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I’m still here

When Walter Salles and Heitor Lorega started writing I’m Still Here, Jair Bolsonaro was still the President of Brazil. A man who had been involved with the ruthless military dictatorship, who pardoned and galvanised the men involved in the torture and killing of political opponents in the 70s. And he was about to enter an election against a left-wing candidate who had been persecuted by that same regime. At that point, before Salles started principal photography, Brazil was facing the ghosts of its past.

I’m Still Here starts with a quiet discomfort. Eunice Paiva (Fernanda Torres) and her family are having a typical day at Ipanema Beach in Rio de Janeiro. The title before reminds us that this is the 70s, during a military dictatorship, but you wouldn’t know by the looks of it – the beach is complete, and people are having fun. Music is loud, teens play volleyball, and the peacefulness is barely disturbed by a helicopter flying overhead. The life of the Paivas takes over the first third of the film – the father, Rubens (Selton Mello), is an ex-MP turned respected civil engineer. They have five children, Vera (Valentina Herszage) is the oldest, a free spirit who’s about to embark on a trip to London; Eliana (Luiza Kosovski); Ana Lúcia (Barbara Luz); Maria Beatriz (Cora Mora) and the only boy, and the youngest, Marcelo (Guilherme Silveira).

Their life is portrayed by Salles with precise detail, but the spectrum of political oppression lingers at any corner. It almost feels like he’s shooting these scenes like a horror film, where there’s an unseen tension in the background about to jump on our characters, and they are none the wiser.

This moment comes not with a bang but with crushing normality – a group of (reasonably nice) men arrive to accompany Rubens to the police station to be questioned about something. The longer he takes to return, the more desperate Eunice becomes until she’s also taken by the police, interrogated, and tortured for several days.

From that point on, Salles shifts the focus to Eunice and her quest to find out the whereabouts of her husband while trying to keep her children safe in their country. The unbearable tension of the first third disappears but gives way to a solid political drama that examines details in the past to illuminate the future.

There’s this moment when Eunice takes her children out for ice cream to distract them from the crisis around them. She focuses on a series of happy families sitting in the parlour, happily living as if they weren’t going through a political storm that challenged their concept of democracy. Salles is direct in his point – fascism creeps in without us noticing it. He shows Eunice’s frustration dealing with the supposedly effective court system while reminding us that life goes on for everyone else. And the effect is jarring. We are witnessing the pillars of democracy crumbling down in the West, spearheaded by megalomaniac world leaders who are slowly taking control of our institutions to exert their political power. At the same time, we power through – we work, live, go to a restaurant, and listen to music. Our oppression doesn’t come fast and loud but slowly and silently. And our institutions may be powerless to stop it.

Salles is one of the most competent filmmakers. He knows how to effectively get the best out of a story and keep the audience entertained. I think here he’s at his best – some of his American films lack enough detail to be remembered (DarkWater or that anemic adaption of On The Road). But when the story aligns culturally with his sensitivity, he shines (Central Station with Fernando Montenegro, the mother of Torres, and the brilliant Behind the Sun). His detail is thorough and alive; Rio in the 70s feels palpable. There’s a case for cinema like this—that isn’t much about the art it conveys but the testimony it makes.

When Salles started production, Lula had arrived in power. Bolsonaro tried to create his own version of January 6 that, thankfully, also failed, but the Brazilian system was more effective at convicting him for his role in shaking the democratic process. In a way, that made I’m Still Here even more important. It is a testament to the turmoil that stands around the corner to us, a warning sign for (near) future generations.

Verdict: 4 out of 5
For everyone who needs to be reminded not to take our liberties for granted, this is proof of the urgency of cinema, helped by a thunderous performance from Torres, who deserves every accolade she gets and then some.

 

The Seed of the Sacred Fig

Mohammad Rasoulof’s The Seed of the Sacred Fig starts with the image of a gun, to a Chekhovian delight. It perfectly sets up our expectations for the rest of the film. We’re not only expecting to see when that gun is going to be used, but the tenuous tension it represents perfectly captures the political reality in Iran—a weapon that can go off at any moment.

