By ISAÍAS ALBERTIN DE MORAES*

Considerations on the film directed by Walter Salles

1.

I write these comments with the conviction that they offer a unique and thought-provoking insight into the film. I'm still here. My perspective is influenced by the fact that I am developing a book that analyzes cinematographic works from economic, political and sociological perspectives. From the beginning, I watched the film with a deliberately critical eye, curious to see if it could be included among the works to be discussed in my project.

I confess that, despite a certain anxiety, I went to the cinema with a dose of uncertainty. I thought to myself: “Yet another film about the Brazilian military dictatorship”. Not that the theme is irrelevant – on the contrary, it is crucial that we revisit this period so that new generations understand and never forget the horrors of that time. However, I feared finding more of the same, a repetition of perspectives already explored in other productions.

However, what I found was a refreshing surprise. How wrong I was to assume that Still I'm here would follow predictable paths! The work not only subverted my expectations, but also revealed particularities that immediately seemed indispensable to me for the reflections that I intend to delve into in my book.

The film left me thinking for days. Every detail moved me: the script, the photography, the soundtrack, the cuts, the performances — the whole thing touched me deeply. The feelings and sensations it aroused were intricate, persistent, as if there was something in the film that impacted me in a complex way, but that I couldn't fully decipher.

So, I went looking for some reviews and critiques about the film. I read dozens of them. Many highlighted what seemed obvious: Walter Salles' impeccable technique, Adrian Tejido's stunning photography, Warren Ellis' captivating soundtrack, Murilo Hauser and Heitor Lorega's well-adapted script, and the precision in the historical reconstruction of the period sets and costumes. They also highlighted the blunt denunciations of fascism and the military dictatorship, the celebration of family ties and, of course, the magnetic performances of Luiza Kosovski as Eliana, Guilherme Silveira as Marcelo Paiva (a child), Selton Mello as Rubens Paiva, and the profound but confidential performance of Fernanda Torres as Eunice Paiva.

Yes, the hype surrounding Fernanda Torres' performance is no exaggeration. She is a gem. She more than deserved to win the Golden Globe. However, there was another gem in the film that I was not able to fully grasp. It was something that seemed to go beyond the surface of the scenes, the script or the performances. It was something intimate, visceral, but at the same time subtle, like an unspoken wound, an unexpressed pain. In this way, I gradually tried to untangle all of this, realizing that there was an exceptional beauty along with a structural violence in the film, which no other film about the same period and theme managed to achieve.

From that point on, I began to strive to understand and categorize the relationship between beauty and violence that the film presents. It is a natural impulse for someone with an academic background: to seek to systematize works, theories and patterns. This was intensified by the production of the book. It was by listening to the film's soundtrack for weeks, which is undoubtedly brilliant, and remembering the scenes in which each song appeared, that an understanding began to emerge.

Finally, I saw the structural and cultural violence that permeates the work. The lump in your throat, the scar left behind – uncried and unspoken – that the film throws in your face with surprising and disturbing force, but at the same time without fanfare is: “Goodbye tropical Paris […] take me back to Piauí”. Allow me to explain.

2.

The film can be divided into three parts. In the first, we are immersed in the daily life of an upper-middle-class family from Rio de Janeiro who live in a spacious corner house on Avenida Delfim Moreira, one of the most valued addresses in Rio's South Zone. The setting and dynamics presented are of stability, joy and comfort. Each child has their own room, there is a high-end car in the garage, and the wife, Eunice Paiva, does not have to work outside the home.

She dedicates her time to organizing the house, with the help of her maid, Maria José — cordially called Zezé, played by Pri Helena. This arrangement provides Eunice with moments of tranquility, such as swimming in the sea, playing games, and meeting friends, even though she is the mother of five children. Her husband, Rubens Paiva, is employed, has a network of good friends and is prospering, dreaming of building a house in the mountains. The children are making plans for their studies and careers, or simply playing or enjoying life.

