CINELIMITE x ANOTHER SCREEN
PRESENT
SIX TIMES WOMAN
IN THE SHADOW OF A DICTATORSHIP
Programmed by
Another Screen (Daniella Shreir) & Cinelimite (William Plotnick, Matheus Pestana)
Contributors
Hanna Esperança, Patrícia Mourão de Andrade, Mariana Queen Nwabasili, Lorenna Rocha, Andrea Ormond, Laura Batitucci
Research by William Plotnick, Matheus Pestana, Hanna Esperança
Editing and web design by Daniella Shreir
Translations and editing of filmed interviews – Glênis Cardoso, William Plotnick
With the support of IMS Film Department
Kleber Mendonça Filho, Marcia Vaz, Thiago Gallego, Lucas Gonçalves de Souza
Special thanks
The Rio de Janeiro National Archive, The Museum of Image and Sound (São Paulo), Susana Fuentes, Cida Aidar, Lorenna Montenegro, and David Meyer
We wish to pay tribute to the brilliant Bérénice Reynaud (1951–2023), at whose invitation this programme was first shown, at REDCAT, Los Angeles, a couple of weeks after her passing. May her memory be a blessing.
This programme is free but distribution, subtitling, writer and translation fees aren't. We receive no funding so please consider donating to us so we can keep this project available to all. We have a Patreon for regular supporters, or you can make a one-off donation here.
A note about the programme
Introduction by Hanna Esperança
I.
A Entrevista (The Interview)
dir. Helena Solberg, 1966
- Interview with Helena Solberg by Andrea Ormond
- Filmed interview with Helena Solberg
II.
Preparação 1 (Preparation 1)
dir. Letícia Parente, 1975
In
dir. Letícia Parente, 1975
Tarefa I (Assignment I)
dir. Letícia Parente, 1982
- On Letícia Parente by Patrícia Mourão de Andrade
- Filmed interview with André Parente
III.
Ana
dir. Regina Chamlian, 1982
- Interview with Regina Chamlian and Cristina Amaral by Mariana Queen Nwabasili
IV.
Histerias
dir. Inês Castilho, 1983
- Photos taken on the set of Histerias
- Interview with Inês Castilho by Laura Batitucci
V.
Duas Vezes Mulher (Two Times Woman)
dir. Eunice Gutman, 1985
- Interview with Eunice Gutman by Lorenna Rocha
- Filmed interview with Eunice Gutman
V.
Meninas de um outro tempo (Girls From Another Era)
dir. Maria Inês Villares, 1985
- Filmed interview with Maria Inês Villares
- Who Gets Preserved: Women, Access, and the Past, Present, and Future of Film Preservation in Brazil with Marina Cavalcanti Tedesco, Natália de Castro and Débora Butruce
About the programme
The idea for Six Times Woman took shape in 2022, when Cinelimite completed a new 2K scan of A Entrevista (The Interview, 1966), Helena Solberg’s debut film and a landmark of Brazilian feminist cinema. The film's soundtrack—testimonies from upper-middle-class women, living in Rio, about virginity, marriage, sex, work, and the roles assigned to them—is set against images of a bride preparing for her wedding.
Before 2022, A Entrevista circulated in a low-resolution video transfer, which failed to reflect the beauty of Mario Carneiro's 16mm photography. The new digital master was created from a 16mm print held at the Arquivo Nacional in Rio de Janeiro and scanned in 2K in New York. The long path from vault to screen reflects a structural problem in Brazil, where priority for preservation and access has too often been given to films by men, and films made by women are overlooked and poorly preserved.
Cinelimite’s goal was never to stop at digitization. A few years earlier, we had prepared the first English subtitles for A Entrevista, which are presented here in a revised version. Our mission is to facilitate the transition from preservation to access, placing restored works in dialogue with one another and bringing them into contact with new international audiences.
From there came a curatorial impulse. Solberg’s film had broken new ground in the mid-1960s by confronting—but also implicitly challenging—bourgeois women’s voices, but what came next? In the two decades that followed (which span the military dictatorship), which filmmakers—regardless of whether or not they had seen the film—took up her concerns, expanded on them, or disputed them? Researching women’s documentary and experimental work from the period is difficult because many films still lack accessible copies. (It is for this reason that we were keen to hear from Brazilian women film archivists and preservationists, whose illuminating roundtable discussion you can read below.)
The eight films in this programme probe issues relating to mental health, race, aging, beauty standards, class, and the pressure of prevailing social norms, within the climate of the dictatorship. These six filmmakers, half of whom are still making films reveal small sites of resistance and reinvention, be it in the favela, the nursing home, or the artist studio.