The gun in question is given to Iman (Missagh Zareh) for protection when he takes his new job as a Judge in the Revolutionary Court. This important position comes with a dangerous caveat—he can be a target for those trying to depose the regime. The gun is there to protect him and his family if it comes to that.

Outside on the streets, students are escalating protests against the regime after the murder of Mahsa Amini for not wearing a hijab. Iman’s wife Najmeh (Soheila Golestani) condemns the protestors to their daughters Rezvan (Mahsa Rostami) and Sana (Setareh Maleki), who follow the events on social media with horror. The generational and political divide widens in every scene – one moment is something small like Sana asking to paint her hair blue, and later, the two sisters are trying to hide a friend who was attacked by the police without their mother knowing, just like a gun ready to fire.

At the same time, Iman, who now barely sees his family because of work, deals with his own moral issues when he realises the rule of law he’s supposed to uphold isn’t requested in this state. He’s told to approve death sentences of protestors and other political opponents without assessing the evidence.

But the plot takes a turn when the gun disappears, and Iman suspects one of his daughters of being behind it. Facing the possibility of demotion (and probably even imprisonment), he quickly turns against his own family to protect the regime he works for. The same regime that asked him to sideline the rule of law for the greater good stands as the moral high ground Iman would not cross.

The Seed of the Sacred Fig is driven by its anger towards the current state of Iran. Rasoulof shot in secret in Tehran and had to leave the country before filming finished, concluding the shoot remotely. All actors involved are being investigated by the authorities, and Golestani, whose performance is a masterclass of revolutionary acting, was forbidden to leave the country to attend festivals. Sacred Fig is an urgent film that pulsates with the rage that fuels it. Every shot and every line feels like activism. And this is even before it cuts to real-life footage of the protestors marching or suffering from police brutality. Because the film is also a form of protest – all good art is – even if, in this case, Rasoulof removes any sense of nuance to be as direct as possible. The gun is loaded.

Golestani, Zareh, Rostami, and Maleki perfectly embody who they are supposed to present. The father has the well-intentioned nature of a lawmaker dedicated to the status quo, the mother is a keeper of morality in the family who has her judgements challenged when the victims are her own daughters, and the daughters are the privileged girls who understand action is essential. They all deserve their credit, especially Golestani, who seemingly shifts in front of us throughout the film.

It can feel jarring how the film transforms in its last third. As the plot zeroes in on the family, the noise of the political turmoil disappears until we are left with just our four protagonists in an abandoned town, in a situation that mirrors an interpretation of the current state of Iran – violent and oppressive patriarchy that permeates when the sense of family disappears. It’s in these scenes that the flaws of Sacred Fig are exposed. Without the crushing reality in terms of background, Rasoulof creates a metaphor on the film’s dynamic to represent his country’s underlying problem, but by then, we had already been so moved by the authentic images that it felt like a distraction from the message.

Sacred Fig is an element of its time and place. Its artistic merit is the witness and report injustice of an oppressive regime. If a government tries to stop a film from being made, they know the message can damage them. Rasoulof’s approach is direct and straight to the point. There’s urgency in it.

Verdict: 4 out of 5
For everyone who is done with nuance – sometimes the message needs to be loud and clear.

Ticket Giveaway – Hard Truths

LSJ and Mushroom Studios have 10 double passes for the upcoming Mike Leigh drama HARD TRUTHS

Reunited with Leigh for the first time since multiple Oscar-nominated Secrets and Lies, the astonishing Marianne Jean-Baptiste plays Pansy, a woman wracked by fear, tormented by afflictions, and prone to raging tirades against her husband, son, and anyone who looks her way. Meanwhile, her easy-going younger sister, played by Michele Austin (Another Year), is a single mother with a life as different from Pansy’s as their clashing temperaments — brimming with communal warmth from her salon clients and daughters alike. In cinemas March 6. Click here to watch the trailer.

For a chance to win one of the double passes, email your LawID number to journal@lawsociety.com.au with the subject line HARD TRUTHS before 5Pm Tuesday 4 March.