Just like the photography, the soundtrack and the camerawork, at this stage of the film, they are permeated by a lightness that overflows with color and movement. The setting is sunny, radiating joy and vitality. The house, spacious and welcoming, keeps its doors and windows constantly open, merging with the beach as a natural extension of its space, sharing with it the feeling of being a public and accessible place. There are always friends, parties, good drinks, dancing, games, laughter, jokes, charms and conversations there.

The family’s dynamics and routine are graceful and loving. It is a cultured and politically minded family, but not a serious or melancholic one. The arrival of the little dog Pimpão, rescued on the beach by young Marcelo Rubens Paiva, completed the “margarine commercial family” scenario of the tropics. Director Walter Salles, in interviews, fondly recalls his time with this family, highlighting his friendship with Ana Lúcia Paiva, one of the couple’s daughters, and how her personal memories influenced the reconstruction of this environment.

If in the first phase of the film, the issue of the Brazilian military dictatorship (1964–1985) and its violence appears in the background – a helicopter flying over Leblon beach and disturbing Eunice's relaxation at sea, a convoy of trucks full of soldiers crosses Delfim Moreira, army roadblocks act violently against young white upper-middle-class people who are enjoying life and newspaper reports about the actions of the armed struggle against the regime are seen on television – in the second phase this changes completely.

With the arrival of agents from the Air Force Security Information Center (CISA) at the Paiva home, the lightness, joy and luminosity that permeated the family and the environment are captured. The beach and the sea no longer appear. The soundtrack changes, becoming dense and melancholic. The photography adopts somber tones, the camera direction assumes a static, bordered and rigid tone. The violence of the regime becomes evident. However, I was expecting a lot of direct violence, common in films about the military dictatorship or any other fascist regime. It did not come. I was thrown a strong structural and cultural violence. It hit me unexpectedly, disturbingly and profoundly.

3.

Here it is necessary to explain the concepts of violence from the perspective of Norwegian sociologist Johan Galtung. For the author, there are three categories of violence: (i) direct, (ii) structural and (iii) cultural. Direct violence refers to physical or verbal aggression that is visible and manifest, such as murder, torture, rape, and acts of war. It is the most evident and easily identifiable form.

Structural violence is rooted in social and economic structures, perpetuating inequalities and injustices in a systemic way. Examples include poverty, privilege, institutional racism, underdevelopment, gender inequality and lack of access to basic services. It is not directly attributable to an individual, but to social systems.

Finally, cultural violence acts as a symbolic legitimizer for the other two forms of violence, using elements such as religion, ideologies, science and the arts to create narratives that normalize and perpetuate oppression, exploitation and conflict. These concepts help us understand how violence manifests itself beyond the physical sphere, penetrating structures and collective imaginations.

With this in mind, in the second part of the film, the pain, anguish, martyrdom and sadness caused by the direct violence of the military dictatorship are carefully hidden. On the other hand, the marks of structural and cultural violence are explicit in every body movement, every scene, every easy expression, especially that of Fernanda Torres (Eunice Paiva). They are also revealed in the choices of each camera angle, in the color palette used and in all the details that make up the work, finally culminating in the music. I will explain this last point in more detail later. But for now, let's return to the plot of the film.

It is in this second phase of the film, immersed in the brutality and consequences of this violence, that the agents of the dictatorship arrive and take Rubens Paiva, a former federal deputy of the Brazilian Labor Party (PTB) – who helped exiles and those persecuted by the regime, passing on messages to family members, friends and comrades – for a “routine interrogation”. Rubens’ family is placed under house arrest, with no one else entering or leaving the house. After two days, Eunice Paiva and her daughter, Eliana Paiva, who was 15 at the time, are taken in for interrogation.

Both women suffer direct violence: physical and psychological abuse and harassment. Eliane is released after 24 hours, while her mother remains detained for 11 days. Rubens Paiva never returned. He died in the dungeons of the dictatorship, a victim of torture, that is, direct violence. However, this is not portrayed at any time.

