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One moment, you are enjoying one of the most memorable days of your life — sharing heartfelt laughter and savouring your favourite food at a local hotel; the next, you sit across from that very table, teary-eyed, watching another family create similar memories, as you grapple with the reality that you may never experience such moments again. Set against the backdrop of Brazil’s military dictatorship (1964–1985), director Walter Salles’ political biographical drama I’m Still Here — screened recently at the 2024 International Film Festival of Kerala (IFFK) — is a profoundly well-crafted film, telling the story of Eunice Paiva (played by a brilliant Fernanda Torres) and her five children, whose lives are irrevocably changed after the forced disappearance of her husband, Rubens Paiva (Selton Mello), a former congressman, at the hands of the military regime.
What allows the Portuguese-language film to resonate so deeply with audiences is that it is based on Ainda Estou Aqui, the autobiography of Eunice and Rubens’ son Marcelo Rubens Paiva — a renowned Brazilian novelist, playwright and journalist — thus imbuing the narrative with a palpable sense of authenticity and emotional depth.
I’m Still Here opens in Rio de Janeiro during the 1970s, when the military dictatorship had reached its peak and the armed forces held absolute power, conducting arbitrary searches and detaining people without explanation or accountability. Amidst this climate of fear, the liberal Paiva family resides in a “peaceful” beachside neighbourhood, surrounded by friends and a close-knit community. In their household, politics isn’t just a subject for the adults; even the younger family members actively engage in political discourse and closely monitor the events unfolding around them, demonstrating their commitment to civic responsibility.
What makes the film so poignant — even without graphic depictions of physical torture — is Salles’ remarkable ability to capture the family’s moments of joy and connection before Rubens’ forced disappearance, thus underscoring the devastating extent of their loss.
In the very first act itself, Salles skillfully depicts the dire state of the country where freedom has become a myth. This is vividly portrayed when the couple’s eldest daughter, Vera Paiva (Valentina Herszage), is travelling in a car with her friends and as they are enjoying themselves — listening to music, singing along and Vera capturing it all on a video camera — their happy moment is abruptly interrupted by an Army checkpoint where the soldiers handle the group with blatant disregard for their humanity, treating them with the roughness one might reserve for non-fragile parcels. They push and pull the youths at every command, asserting their authority for no apparent reason. By capturing with precision this abrupt shift in tone and atmosphere within one scene, Salles immerses the audience in the oppressive reality the characters endure.
The film also excels in portraying how Brazilian civilians try to find joy in small, fleeting moments, despite knowing that such happiness can be taken away in an instant. This is illustrated through a masterfully crafted and staged scene where Rubens is taken into custody, which also serves as a microcosm of the larger horrors the film explores. One moment, Rubens and Eunice are sharing laughter; the next, armed men silently enter their home and without issuing threats or raising their voices, they inform Rubens with chilling seriousness that he must accompany them to make a deposition, offering no further explanation. Eunice pleads with them, pointing out that Rubens is only a former Brazilian (Labour Party) congressman who is no longer politically active, but her reasoning falls on deaf ears. The men remain unflinching, demanding Rubens comply. Aware of the potential consequences of resistance, Rubens agrees and prepares to leave.
This sequence powerfully illustrates the military’s unchecked power — a reality not limited to ’70s Brazil but present in any authoritarian regime or occupied territory today as well. The authority to detain anyone suspected of “anti-national activities” is also a stark reminder of how such terms are often weaponised by governments to suppress dissent and silence critics.
In the global context, this sequence resonates deeply, especially as Palestinians continue to endure the brutalities of Israel and its military. The chilling portrayal in I’m Still Here should also be a wake-up call for those who fail to comprehend — or refuse to acknowledge — the fear and violence inflicted by regimes supported by heavily armed forces that operate with impunity. The sequence culminates with Eunice standing at the door, watching Rubens as he enters the car and just before leaving, he looks back at her with a faint smile — a hauntingly tender moment, as it becomes the last time she sees the love of her life. Salles’ direction, the nuanced and powerful performances of Torres and Mello, and Adrian Teijido’s evocative cinematography deserve all praise for the emotional weight of this sequence.
I’m Still Here carries significant relevance in the Indian context too. The plight of political prisoners like Umar Khalid, those imprisoned in connection with the Bhima Koregaon case such as Surendra Gadling and Jyoti Jagtap, and those who remain behind bars under draconian laws such as the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA) — which is often used to target dissenting voices — highlights the film’s relevance. While the title, I’m Still Here, can be interpreted as the collective scream of these prisoners, imploring society to recognise their plight and refusing to be erased, it also stands as a declaration to the authorities that no matter the oppression, the spirit of resistance will endure, as evidenced by the lives of Prof GN Saibaba and Stan Swamy.
Even as the camera initially adopts a broad and all-encompassing perspective, capturing the lives of various characters, its focus narrows sharply to Eunice after Rubens’ arrest, reflecting the heavy burden of responsibility and grief that suddenly falls upon her. However, when a tabloid reporter arrives to cover Rubens’ forced disappearance — for which the Paiva family receives no answers from the authorities and remains clueless about his whereabouts — Eunice is asked for a family photo. Although the reporter advises against smiling, fearing it might undermine the emotional impact of the story, Eunice instructs her children to smile widely, and this serves as a quiet but defiant message to the oppressive regime, declaring that Paivas refuse to give in.
In one pivotal scene, as Eunice searches for the truth behind Rubens’ detention, she discovers that he, along with his friends, had been actively supporting the underground opposition by helping those hunted by the government. This revelation highlights how women always end up bearing the heaviest consequences of men’s actions. While Rubens’ efforts were noble and courageous, his decision to exclude Eunice from his plans left her unprepared to face the aftermath, forcing her to take on everything alone.
Even after learning that Rubens had been killed, Eunice receives no tangible proof of his death. Undaunted, she persists in her quest for answers, which finally culminates in the receipt of his death certificate 25 years post his forced disappearance — a victory achieved through her relentless determination.
In a striking subsequent scene, Eunice, speaking to the media, is asked whether Brazil should continue introspecting and addressing past mistakes instead of focusing solely on moving forward. She responds firmly, emphasising the importance of setting the record straight so that justice, in some form, may prevail. According to The New York Times, human rights groups estimate that hundreds were forcibly disappeared and approximately 20,000 people were tortured during Brazil’s dictatorship. However, unlike Chile or Argentina, where many perpetrators of such atrocities faced legal consequences, Brazil has unfortunately failed to pursue accountability for its military’s atrocities.
Towards the end, we see an elderly and wheelchair-bound Eunice (portrayed by the legendary Fernanda Montenegro, Fernanda Torres’ iconic mother) surrounded by her children and their families in 2014. They gather for a family photograph, all smiling once again, encapsulating their resilience and strength, embodying the life Rubens would have wanted for them — one filled with happiness and togetherness, free from exile.
Ironically, just before the screening of I’m Still Here, which explores the devastating consequences of unchecked governmental power, an incident in Kerala highlighted a similar intolerance. A 28-year-old lawyer was detained by police for merely booing Kerala Chief Minister Pinarayi Vijayan during the IFFK 2024 inauguration in Thiruvananthapuram, illustrating how power can blind those in authority, rendering them intolerant of dissent. Screening a film like I’m Still Here immediately after such an incident only underscores the hypocrisy of the Kerala government, which claims to champion artistic freedom while silencing acts of protest against its leadership.
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