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Few films are able to transport us to such an intimate and painful place as I’m Still Here. While watching it, I felt as if Eunice’s pain and strength, played by Fernanda Torres , brought out not only a story of mourning, but also a powerful reflection on human resilience and female strength in times of oppression.
Based on the book by Marcelo Rubens Paiva, the film directed by Walter Salles tells the story of Eunice Paiva, Rubens Paiva’s wife, a former congressman who was kidnapped and disappeared during the military regime in Brazil. But I'm Still Here goes beyond being a narrative about the horror of the dictatorship. It is a delicate and deeply human exploration of how a woman copes with absence and a constant threat in an environment where even the walls of the house are surrounded by fear.
What makes the movie even more striking is Fernanda Torres' performance. She navigates with impressive mastery between the upper-middle-class housewife and a woman consumed by pain, but who never loses her strength. In one particular scene, in which Eunice receives devastating news, Torres barely utters a word. Her gaze, her posture, the way she holds a simple object... Everything conveys a complexity of emotions that few actresses can achieve. It's the kind of performance that gives goose bumps and brings tears to the eyes at the same time.
And as if that weren't enough, the movie also gives us a special appearance by Fernanda Montenegro , playing Eunice more than 40 years later. It's a meeting of generations that further elevates the emotional weight of the narrative, bringing a mature and reflective view of a woman who lived through the consequences of the dictatorship, but never forgot it.
The historical context is one of the movie’s pillars, but what struck me most was how Walter Salles managed to connect this story to the present. We live in times when authoritarian discourses are gaining strength again, and I'm Still Here serves as an urgent reminder of how fascism destroys not only individuals, but also families, dreams, and rights. More than a history lesson, it's a wake-up call—and, to me, impossible to ignore.
From a technical point of view, the movie is a masterpiece. Adrian Teijido's photography is a spectacle in itself. Light and shadow are used symbolically to highlight both moments of oppression and glimpses of hope. There is a scene, for example, in which the Paiva house, once a refuge, is shown surrounded by tanks and soldiers. This image is devastating and reminds us that even the safest space can become a prison. Warren Ellis' soundtrack is also impeccable. Its melancholy notes not only accompany, but intensify every emotion, creating an almost visceral connection with the audience.
Despite all the pain that permeates the narrative, I’m Still Here finds beauty in moments of resistance and affection. There's a scene in which Eunice, alone at home, dances to the sound of an old song. It's a brief, almost ephemeral moment, but it says so much about the strength we find even in the darkest days. It was at that moment that I realized how much the film is not only about loss, but also about survival.
What struck me most at the end was the universality of the story. Although it is rooted in a Brazilian context, I’m Still Here talks about something we can all understand: the impact of absence and the struggle to move on. That's one of the great virtues of cinema, isn't it? It manages to connect us through our emotions, regardless of where we come from.
When the lights flickered back on, I reflected on how much we need stories like this. Not only to remember the mistakes of the past, but to honor those who have struggled, like Eunice, in unimaginable ways. I'm Still Here isn't just a movie—it's a transformative experience, a reminder that, even in the most difficult times, our humanity and resilience are unbreakable.
If you haven't seen it yet, get ready. This is one of those movies that lingers in your mind for days, making you question, feel and, above all, remember. I'm Still Here is not just a work about the past, but an urgent cry for the present.
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