The film's choice not to show these brutal acts against Rubens Paiva is bold, breaking with the obvious and gaining dimensions of rarity and exceptionality. An excellent choice, because, paradoxically, the film becomes even more violent for the average viewer, awakening in them a deep empathy. This happens because they have probably never directly experienced acts of torture. By choosing to focus on the structural and cultural violence of the regime, the film makes the audience recognize themselves in the scenes.

He begins to see himself in the situations portrayed and to suffer, understanding that violence is not only in the physical act, but also in the institutions and narratives that perpetuate oppression. Structural and cultural violence attack the soul, leaving impalpable scars, asphyxiated screams, swallowed tears and shattered hopes.

There is a moment, just before the CISA agents arrive, when Rubens Paiva is dancing with Eunice and her children to the sound of Take me Back to Piauí by Juca Chaves. It is a wonderful scene in every sense: acting, camera, sequence, soundtrack, emotional sensitivity, in short, exquisite. However, it was at that moment that I felt the first choking sensation, a tightness that made the lump in my throat widen and intensify. When Selton Mello (Rubens Paiva) sings at the top of his lungs, while dancing and having fun with his family, the scene acquires a unique complexity and depth.

To truly understand the weight of this scene, it is essential to understand the lyrics of Juca Chaves' song. I dare say that assimilating the content of the song Take me Back to Piauí is essential to properly appreciate I'm still here.

4.

Rio de Janeiro native Juca Chaves, a composer, musician and comedian, shared a political affinity with Rubens Paiva; both were supporters of the Labor Party of figures such as João Goulart, Darcy Ribeiro, Celso Furtado and Leonel Brizola. In 1961, Juca Chaves went to Porto Alegre to support the Legality Campaign led by Brizola, then governor of Rio Grande do Sul for the PTB (1959–1963).

The following year, Juca Chaves composed the song Legality, in which he celebrated political resistance with the phrase: “[…] the cannon was overcome, because Brizola, with Machado, went to make a revolution.” His work reflected the indignation and the fight to maintain democracy during one of the most critical moments in Brazil's political history.

In 1970, Juca Chaves released the single Take me Back to Piauí, rightly included in the film. The song, which mixes humor and political, economic and social criticism, is as brilliant as the film. Let's see:

“Goodbye tropical Paris, goodbye Brigite Bardot
The champagne made me sick, caviar made me sick
Simonal who was right, in the reason of the patropi
I'm also smart and I'm going to live in Piauí.
Hey hey, dee dee, take me back to Piauí.
Hey hey, dee dee, take me back to Piauí”

In this first stanza, Juca Chaves is saying goodbye to the Brazilian project defended by the Labor Party. This project aimed to build a Welfare State in the tropics: “tropical Paris”. The French national developmentalism of Charles de Gaulle was one of the mirrors of this project. For Chaves, the military coup of 1964 represented the end of the hopes of the Labor Party project, so all he could do was do as Simonal did, defending the “reason of the patropi”.

In 1969, Wilson Simonal recorded the song “País Tropical” by Jorge Ben, which exalts carnival, football and the nature of our “patropi”. This expression represents Brazil in a way that is uncommitted to political issues and focused on leisure, parties, nature and consumption.

It can be seen that Juca Chaves, by stating that Wilson Simonal was “right”, suggests that, for his own survival, it was necessary to distance himself from the discourse of political resistance, particularly from the Labor project and the Legality Campaign that had characterized the pre-coup period. The violence of the military regime made it impossible to maintain this discourse, forcing artists, like him, to adapt to a new reality.

Furthermore, there were rumors, even at the time, about Wilson Simonal's collaboration with the military regime, acting as an informant for the Armed Forces and the Department of Political and Social Order (DOPS). Juca Chaves, aware of the entire situation, of the cultural and structural violence of the military regime, ironically, chose to compose festive songs, a iê-iê-iê (Hey hey, dee dee).

According to cultural violence, it was time to exalt the military regime's project. This is no longer the “tropical Paris”, an economically and politically independent Brazil, with a pact between social classes, social well-being and pride in its culture, but a project dependent on and associated with the imperialist interests of the United States. For Chaves, and other defenders of Laborism, the military model leads to the entrenchment of underdevelopment, Brazil's economic, cultural and political dependence, dualism, and the increase in social conflicts and violence.