The title of the program is a nod to the anthology film Cinco Vezes Favela (Favela Five Times) from 1962, which comprises five shorts about life in the favelas of Rio produced by the Popular Culture Center (CPC) of the National Union of Students. Considered a formative work of Cinema Novo, the five films were directed by men. Since Solberg’s A Entrevista is frequently discussed in relation to Cinema Novo (you can hear what she says about this in our filmed interview with her), our title gently questions that history by imagining a world in which six women directors made films in conversation with one another.
For Six Times Woman, Cinelimite digitized Inês Castilho’s Histerias (1983) and Maria Inês Villares’s Meninas de um outro tempo (1987) in 2K, and Eunice Gutman’s Duas Vezes Mulher (1985) in 4K. You might remember Castilho and Gutman’s work from our Cinelimite x Another Gaze’s first programme, Mulheres: Uma outra história. We are grateful for these filmmakers’ trust as we present these works to the public in their new digital versions for the first time. The works of Letícia Parente were kindly shared with us by André Parente, who has worked to preserve and disseminate his artistic legacy. You can watch an extended video interview with him below. Regina Chamlian’s Ana (1982) is presented in SD quality, made available through the work of the Museu da Imagem e do Som in São Paulo.
Introduction to the programme
by Hanna Esperança
The narrator of Clarice Lispector’s Água Viva (1973) has no name. She is an elusive painter who is using a new tool—language—in a medium that is new to her, too: writing. Experimenting in this new form, she tries to make sense of her own existence in the world and becomes consumed by ideas surrounding life, death, and the slippery passage of time. Confessional, dreamlike, and sometimes epistolary, Água Viva is an intricate and detailed stream of consciousness that constantly plays with words and their meanings. It is no coincidence that liberdade (freedom) is one of the book’s most frequently occurring words.
Lispector’s narrator experiments with language, freeing herself from convention, and a similar formal transgression can be gleaned in Inês Castilho’s Histerias (1983), an experimental documentary that tussles with the institutional, domestic, and psychological violences exacted on women. Through the film, Castilho destroys the notion of womanhood as a synonym for obedience and submission—and, on the other end of the spectrum, the notion of the heroine, expected to endure anything. In one scene, a woman cries loudly after being cheated on; another woman in a different scene admits she cannot stay at home for more than a day; women on the street speak of seeking “liberated love”, while others lament that they are not loved enough. Even the mother—the film’s central figure, who, at the beginning of the film, suddenly appears in a Wonder Woman costume as her children fight—grows angry because her partner doesn’t aim when he pisses. Woven into this sequence is the “possession dance”, the name Castilho gives to a hypnotic performance in which performer Juliana Carneiro da Cunha embodies a range of extreme emotions—anger, restlessness, devotion, rejection, fear, hysteria. By the end of the film, she drops to the ground as if dead. This moment is accompanied by the voice of a woman reading from Água Viva: “My frightened truth is that I was always yours alone and didn’t know it. Now I know: I’m alone. I and my freedom that I don’t know how to use.”[1] By invoking Clarice’s words, I am reminded of another line from the book, where death symbolises rebirth: “Will I have to die in order to be born once again? I accept.”
The innovative cinematic language of Helena Solberg’s A Entrevista (1966) and Letícia Parente’s Preparação I (1975) constitute challenges to conventional representations of womanhood, too. Solberg uses asynchronous sound, which would gain traction among feminist filmmakers in the years that followed, particularly in non-fiction filmmaking. As we see a young woman leisurely preparing herself for her wedding day, sunbathing on the beach, then having her make-up and hair done, the voiceover paints a less tranquil picture. Composed of interviews, various bourgeois young women reflect on love, sex, and marriage, at a time when such talk was considered taboo. There is a lack of coherence in these women’s opinions, which is only underscored by the sound editing, where reflections are curtailed mid-thought. This disjuncture culminates in a final sequence, composed of photographs of women taking part in the March of the Family with God for Liberty in 1964, establishing a link between this event and the subsequent coup d’état, between bourgeois womanhood and authoritarianism.[2]
Parente’s video consists solely of a three-minute shot of a woman and her reflection in a bathroom mirror. What at first resembles a make-up routine turns into a disturbing series of actions as she sticks a piece of adhesive tape over her mouth and paints lipstick on its surface. She then tapes over one eye, drawing a large, cartoonish copy on it, and repeats these steps on the other side, effectively blindfolding herself. This concise yet bizarre process is typical of Parente’s pioneering videos, which have been shown primarily in gallery and museum contexts.
A challenge to feminine ideals is also present in Regina Chamlian’s Ana (1982), Eunice Gutman’s Duas Vezes Mulher (1985), and Maria Inês Villares’s Meninas De Um Outro Tempo (1986). These films diverge from A Entrevista by exploring realities outside the filmmakers’ social contexts. While Solberg, an upper middle-class woman, interviewed her peers to understand the politics of her own world, Chamlian, Gutman, and Villares focus on the lives of marginalised women—those overlooked by society, mainstream media, and excluded from dominant urban spaces. In Gutman's film, this manifests in the slums’ geographic marginality; in Villares’s, in the social isolation of the nursing home.
