OCTOBER 2025:

Setting the Stage: Memoir to Film…

---

The memoir Ainda Estou Aqui by Marcelo Rubens Paiva is a deeply personal, autobiographical account of his family’s rupture in the context of the Brazilian military dictatorship, centring on his mother, Eunice Paiva, and the disappearance of his father, Rubens Paiva, a federal deputy and dissident engineer who was seized by the regime in 1971.

Marcelo’s work is layered: it is a coming-of-age memoir, a reckoning with his mother’s stoicism, an exploration of the brute fact of political disappearance, and a meditation on the enduring presence of absence.  

The book traces Marcelo’s childhood and adolescence in a family of five children, his father’s political persecution, the impact on his mother, and ultimately the passage of time as Eunice grows older and enters the domain of Alzheimer’s disease.

In transferring this rich memorial material into film, Walter Salles with screenwriters Murilo Hauser and Heitor Lorega offers a cinematic tribute to the family, to memory, and to the haunted landscape of modern Brazil. (The film sources identify this adaptation.)

Thus, the film carries a double burden: to dramatize the public and political tragedy of disappearance under the dictatorship, and to render the intimate familial interior, informed by its origin as a rite of remembrance and reclamation of memory.

Narrative Structure & Tone

---

From the opening scenes, the film situates us in a domestic realm of warmth, vitality, and belonging: Rubens Paiva (portrayed by Selton Mello) is the engaging, charismatic father; Eunice Paiva (played by Fernanda Torres) the poised, socially literate mother; their five children and home-life in Rio de Janeiro are depicted in sunlit freedom and affection. Critics note how the film evokes a “blissful family Eden” before the intrusion of the military regime.  

Then the intrusion: the road-stop of the daughter Vera, the growing pressure of the dictatorship, the disappearance of Rubens. The film then becomes an elegy of absence, a mother’s search for answers, the children’s trajectory, and later, the mother’s aging and illness. This mirrors the structure of the memoir: memory in childhood → trauma → adult reflection → the march of time.  

Tonally the film is measured, deliberate, even restrained. It does not lurch into sensationalism of torture or violence; instead it shows tension, threat, erosion of safety, subtle shifts. As one review puts it: “a film about violence that depicts little violence, a film about healing that resists catharsis.”⁴  

This restraint is in keeping with the memoir’s tone: Marcelo’s text is not a sensational thriller but a sober reckoning with what cannot be fully known — the father’s fate, the mother’s endurance, the residual wounds. Thus the film’s pace and atmosphere reflect the source.

While the broad strokes of the adaptation stand firm, some critics observe that the film’s later chapters (1996, 2014) somewhat alter the rhythm, perhaps softening the intensity of the earlier trauma.

Nevertheless, for many, the film delivers an immersive emotional experience deeply anchored in character and memory.

Themes: Memory, Disappearance, Family & Politics…

---

Memory and Time

One of the central themes of the memoir —and thus of the film— is time. Time as loss; time as endurance; time as unravelling memory. Marcelo’s framing of his mother in later life — older, with signs of Alzheimer’s — grounds the story in the inevitability of passage. The memoir notes this: “o autor relembra fatos dessa época … e aborda … a mãe já idosa e com Alzheimer.”⁵ 

In the film this becomes visual: the home movies, the aging characters, the shift in cinematography — from youthful vitality to greyed calm. The director uses film stock choices (Super-16, 35mm) to evoke different temporal registers: the younger years more kinetic, the later years more settled. As one review notes: “meticulous in its period detail … 1970s Rio … two later chapters set in 1996 and 2014.⁶  

This layering of time allows the viewer to sense memory’s fragility: the father’s absence becomes not just a past event but a present co-presence, a wound that refuses to heal.

Disappearance and Absence

The forced disappearance of Rubens Paiva is the pivot around which the article, the memoir and the film revolve. The horror is not exhibited in graphic detail; instead the absence is what screams. The father disappears, the family is left with questions, ambiguity, institutional denial. The memoir describes how Eunice dedicates years to seeking his body, to having a death certificate, to the legal recognition of what happened.  

The film embodies this through the visual economy of what is not shown: the vanishings, the empty seat, the missing man. One reviewer: “Salles’s [film] aims to illustrate that forced disappearances cause enormous psychological traumas … but it does so in the absence of the full backdrop.”⁷  

Thus, absence becomes a presence — the invisible weight of what is not said, not seen, never returned. This theme resonates powerfully because it mirrors the real legacy of the dictatorship: families with no closure, a society with incomplete memory.

Family and the Maternal Figure

The memoir emphasises the relationship between the author and his mother. It is, fundamentally, a paean to her courage, stoicism and reinvention. In the book, Eunice shifts from a housewife of high society to a lawyer, activist, defender of indigenous rights — all this in the shadow of disappearance and grief.  