Juca denounced this project in the song, choosing Piauí as a contrast to tropical Paris. By choosing Piauí as a symbol, Chaves connects this process to the social and economic reality of a state that, in 1970, had 94,5% of its population below the poverty line, making it the poorest state in Brazil at the time. The choice was not merely symbolic, but a way of illustrating, in a crude way and at the same time veiled due to the censorship of the military regime, our economic underdevelopment.

The lyrics continue to be ironically festive and evoke emblematic figures and symbols of Brazilian culture:

“In my town there is Chacrinha who is crazy like no one else
There's Juca, there's Teixeirinha, there's Dona Hebe too
It has apple, orange and fig
Banana who didn't eat
No mango, mango is a danger
Whoever tried it almost died!”

In this excerpt, Juca Chaves highlights personalities such as Chacrinha (José Abelardo Barbosa), whose irreverence and anarchy made him a symbol of creative resistance and freedom of expression. Chacrinha was a figure who, even in times of censorship and repression, challenged conventions with his subversive humor. For Juca, Chacrinha represented a spark of freedom that persisted amidst the cultural violence of the dictatorship. He did not try to please anyone.

On the other hand, he mentions himself, Teixeirinha (Vitor Mateus Teixeira, singer, composer, radio host and filmmaker) and Hebe Camargo, presenter and singer. Juca, ironically, states that he is not a charming, freedom-loving madman like Chacrinha (but we all know he was) and places himself as an artist “neither left nor right”, as Teixeirinha and Hebe Camargo always tried to sell themselves. Violence demanded it.

Juca Chaves, without losing his critical tone, decides to follow the “reason of the patropi” in his music, praising Brazil’s natural riches. He mentions apples, oranges, figs and lots of bananas, in a clear ironic allusion to the cliché of the “Banana Republic”. However, he emphasizes that “there are no mangos, because mangos are dangerous. Anyone who has tried them almost dies.” This observation is not merely casual; it contains an implicit criticism. At the time of the construction of Brasília, it was reported in the media that Juscelino Kubitschek, Oscar Niemeyer and Lúcio Costa thought of creating an orchard city, full of fruit trees.

Thousands of trees were planted in this way, and there are currently about a million in Brasília, the main ones being mango and jackfruit trees. One mango orchard, in particular, was planted in front of the Palácio da Alvorada, the official residence of the President of the Republic. João Goulart, a labor leader and defender of national developmentalism, liked to walk through this orchard, picking mangoes with his son. The reference to mangoes as dangerous can be interpreted as a metaphor for the presidential position during the military dictatorship.

“Proving” power or resisting the regime was risky; those who dared to challenge this order often paid with their lives or faced severe reprisals. In this context, Juca’s lyrics transcend their apparent simplicity to criticize the oppressive environment of the time. The criticism, however, continues to be coated with irony and creativity, exemplifying how Chaves’ iê-iê-iê was a tool of cultural resistance.

So, Juca continues:

“I change my point of view by changing my profession
Because fashion is now an artist
Being a jury on television
Taking a bath with just a gourd
Eat jackfruit every month
Hallelujah, hallelujah, I'm going to die on BR-3!
Hey hey, dee dee, take me back to Piauí
Hey hey, dee dee, take me back to Piauí
My God, my God, take me back to Piauí”

Juca Chaves continues his criticism with verses that suggest an abandonment of the role of artist and engaged intellectual to adapt to the new context imposed by the dictatorship. The composer states that it is better to change one's opinion, it is better to stop being an artist, creator, intellectual, or real thinker. He will be a mere judge on a television talent show. Making fun and humorous out of the "common people", exploiting the dreams and hopes of simple people as entertainment. Here, he points out that the artist, instead of being a critical or creative voice, adapts to the role of depoliticized entertainer, as a judge on talent shows, a metaphor for the cultural superficiality promoted by the regime. The criticism focuses on the loss of the transformative role of art, reduced to an empty spectacle.

