I’m Still Here: How Rio de Janeiro’s Architecture and Urbanism Shape the Oscar-Nominated Brazilian Film

A radiant Rio de Janeiro, bathed in sunlight and carried by the ocean breeze. The beach is full of life—children run across the sand, families enjoy their time together, and laughter drifts through the air. This is how I’m Still Here, the Brazilian film nominated for three Oscars, begins: portraying Cidade Maravilhosa as a vivid, open landscape, a postcard from the 1970s that exudes freedom and vitality. But as the story unfolds, this bright and open setting gives way to shadows, consumed by the fear and uncertainty of the military dictatorship that ruled Brazil for over two decades.

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Between 1964 and 1985, Brazil endured a dictatorship that left lasting scars on its people. Censorship and repression became part of everyday life, affecting political, social, personal, and professional aspects in different ways. Even some of the country’s most renowned architects suffered the consequences: Niemeyer was interrogated and removed from major projects like Brasília’s airport, while Vilanova Artigas was imprisoned and forcibly retired, preventing him from teaching at the Faculty of Architecture and Urbanism at the University of São Paulo. Thousands disappeared, and many more were tortured by the state—numbers that remain uncertain to this day.

Against this backdrop, Walter Salles’ film tells the true story of Eunice Paiva’s fight for justice while raising her five children after her husband, engineer and politician Rubens Paiva, was taken from their home by the military—never to return. A powerful and emotional narrative, the film uses architecture and urban spaces to reflect relationships, the passage of time, and the impact of history on everyday life.

The story begins in the Paiva family’s beachfront home in Leblon, Rio de Janeiro. With a mix of Portuguese and modernist influences, the house feels warm and welcoming, its wooden doors and shuttered windows always open, inviting in the sea breeze and a constant flow of friends and family. Scenes of shared meals after days at the beach, parties filled with Brazilian music in the spacious living room, children’s bunk beds in their shared bedroom, and the parents’ formal yet intimate library all help create a vivid sense of home.

As the story progresses, the once-bright and lively house begins to change. The warmth of safety and happiness is gradually replaced by the chill of fear and uncertainty as Eunice realizes her family is being watched by undercover agents. The doors and windows, once left wide open, are now locked. Heavy curtains cast the rooms into darkness. What was once a vibrant, airy space becomes closed off and suffocating. The house, once a place of comfort, begins to mirror the oppression of the era. The kitchen grows quiet, the living room empties and the library becomes a place of hushed conversations when Rubens Paiva is taken away and disappears. His absence leaves an overwhelming void, making the house feel vast and lifeless.

This emptiness reaches its peak when the family decides to move to São Paulo. More than just a change of address, it marks a deep transformation—physically, emotionally, and symbolically. Leaving behind their familiar home means stepping into an uncertain future. Psychologically, the move represents the family’s acceptance of loss and the painful finality of grief. In their new São Paulo apartment, far from the beach and the warmth of Rio’s sun, they arrange their old furniture, but something essential is missing. The film captures this shift, mirroring Brazil’s transformation—a country carrying the weight of its past, struggling to move forward.

Beyond its physical spaces, architecture also appears in the film as a symbol of hope. In scenes set on the plot of land where Rubens had planned to build a new home, the family stands within the unfinished foundation—a dream of the future, abruptly cut short. That dream is shattered when Eunice pulls the wooden stakes from the construction site, a powerful act that embodies the loss of both a home and a future that will never come to be.

Over time, both in history and in the film, the Paiva family’s beachfront house in Leblon was transformed into a restaurant. The neighborhood, once primarily residential, saw certain streets—including the one where their house once stood—shift toward tourism. After extensive research, the production team chose a different historic mansion in Rio to recreate the family’s home for the film. But just as people change, so do homes and cities. In the final scene, the family gathers around a new table in a new house. The backyard, now covered in grass and far from the beach, serves as a quiet reminder that home is not defined by a place, but by the presence of loved ones—whether in life or memory.