In the film, Fernanda Torres gives the performance that many critics hail as the film’s emotional heart: a mother refusing to collapse, striving to keep her family afloat. Her face seldom erupts in tears, but the internal turbulence is palpable. (One review: “Emotions hide beneath the surface and horrors lurk behind unseen doors … the subtlety and dignity of Fernanda Torres’s … performance … have been rightly praised.”)⁸  

The film takes the family dynamic seriously: the siblings, the interplay of protection and vulnerability, the father’s earlier warmth, the mother’s transformation. The memoir, likewise, is not simply a political text — it is a family story first. The film retains this intimacy.

Politics, Dictatorship and Legacy

Of course, the personal cannot be divorced from the political here. The father is a dissident politician; his disappearance is a crime of the state. The broader milieu of the Brazilian military dictatorship looms large. The memoir and film both situate the family in a political context: Sao Paulo/Rio in the 1970s, the crackdown, the AI-5 era, the culture of fear and surveillance.  

The film does not overload itself with exposition; rather, it allows the regime’s encroachment to be felt — one checkpoint, one roadblock, one family moment interrupted. Critics note that the film is “a deeply moving political and personal drama … the quest for answers and justice never fades.”⁹

In this respect, the adaptation remains faithful to the memoir’s dual identity: it is a family memoir and a historical testimony. And in doing so, it reminds contemporary viewers of authoritarianism’s continuing relevance, of memory’s fragility, and of the risk of forgetting.

Craft, Performance & Cinematic Choices

---

Direction & Visual Style

Walter Salles (whose earlier films include The Motorcycle Diaries, On the Road, and Central Station) brings to this project a sensibility for memory, time, place and interior life. The film has been praised for its visual elegance: as one critic writes, “meticulous in its period detail … 1970s Rio … shot on various film stocks … Super-16 capturing the energy … 35mm bringing a pleasing, lived-in texture.”¹⁰

Other reviews note the film is “immersive and unhurried, and quietly devastating.”¹¹ 

The choice to avoid sensationalist tropes — the torture scenes seldom shown, the regime’s brutality often indirect — bolsters the film’s underlying truth: that disappearance works through erasure and silence, not always through spectacle. The adaptability of the memoir’s memory-laden structure to film is enabled by these formal choices.

Performances

Fernanda Torres as Eunice Paiva is often singled out for praise. Her performance is described as “magnificent, intricately layered” and essential to the film’s success.  

Selton Mello as Rubens Paiva offers the charm, humour and warmth of the father in the early scenes — and by showing his absence, strengthens the emotional payoff of the mother’s plight.

In a cameo, the legendary Fernanda Montenegro (Torres real mother) appears as the older Eunice, giving a final gravitas to the passage of years. (See: review noting Montenegro’s “brief but exceptionally powerful cameo.”)¹²  

The ensemble cast builds the world of the family credibly — the children, the extended social circle, the era’s texture. Their relational dynamics feel lived-in and authentic.

Adaptation Choices: What Works, What is Lost

In adapting the memoir, certain expansions were made: the film extends into 1996 and 2014, showing Eunice’s later years and Marcelo’s adult perspective. Some critics suggest that while these epilogues add a sense of resolution and the sweep of time, they slightly change the rhythm and focus from the core disruption of 1971.  

Conversely, the film captures brilliantly the memoir’s core strength: the lived intimacy of this family, the interplay of love and political rupture, the unspoken grief. The visual representation of the domestic realm pre-disappearance is as vital as the political moments that follow, and this corresponds to the memoir’s structure.

That said, every adaptation loses something: the book’s internal monologue, the depth of reflection, the weight of passing years compressed. Some reviewers felt that the film’s pace, while appropriate, sometimes drifts into museum-piece territory: “the film feels like visiting a museum exhibit rather than living through a flashpoint of history.”¹³  

But this is arguably a trade-off inherent in moving from page to screen: the richness of internal memory must be externalised, and Salles chooses subtlety over spectacle.

Emotional Impact & Resonance

---

For many viewers the film lands hard. The sheer cumulative weight of familiar domestic scenes turning into fear, the mother’s steadfastness, the children’s vulnerability — these create emotional resonance. A review entitled “I’m Still Here is Brilliant, Devastating and Essential” says the film “puts the viewer through the emotional wringer … but … this story is definitely worth it.”¹⁴  

The themes of injustice, memory, disappearance and resilience resonate beyond Brazil — echoing with audiences in many societies where authoritarian legacies linger or trauma remains unacknowledged. One review: “Skillfully portrays a family’s struggle under systemic violence … Strong performances bring a deeply human perspective to the brutal realities of dictatorship.”¹⁵  

Also: the film is not defeatist. It is a story of survival. The title itself — “I’m Still Here” — signals presence in spite of erasure. The memoir emphasises this: that trauma can mark a life, but it need not define it totally. The adaptation carries this message compellingly.