The passage also addresses the precariousness of life in Brazil under the military regime. We will only bathe in gourds, since the industrialization, modernism and social inclusion of the economic development of the Labor Party of Jango, Brizola and Rubens Paiva will no longer arrive. And it is better to eat jackfruit every month, as it is less risky than mango. In Brasília, as already mentioned, there are many jackfruit trees and they stay away from the sleeves of the Alvorada Palace.

Juca Chaves, ending this Brazilian tragicomedy, says: “I will die on BR-3”. The reference to music BR 3, composed by Antonio Adolfo and Tibério Gaspar, which won the 1970th International Song Festival in XNUMX with the striking voice of Toni Tornado with the Trio Ternura, is not fortuitous. The song, which addresses issues such as marginalization and social inequality, was loaded with symbolism and interpreted as a metaphor for violence and abandonment in urban peripheries. There were rumors at the time that BR 3 It was also used as slang for the vein in the arm, the site of drug injection, symbolizing an anesthetic escape from brutal reality. Juca, with his sagacity, seems to evoke this interpretation to point out that, given the oppressive conditions of the regime and the rupture with the labor dream, the only option left was to numb oneself to endure fate.

The repeated use of “Hallelujah, hallelujah” and “My God, My God, take me back to Piauí” reflects a bittersweet sarcasm. In Brazil, we still have to thank the fate imposed on us, almost as a resigned acceptance of underdevelopment and structural inequalities.

Juca Chaves, with his characteristic irony and intelligence, composes a narrative that, under an appearance of lightness and humor (a Hey!, Hey!), reveals a deep disenchantment with the dismantling of the ideals of Labor, development and the attempt at social well-being that marked Brazil before 1964. The violence of the military regime, although not always explicit, permeated all aspects of life. However, Juca chose to resist through culture, satire and laughter, transforming humor into a weapon against authoritarianism and oppression. This same spirit of resistance permeates the narrative of the Paiva family, portrayed in the work. Even under the crushing weight of the repression and brutality of the regime, the Paiva family finds ways to stay alive in spirit: they dance, sing, have fun and cling to the beauty of life and family as a way of defying the dehumanization imposed by the dictatorship.

The punch in the stomach, the lump in my throat – uncried and unspoken – that I felt with the structural and cultural violence denounced by the film was this: the death of the dream of “tropical Paris”. The end of the popular and national developmentalist project of the Labor Party that Rubens Paiva believed in. The end of the Labor Party’s class pact, of the construction of the “margarine commercial family” in Brazil.

5.

This project, inspired by national developmentalism, had the support of segments of the working classes, the middle class, the educated elite and even certain members of the Armed Forces. It was a model that envisioned the creation of a Welfare State in the tropics, with economic and social inclusion. A project that Eunice Paiva defended with pride and simplicity before her interrogators when she stated that her husband was only a member of the PTB. It is as if she were saying: “What is the subversion in being a labor and developmentalist? In wanting a Welfare State in Brazil? Why is this criminalized?

Revisiting the film, it becomes clear how the film reveals these layers of structural and cultural violence with spectacular mastery. There are several details, some examples: when Zezé, the maid, has to leave, when one of the soldiers says he does not agree with what was happening or when the little dog, Pimpão, dies.

Zezé's silent and resigned departure in the film represents more than just a farewell; it is a symbolic portrayal of the end of the attempt to establish class pacts in Brazil. His departure marks the definitive exclusion, marginalization and invisibility of the working class, especially black people. Although workers had already been subjected to structural violence in Brazil for centuries, Brizola and Jango's labor project sought to combat it, promoting the humanization of workers and their transformation into full citizens, within a progressive model of a Welfare State adapted to the tropics.

In contrast, the Military Dictatorship’s project — symbolized by the “back to Piauí” — represented the dehumanization of workers, who were seen as disposable, a “sub-people”, mere coal to be burned, used and spent. This model is marked by a reactionary mentality, inherited from the level of slavery consciousness. Zezé, when packing his bags in the film, symbolizes this fate of even greater exclusion, probably going to a favela, a space of social, political and economic marginalization.

