I’m Still Here: What the Oscars Truly Mean for International Features

Words by Cristina Afonso

As each year's award season reaches its climax with the approach of the Oscars, the art community comes together in anticipation of its outcomes. Oftentimes this excitement manifests by people picking their favorite films and bracing themselves for inevitable disappointments. For many, the Oscars are a night to celebrate cinema and those responsible for keeping it alive. However, one of the most essential roles of the Oscars is the opportunity to open doors and raise voices that are regularly overlooked. This is not simply an attribute of the Academy, but a responsibility they carry. It's why, time and time again, people raise their complaints when this potential goes unfulfilled—one clear example being the #OscarsSoWhite campaign back in 2016, a direct response to the all-white ensemble of nominees that year. 

This time around, when a film from a country without a dominant film industry broke into the Oscars race, it proved that such recognition is more than just a nomination—it's a statement. “I'm Still Here” has already made history, earning Brazil its first nomination in the Best Picture category, as well as making Fernanda Torres the first Brazilian actress to win a Golden Globe. Now, as the season approaches its finale with the Academy Awards, the film carries the weight of representation on its shoulders, as a whole nation awaits the results of its three nominations—wondering if this will be the first time the country takes home the golden statuette. 

“It's my Brazil,” a woman told Brazilian newscast G1 about her reaction to the Golden Globe win, “I didn't even think about [Fernanda] as an individual—I thought of it as a community, as if I was there, and as if the award was for me and all other artists.”

A Brazilian Story

Based on a memoir of the same name, “I’m Still Here” tells the real-life story of Rubens Paiva, an engineer and former congressman, who was forcibly disappeared during the Brazilian military dictatorship in the 1970s. Most importantly, it shows those left behind, his five children and wife, Eunice (Fernanda Torres). 

With such a delicate subject in his hands, director Walter Salles held the responsibility of telling this story with great care. Being a close friend of the Paiva’s in his early teens, he watched the family’s struggles firsthand. Many have pointed to the sudden shift in tone the film takes after its first act. In the first 30 minutes, we see the Paivas as a joyful family, living life to the fullest in their big house just steps away from Ipanema Beach. But once Rubens is taken away, everything changes—their world is upended, and their family dynamic is completely disrupted. 

For me, and many Brazilians watching it, the true tragedy lies between the lines. 

From the beginning, the subtlety of the world-building may go unnoticed by those unfamiliar with the scenario of the Paiva’s reality—but for us, it is impossible to ignore. We see ourselves in the Paivas.

One thing in particular that stuck with me was the younger kids in the family — Marcelo, the youngest, was only 11 when his father was taken. We see Eunice doing everything she can to protect their innocence by hiding the true state of the country from them because she knows they will inevitably come to understand it. She tries to delay the moment for as long as possible. In those kids, I saw my mom. Born just a year before the political coup that started the dictatorship, she spent most of her youth in that reality. I couldn’t help but wonder how much of her own innocence was lost at the hands of the military. 

I also saw my dad, who only realized the full extent of what was happening once he moved to the big city to attend university. He would tell me about the day his school’s cafeteria was stormed by a group of protestors running from the police—kids, like him—and how that was the first time he felt the sting of tear gas. 

The story of I’m Still Here is one of thousands that were shaped by the actions of the state during Brazil’s 20-year dictatorship. For us, being able to tell it to the world is more than just giving voice to those who can no longer speak for themselves—it is about pulling the curtain and revealing how our history is connected with yours. 

Fernanda Torres says it herself in an interview for Vogue, “The dictatorships of South America were not a banana republic matter. They were part of the macro politics of the time,” she begins. “People treat the dictatorships in South America like something that happened on that faraway continent. But it’s all part of the same story.”

Toward A Third Cinema

“Toward a Third Cinema” is a 1969 manifesto by Argentinian filmmakers Fernando Solanas and Octavio Getino. As Hollywood was coming out of its Golden Age—with studios releasing what’s now considered all-time classics—Solanas and Getino created a movement challenging its domination. Third Cinema was born from political resistance, it seeks to disrupt, to expose, and to reclaim narratives from the margins. “I’m Still Here” embodies this idea, not just in its subject matter, but in its very existence as a Brazilian film breaking into an industry that rarely makes space for voices like ours. 

The Oscars have long been a symbol of cinematic prestige, but the true impact of a film like this one goes far beyond golden statues. It proves that our history is not just a footnote in someone else’s story, but a vital part of the global conversation. It challenges the notion that only certain stories are “universal” while others remain locked within their national borders. Recognizing films like this is about expanding our understanding of the world, looking beyond our perspectives, and engaging with different realities. 

Yet, despite all of this, many within the industry remain indifferent to foreign storytelling. This year, the Best International Feature category received the highest number of abstentions from Academy voters, which just comes to show there’s still neglect towards films made outside of Hollywood’s traditional sphere. The exact thing Solanas and Getino criticized 50 years ago. When the very people tasked with celebrating cinema dismiss entire sections of it, it raises the question: whose stories are truly being valued?

Filmmaking, like any other art form, is, at its core, a means of expressing a message—to question, rebel, resist. When watching a story like the one of Rubens and Eunice’s, we should leave the theater with a seed in our minds—one that grows into a desire to examine our surroundings, understand the world we live in, and question it. 

Further Reading:

Toward A Third Cinema (1969) by Octavio Getino and Fernando Solanas