If one watches the film having read the book, the emotional layers deepen: recognising the subtle shifts of time, the mother’s hidden anxiety, the younger self’s obliviousness, the political context. And if one hasn’t read the book, the film still functions as a moving human story and a political awakening.

Cultural and Political Significance

---

That this film emerges now — in Brazil and globally — is significant. The Brazilian military dictatorship (1964-1985) remains a contested memory in Brazil. The memoir and the film contribute to the public task of remembrance. For example, the editorial writing about the memoir says: “Ainda estou aqui lida com dois assuntos centrais muito duros e difíceis, a ditadura militar no Brasil e o Alzheimer.”¹⁶  

By focusing on a middle-class white family, the film does open itself to critique (some observers in Brazilian press noted this) for its narrow social lens. But to its credit the film doesn’t pretend to represent all victims — it tells one story deeply. And that matters. Reviews in French press noted how in Brazil the film “unites the audience against revisionism of those nostalgic for the dictatorship.”¹⁷ 

Because it deals not just with historic disappearance but with ageing, memory-loss, the politics of mourning and the intergenerational transmission of trauma, the film extends beyond event-drama into broader reflections on how societies remember — or forget. For Brazilian viewers in particular, the film’s success (both popular and critical) signals the resilience of national cinema and of democratic remembering.

Strengths & Weaknesses

---

Strengths

• Outstanding central performance (Torres) and strong ensemble.
• Visual style and direction that evoke time, place and memory convincingly.
• Faithfulness to the spirit of Marcelo Rubens Paiva’s memoir: combining political history with intimate family story.
• Emotional resonance: the personal becomes political, the past remains present.
• Cultural impact: a film that invites reflection about dictatorship, disappearance and memory in Brazil and beyond.

Weaknesses / Critiques

• Some viewers may feel the pacing is too slow, the stylisation too restrained. (E.g., the “museum exhibit” critique.)  
• In the later chapters (1996, 2014) some critics find the emotional sweep slightly diminished compared to the core 1970s portion.
• The focus on a privileged family might limit the sense of broader social and class dimensions of the dictatorship’s victims (though again, one must ask if the film intends broader scope).
• Some may desire more explicit depiction of the regime’s war-machinery; the film chooses interiority over visuals of oppression.

Relation to the Memoir: Wins and Adaptation Choices

---

The memoir, as noted, deals explicitly with the author’s relationship with his mother, the passage of time, his father’s disappearance, the legacy of loss.  

In the film we see that the mother’s account is central, though filtered through cinematic/storytelling choices. For example: the film begins at the older Eunice, with signs of Alzheimer’s, which is faithful to the memoir’s framing of time and memory.   

By anchoring the film in the mother’s viewpoint, the film echoes the book’s gesture of tribute and testimony. The adaptation also preserves the dual-register of childhood memories and adult reckoning.

Some of the deeper interior reflection of the book — Marcelo’s internal monologue of what it means to inherit trauma, to bear family memory — must inevitably be externalised in film form. Here the screenwriters and director rely on performance, image, silence and time-passage. The effect is haunting and successful, though as noted above, some intimacy is inevitably compressed when moving medium.

The memoir’s specificity — Brazil, dictatorship, the Paiva family — is retained by the film. One might argue the film’s wider international audience places the story in a universal register of state violence, disappearance and resilience; still, the local specificity remains.

In sum: the adaptation works well on many levels; it preserves the core themes, adapts them with intelligence and sensitivity, and uses the cinematic medium to extend the memoir’s contemplation of time, memory and family.

Final Thoughts

---

I’m Still Here is a rare combination of historical witness, family drama and emotional elegy. It succeeds not just in portraying a pain-filled chapter of Brazilian history — the forced disappearance of Rubens Paiva under the dictatorship — but in bringing that event into lived experience: a home broken, a mother refusing to collapse, children changed forever, time passing, memory fading yet persisting.

For those familiar with the memoir Ainda Estou Aqui, the film offers a respectful, artful translation of its emotional core. For viewers encountering the story for the first time, it opens a doorway to a world where personal loss collides with political atrocity, and where the act of remembering becomes an act of survival.

The film’s strengths are its performances (especially Torres), its direction, its formal choices around time and memory, and its delicate handling of trauma without sensationalism. Its weaknesses — slight pacing issues, the risk of a narrower lens of family privilege, the softening of intensity in later chapters — do not make it any less powerful.

In the end, the title says it all: “I’m Still Here.” Despite loss, despite disappearance, despite memory’s erosion, Eunice, Marcelo, the children, the story remain. The film invites us to bear witness, not just to what happened, but to what continues happening — the scars, the quest for truth, the passage of generations.

If you are interested in memoir-based cinema, or in how personal histories intersect with national traumas, I wholeheartedly recommend this film. It is both a tribute and a warning — a reminder that when a society allows disappearance and silence, it endangers both its people and its memory.

I’m Still Here is available to watch with a subscription to Netflix…