Now the film could help change that situation.

This month, Brazil's Supreme Court unanimously decided to review whether to revoke the amnesty of army officers accused of murdering lawmaker Rubens Paiva and two others. The decision came after a judge in December recommended lifting the amnesty in another dictatorship-era case. In his ruling, the judge explicitly cited I'm Still Here.

The sudden and extraordinary judicial reckoning that the film has provoked could have far-reaching legal implications: will Brazil's amnesty law continue to protect, as it has for nearly half a century, those who committed atrocities during the dictatorship?

The fact that the question is being raised now shows that I'm Still Here — in addition to its notable commercial and critical success — has also had a major political impact in Brazil.

The film has reignited a national debate over the legacy of the brutal military dictatorship that ruled Brazil from 1964 to 1985. It has sparked new protests in support of the victims, including outside the home of one of the two officers accused of killing Paiva in 1971 who are still alive.

And since the film's release in November, authorities have reviewed the victims' death certificates to make clear they were killed by the military and reopened unsolved cases to see if they were linked to the military regime.

“Brazil still has a lot of open wounds ,” said Paiva’s son, Marcelo Rubens Paiva, whose book about his mother’s handling of his father’s disappearance inspired the film. “I think this whole movement has made society, especially young people, reflect on what kind of country they want.”

Through its story of a family's ordeal at the hands of the dictatorship, the film has largely succeeded in crossing political lines and uniting Brazilians around the common idea of justice, said Fernanda Torres, whose portrayal of Paiva's widow Eunice has earned her widespread praise and a best actress nomination at the Academy Awards.

“This hasn’t happened for a long time: a cultural phenomenon around which we all agree that it’s not fair, that this family didn’t deserve it, that this father didn’t deserve the fate that he had,” Torres said in an interview. “We are really living in a moment of revolution,” he added. “Culture has immense power.”

The film’s message was made especially chilling because it came amid fresh allegations of modern threats to Brazil’s young democracy from former President Jair Bolsonaro, who was charged this month with overseeing plans to stage a coup and assassinate his rival, President Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva, after he lost the 2022 election.

This has helped amplify calls for justice. Caetano Veloso , one of Brazil’s most prolific singers and songwriters, said in an interview that at his most recent concerts, huge crowds have chanted “No to amnesty” — an apparent reference to laws protecting the dictatorship but also to new bills that could protect Bolsonaro.

“I have never seen anything like this,” said Veloso, who was imprisoned and then exiled during the dictatorship.

Human rights groups estimate that more than 400 people were forcibly disappeared and some 20,000 were tortured in Brazil during the dictatorship . But unlike Chile or Argentina, where many crimes committed under military dictatorships have led to trials and punishments, and the death toll was much higher, Brazil has not pursued accountability for its military's atrocities.

Paiva, a left-wing deputy, was expelled from his post by the dictatorship, but continued to resist the regime, and was accused by it of exchanging letters with dissidents in exile.

In Brazil, the transition to democracy was largely determined by the military junta itself , which passed an amnesty law in 1979 that protected both dissidents and the military from persecution.

“Amnesty, the way it was done in Brazil, erased the past ,” said Nilmário Miranda, special adviser on memory and truth at Brazil’s Ministry of Human Rights, who said he was himself a victim of torture. “It treated the perpetrators as their victims, the torturers as the tortured.”

Attempts to hold the military accountable for dictatorship-era crimes over the years met with staunch resistance from the military, which continued to wield enormous political influence even after Brazil's return to democracy.

Reviews

But now the film has helped initiate perhaps the most significant threat to the impunity that has been granted to the military.

In December, Judge Flávio Dino cited the film in a ruling to revoke the amnesty granted to two colonels accused of murdering political activists during the dictatorship. I Am Still Here has “moved millions of Brazilians,” he wrote. “The story of the disappearance of Rubens Paiva, whose body was never found nor given a proper burial, highlights the undying pain of countless families.”

Judge Dino has backed a legal argument that, in any case where bodies remain missing, it is a “continuous crime” that can be prosecuted until the remains are found.

Earlier this month, the Supreme Court also decided to review whether to revoke the amnesty in Paiva’s case. In 2014, Brazilian authorities charged five men with his torture and death; they never confessed to any crime. Two of them are still alive and have remained largely silent; one of them told prosecutors he was on vacation during Paiva’s detention, a claim refuted by documents from that period.

The Supreme Court's decision in the case could set a legal precedent that could affect at least 41 other cases from the dictatorship era.

In a symbolic gesture, a federal agency ordered the review of 434 death certificates of people killed or disappeared during the dictatorship. Paiva's was the first record to be corrected, going from not indicating any cause of death to citing the cause as “unnatural, violent, caused by the Brazilian State.”

Lending credence to the film, a special government commission has reopened an investigation into the 1976 car accident death of former President Juscelino Kubitschek, citing indications it may have been orchestrated by the military dictatorship.

“The role of the film was extraordinary,” Miranda said. “Art has that power,” he added, to ensure that “history is not forgotten, so that it never happens again.”

Boycott

Bolsonaro, a retired army captain who has often spoken fondly of the dictatorship, has repeatedly attacked I'm Still Here, calling it a political film that demonizes the military and shows only “one side” of the story.

“I’m not even going to see that movie of hers,” he said in an interview with The New York Times last month, when asked if he would support Torres at Sunday’s Oscars.

Some of Bolsonaro's supporters have also boycotted I'm Still Here and opposed efforts to bring the military to justice for past crimes.

Lula, for his part, has praised the film, calling it a “source of national pride” and creating an award in honor of Eunice Paiva. This week, the Brazilian president gathered government ministers and congressional leaders, as well as two of Paiva’s grandchildren, at the presidential palace for a special screening.

Yet as Brazil grapples with its dark past, some fear justice may come too late. In the decades since Brazil's return to democracy, many of those who committed crimes during the dictatorship — including most of Paiva's torturers — have died without being held accountable.

“Better late than never,” said Marcelo Rubens Paiva. “But why has it taken so long?”

By Ana Ionova and Jack Nicas

Film trailer

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I1Vagac7YEY