Resilience has become quite a buzzword in New Orleans of late. After the tragedy of Jan. 1, as the world turned its eyes on the city for reasons we never hoped for, that word was a favorite used to describe the soul of our community; ever stalwart and resilient in the aftermath of blow after blow against its unyielding spirit. The backlash from locals came swift and sharp because if there’s a city that knows the thorny residue left behind by that word, it’s ours. Resilience sounds hopeful, it feels like something to aspire to. But in reality, it is often the best possible reaction to unrelenting horror; an off-brand band-aid held against an arterial puncture. It’s easy to say that if we persevere long enough, everything will be OK. Sometimes that’s true. But while life on the far side of tragedy might become livable, it will never be whole. That’s the unspoken malignancy of resilience, and the burden carried by those chosen by fate to be its standard bearers. The Paiva Family of Brazil, the subject of the Oscar-nominated “I’m Still Here” which is based on Marcelo Rubens Paiva’s memoir, learned this all too well. While the TV marketing might paint their struggle as worthwhile, a portrait of the seemingly powerless keeping on and carrying on against the monstrous tide of totalitarianism, I did not leave the theater feeling happy or hopeful. I left eviscerated by the decimation of a life and a family, needlessly ripped to pieces. And I believe that may have been the point.
Based on a true story of a family’s persecution during the military-controlled reign of Brazil in the 1970’s, “I’m Still Here” follows the Paiva family as they try their best to persevere in the aftermath of political turmoil. In those days, people suspected of involvement with “leftist” groups were being snatched from their homes, held without trial or legal representation, and often forgotten or “disappeared”, never to be seen again. As presented in the film, Rubens Paiva (Selton Mello), a former congressman and leftist sympathizer, and his wife Eunice (Oscar-nominated Fernanda Torres) do what they can to keep the broiling hostilities from the happy life they share with their five children. The first half of the film basks in the warm amber glow of a good life, often spent swimming in the sea when not dining and dancing with friends or planning their future forever home in the shadow of the ‘Christ The Redeemer’ statue. Though not overtly political, Rubens and Eunice uphold their leftist values through action. The Paiva’s quietly assist the cause of revolution through monetary contributions and the passing of information to loved ones, but that is the extent of their subversion. This is a family trying to quietly exist, to simply remain in their homeland in peace. While comrades and fellow travelers urge Rubens to flee the country, insisting that their kind are being followed and rounded up, the family man believes these are merely paranoid fantasies. Their life is too good, too whole, to be upended. Or so he thinks.
One day, armed men arrive at the Paiva’s door insisting that Rubens accompany them to an undisclosed location to give a “deposition.” He does not panic, nor does Eunice. Instead, he dresses in a suit and tie; assures one of his daughters that he will be home soon, and drives away with the plain-clothed intruders. Eunice and her family are left imprisoned in their own home by malevolent forces under the silent, cordial threat of violence without stated intent. All the while Eunice insists they tell her news of when Rubens will be returned, and all the while her black-coated occupiers offer no solace. Soon though, Eunice and her eldest daughter are taken into custody as well, locked away in the crumbling remnants of an Army barracks turned political prison where they are questioned in blood-stained rooms and left to rot in concrete cells. They are not charged. They are not offered representation. So far as they are aware, this is where they will die. Separated from her daughter and her husband, unsure if she will ever return to the good life that was ripped from her grip, Eunice is left alone to make tally marks on the side of her cell, listen to the screams of her fellow prisoners cut short by militant boot heels, and grow resilient enough to survive.
Upon release from the hellhole of that prison, Eunice begins work trying to find and free Rubens; only to learn that the military says they do not know where he is. He has “disappeared.” Though the film has framed Eunice as our main focus so far, it is from this point on that Fernanda Torres takes over the narrative with a titanic performance that would deservedly win every award she is up for. In a different film, perhaps a more fictionalized or “Hollywood-ized” one, Torres’ Eunice would evolve from the doting housewife into a whirling, righteous force for justice; raging against her oppressors with spit and vitriol to be proven victorious in the face of overwhelming evil. But that is not what happens because that is not what happened. We instead watch as Eunice endlessly toils at chipping pebbles from a towering stone edifice to the banality of evil, hoping to free her husband while trying to keep her children from realizing that they may never see their father again. Her resilience is steady, admirable, and heartbreaking, with only a hint of the slow corrosion of her soul visible in the corners of Torres’ eyes, even as all hope makes its long, descending, curve toward catastrophe.
That Rubens is dead should be no surprise. Frankly, surprise is not what this film offers. What it presents, in an uncompromising fashion, is the aftermath of resilience. In the third act, the film jumps 25 years and finds the Paiva family grown but no less haunted by the wholesale removal of their father. Eunice and her children finally receive Rubens’ death certificate; documented proof of what they have known all along. A victory, technically. Eunice, before the media and the world, espouses that the crimes of the past should not remain buried and the murderers of the innocent should be brought to justice. Even as she says these words we know this will never happen, yet her dogged resilience continues unabated for righteous vindication that has less chance of ever arriving than her husband does of coming home. In the aftermath of Rubens’ “disappearance”, Eunice made a full and valued life for herself, becoming an attorney and a leading advocate against the theft of native land from Indigenous populations in South America. A noble life, a more beneficial one than most of us could ever hope to achieve. Yet, near the end of the movie, we see her viewing an old film of Rubens and her children from those carefree days in Rio. She says nothing. We merely watch her watch another woman’s life unspool before her with pride, sadness, and more than a little envy. Resilience is the last resort of the desperate. It is not to be celebrated so much as avoided at all costs. This is a film about the destruction of a life, a good life, and no matter what may be built upon the devastated remains, that is a tragedy worth remembering and mourning.
That the far-right party of Brazil actively attempted a boycott of this movie is more than enough reason to hear what it has to say. A political film that spills its sermon out with uncompromising artistry for you to decipher, “I’m Still Here” should not feel timely but it does. Go see one of the most affecting movies of the year in the theater while you can.
You’ll be glad you did.
“I’m Still Here” is playing at The Prytania Uptown and The Broad Theater.