The military man who whispered to Eunice Paiva that he did not agree with all of that, that is, the direct violence she was experiencing, also knew that he no longer had any space. Brazil's military dictatorship persecuted 6,5 members of the Armed Forces. It is no coincidence that Salles and Tejido chose to film these two moments in dim, minimalist style.

Pimpão's death is loaded with symbolism: it illustrates the brutal destruction of the idealization of the “margarine family”. Both she and her little dog were run over by the dictatorship, violently and in broad daylight. Here, the choice of an open shot, with lots of light and sound, makes the violence explicit, without subterfuge. The scene exposes, in a raw way, how the military regime destroyed dreams and dismantled structures, leaving all the violence visible and indisputable. Nothing was or is hidden, all the violence (direct, structural and cultural) is there.

And these are the scenes that I quickly described here, seeking to avoid spoilers, which act as one of the markers of change from the second to the third phase of the film. There are others, of course, such as the scene of the family photograph, without Rubens, for a press reporter. The media seeks to capture an image that expresses dejection and submission, but the matriarch's response is categorical and defiant: “Smile!”

Again joy and happiness as resistance, exactly as in the moment of the dance of Take me back to Piauí. This scene is full of symbolic resistance, which Fernanda Torres, in her brilliant acting, manages to convey not only in her speech, but in all her body language. It is resistance to fascism, which in its essence feeds on sadness and disenchantment as mechanisms of domination. The smile, in this context, is an affirmation of vital power, a rejection of control and dehumanization. It is an act of silent subversion and emotional survival in the face of cultural and structural violence.

6.

The third phase of the film emerges from this and takes on clear contours to the sound of We have to find a way, my friend., by Erasmo Carlos and Roberto Carlos. The song works as a catalyst, representing the effort to continue and resist, even in the face of brutality. Remember when I said that the music would also change? Look how interesting the choice of this reflective, dense and melancholic song by the King of Hey! Hey! (yeah-yeah-yeah). It's as if the film were saying that no one was immune to the trampling carried out by the military dictatorship. That it is impossible to live in the “reason of the patropi”.

The silent move of Eunice and her children from Rio de Janeiro to São Paulo causes the film's photographic tone to change again, becoming gray, the interpretations sober and the characters' actions more solid and objective, as well as the camera by the director. The director also adjusts the camera, reflecting the characters' internal transformation. The soundtrack follows the same logic.

Eunice, faced with this new situation, decided to go back to school. She graduated in Law and became a successful professional, involved in various social causes, in a gesture of resistance and adaptation to her new living conditions. However, she only started to smile again when she received her husband's death certificate in 1996. The confirmation that Rubens Paiva had been brutally murdered by the Brazilian armed forces marked, paradoxically, a moment of contentment, as it also revealed his atrocities and executioners.

At that moment, I remembered the famous phrase by Brazilian anthropologist, historian, sociologist, writer and politician Darcy Ribeiro, a Laborite and friend of Rubens Paiva: “I have failed in everything I have tried in life. I tried to teach Brazilian children to read and write, but I failed. I tried to save the Indians, but I failed. I tried to create a serious university, but I failed. I tried to make Brazil develop autonomously, but I failed. But my failures are my victories. I would hate to be in the shoes of someone who defeated me.”

Just like Darcy, Eunice can also be seen, at this moment, reflecting a victory in the face of her immense pain and her tormentors. The smiling expression of Fernanda Torres (Eunice Paiva) and Antonio Saboia (Marcelo Paiva) is about this. It is a symbol of resistance, once again, and of distancing ourselves from unacceptable violence: we are not like you, fascists.

The joy, the everyday conversations, the laughter, the spirit of labor hope, present in the first part of the film, return to the Paiva family in the final scenes. When Brazil, now under a neo-developmentalist project with Lula and the Workers' Party (PT), seems to be cleaning up its memory with the National Truth Commission (CNV), in force from 2012 to 2014, to investigate the crimes of the dictatorship. Eunice, already suffering from Alzheimer's disease, appears to be aloof and disconnected from everything around her. However, she experiences a brief moment of connection when she hears about her husband on television.

