated, but not in the free-flowing, depth-exploring, liberated kind of way.

A sensibilidade do filme, a interpretação contida da Fernanda Torres deu um toque especial no filme.

What a deep dive in how dictature can softly and then violently coerce civilians. A lesson in so uncertain times.

Unfortunately, it didn't impact me as much as I wished. There's nothing offensive about the content or the aesthetics (just the cheesy and corny use of the original soundtrack to evoke obvious feelings that would have been much more powerful without the music), nothing that I could point out as bad or technically incompetent. But at the same time, it didn't show anything memorable or noteworthy. The setting of the story is so aestheticized it comes close to a nostalgic recreation of a Kodachrome atmosphere, with references to Brazilian cultural practices and objects from the 1970s. The reason for this aesthetic approach is obvious: it aims to create a contrast between the upper-middle-class life of the Paiva family, ‘shielded’ from the horrors of the military dictatorship due to their socioeconomic position, and the eventual darkness and filth that is revealed after the arrest and disappearance of the patriarch. In the first part of the film, we have an almost nostalgic vision of the 1970s: for part of the upper-middle class of Rio, the dictatorship seemed distant, just armed officers walking down the street while their families go on living their normal lives, enjoying the beach and the heat. The danger seemed distant, invisible, only affecting others. Here we have an almost idyllic portrait of childhood, youth, and family. Bad things happen, but the fear is out there, in the streets, on the television screen. With the invasion of the house, we lose the security of home. With Rubens' disappearance due to subversive dissent, we are confronted with the cruel and violent world of what happens behind the scenes of an authoritarian government, creating a contrast between the false security of a sheltered fantasy and the harsh reality of the facts, transforming the film into an exercise in reflective nostalgia: the idyllic memory is destroyed to make way for repressive horror. But this contrast doesn't go far enough. The interrogation and confinement scenes remain on the fringes of what is acceptable, palatable, a violence (even if only implied) that avoids shocking as much as it should. Maybe it's my fault for being too desensitized, and the general public might feel the impact caused by these moments. But in my opinion, there was a lack of subversiveness to create something truly uncomfortable and visceral when dealing with the horrors of the dictatorship. I was inevitably reminded of shocking scenes from other Brazilian films that deal with torture and repression, either explicitly set during the military coup or using historical subterfuges to talk about the (then) current regime, based on the remediation of past events. The Case of the Naves Brothers immediately came to mind, as did Lucio Flavio: two films whose moments of military/police violence stand out and create a feeling of visceral discomfort, unlike the case of I’m Still Here, whose discomfort comes more from the idea than from the guts. Avoiding going beyond common sense, the discourse of I'm Still Here is one of light politicization, an obvious, palatable criticism. It is an exercise in memory that is necessary at a political moment in which common sense unfortunately no longer seems to be so common. Its politicizing and awareness-raising function is clear, and it seems to be doing its job well, being well-received by the public and gaining recognition abroad. I am happy with its achievements, but on a personal level it did not impact me. With its polished aesthetic and traditional, safe structure, it became just another film imprisoned by the shackles of a need for financial return and distribution in traditional, commercial circuits. I understand its importance and I understand why so many people were won over by it, but for me it did not stand out. It doesn’t rub enough salt into the wound, following a path of harmless criticism. Maybe watching it a second time will change my mind, but for now I see it simply as a competent film, but one that does not move me.

A sad story that drags on. I’m not understanding how this was a film. That doesn’t lessen the outrage of the event being depicted, but this film left me cold.

I was so happy to see that the history of our beautiful country was being shown on the big screen, people from different cultures can learn about what happened here, I'M STILL HERE is life, real life, the hardships we went through and overcame, heartwarming! Honestly, it's one of the few movies I want to watch countless times as long as I live.