In this scene, I expected to see an explosion of tears from the matriarch, but Fernanda Montenegro (who plays Eunice in her old age) masterfully controls the crying. The lament and the scream are there, contained, and the lump in the throat becomes palpable. But the crying does not come. In its place, music appears. We have to find a way, my friend., accompanied by the black screen of the final credits. The silence that follows is more eloquent than any expression of pain. The absence of tears reveals the complexity of the violence suffered by the Paiva family and the Brazilian nation during and after, with the legacy of, the military dictatorship.

As much as Take me back to Piauí by Juca Chaves, the music by Erasmo Carlos and Roberto Carlos is essential to better appreciate the film The In Between. It is dense, reflective and melancholic, far from a yê-yê-yê. It shows two things. The first is that Brazilian society needs to self-criticize the path it has chosen. In this, we need to go through a process of collective psychological catharsis, we need to be ashamed, cry, lament and express our disillusionment with the route to overcoming economic underdevelopment that we have chosen.

“I have come from far away
And the journey was so long
And on my walk
obstacles on the road
But finally here I am
But I'm embarrassed
With the things I've seen
But I won't keep quiet
In comfort, accommodated
Like so many out there.
We have to find a way, my friend.
We have to find a way, my friend.
Resting is no use
When we get up
So much has happened”

The second message is that the fight is not over. If there are sectors still committed to lifting Brazil out of economic underdevelopment, to building “tropical Paris” or any other more humanizing, inclusive and socializing project, aiming for the well-being of society; there are also groups that flirt with fascism, chaos, the dehumanization of workers, the return of Brazil to the hunger map, the end of democracy, reactionism, the “back to Piauí” project of 1970, claiming that “back then it was good”. They employ three types of violence: direct, structural and cultural. We must never forget this.

The children are taken

By the hand of grown-ups
Who brought me here
He left me and went away
Like so many out there
We have to find a way, my friend.
We have to find a way, my friend.
Resting is no use
When we get up
How much has happened
We have to find a way, my friend.
We have to find a way, my friend.
It is necessary, yes

The Paiva family is still here, the hope for development is still here, but the reactionary forces are also still here. Remembrance is a dynamic process, driven by the needs and demands of the present. We need to reclaim the recognition of the figures who fought against underdevelopment in Brazil, reflecting on the legacy of figures such as Jango, Brizola, Darcy Ribeiro, Carlos Prestes, Celso Furtado and Rubens Paiva. We must reimagine the country, structuring an inclusive, creative and sustainable development project. As the song goes: “We need to find a way, my friend, we need to, yes”.

I conclude this text, which, as I mentioned, is a preview of one of the chapters of a book I am producing, with the statement that the dependent and associated development model of the military regime has notoriously failed. However, is the labor model defended by these figures cited here still relevant today? Or do the proposals of the PT's neo-developmentalism or Lulaism serve our interests?

Reflecting on these models is essential, because only then will we be able to move forward, seeking to smile no longer out of resistance, but as an expression of joy in celebration of economic, political, cultural and social achievements that resonate positively in society. Just as we are smiling with Fernanda Torres's Golden Globe win at the beginning of 2025.

*Isaías Albertin de Moraes, economist, has a PhD in Social Sciences and visiting professor at the Center for Engineering, Modeling and Applied Social Sciences (CECS) at UFABC.

Reference

• I'm still here
• Brazil, 2024, 135 minutes.
• Directed by: Walter Salles.
• Screenplay: Murilo Hauser and Heitor Lorega.
• Cinematography: Adrian Teijido.
• Editing: Affonso Gonçalves.
• Art Direction: Carlos Conti
• Music: Warren Ellis
• Cast: Fernanda Torres; Fernanda Montenegro; Selton Mello; Valentina Herszage, Luiza Kosovski, Barbara Luz, Guilherme Silveira and Cora Ramalho, Olivia Torres, Antonio Saboia, Marjorie Estiano, Maria Manoella and Gabriela Carneiro da Cunha.

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