In Ana, Chamlian, a white filmmaker, captures an intimate portrait of Black primitivist and self-taught artist Ana Moysés inside her atelier and home in Embu das Artes, a city in the state of São Paulo that served as a meeting point for artists in the 1960s, and where Moysés lived most of her life. Through a combination of close-up shots, filmed portraits of Moysés, interviews, and a diverse soundtrack ranging from Tom Jobim to Bob Marley, the film explores the artist’s overall outlook on life rather than laying out the trajectory of her artistic life, as is more typical of these documentary portraits. In a conversation over coffee, filmmaker and subject share the frame and casually discuss love and death. As Chamlian says in her interview with Mariana Queen Nwabasili conducted for this program: “there was a desire to find a common ground not only between Ana and me as a white filmmaker, but also between Ana and anyone who saw the film, regardless of their race.” That plurality of perspective also exists off camera. Chamlian credits the film's Black director of photography, Cristina Amaral, as another of Ana’s authors.[3]
In Duas Vezes Mulher, Gutman, another white filmmaker, explores the lives of two Black women. Residents of the Vidigal slum in Rio de Janeiro, Jovina and Marlene reflect on the challenges of migrating from the countryside to the city and building their own homes—both literally and symbolically—in a new place, while navigating aspects of their personal and political lives. The camera emphasizes their deep connection to the environment they relentlessly fought for, using handheld shots to weave through the narrow streets, capturing daily life and the community’s atmosphere. Gutman immerses herself in and engages with a reality different from her own, yet one that is still connected to her personal history, as her mother, like Jovina and Marlene, migrated from the Northeast. In an interview with Lorenna Rocha, Gutman notes that her mother came from Pernambuco and her father from Poland, and reflects on her filmmaking process as a path to self-discovery: “Brazil is a country made of people who have come from other parts of the world, either by their own will or by force. So, in a way, this is a story that is within us.”
Villares, then in her thirties, interviews five elderly women in Meninas. Among the interviewees is her own mother—a fact she withholds until the end of the film. This revelation unfolds through two shots: first, a friend of Villares, a surrogate for the filmmaker, gazes affectionately beyond the camera; this is followed by a shot of Villares’ mother’s face. In the voiceover, Villares confesses: “Mom, I’m afraid of this silence, of this feeling that things have been very old for centuries.” The focus of the film shifts, becoming personal rather than a more neutral view on aging. By making the film, Villares attempts to bridge a generational gap between herself and her mother, creating closeness where there was once distance. Although much more conventional in form, these three works defy tradition on their own terms, by presenting a more pluralistic vision of womanhood. The space between filmmaker and subject becomes the point of convergence from which each film unfolds, creating an encounter of realities that broadens our understanding of Brazilian womanhood.
Spanning over two decades, the films in this programme emerged from a tumultuous period in Brazilian history, marked by the social and political upheaval of a brutal military dictatorship (1964-1985). Against repression, feminism began to spread across political and educational spaces—neighborhood associations, workers’ unions, universities, and anti-government parties—in the 1970s. By the 1980s, as redemocratization became a more tangible goal, women were actively involved in the creation of a new national constitution, which advocated for the inclusion of women’s rights. In tandem with this social transformation, Brazilian cinema saw a notable rise in women filmmakers, particularly—as was the case internationally—within the realms of documentary and short films.
All of the films embody the complexities of a period marked by profound contradictions, when art and cinema were shaped by oppressive structures and these structures were challenged through the subversion of formal and narrative strategies. In A Entrevista—made just a few months after the coup d’état and before the establishment of the AI-5—the military dictatorship is present as a historical and political reality to be discussed in direct relation to patriarchal conservatism.[4] In the later Preparação I and Histerias, it is implicit in the violence of gestures and disruptive editing. Despite their formal differences, these three films depict women caught in a bind between who they are, or want to be, and the societal expectations of how they should be and how they are expected to present themselves. In this process, the idealized, sanctified woman is demystified—even exorcised.
By contrast, Ana, Duas Vezes Mulher, and Meninas engage in a dialogue with social restructuring during the moment of redemocratization. After years of censorship, embodied voices and narrative continuity take on new significance. In these films, the primary objective is to amplify the voices of marginalized women who share a double burden, not only as women but also as poor, Black, and/or elderly women. Violence is not mere subtext, but laid bare through the personal stories of the women, captured in the close-ups of their faces or heard in the rawness of their speech.
Across all of the films, there is solitude—not as the consequence of a bitter individualism, but as a collective solitude that lasted for over twenty years and continues to this day. Solitude is the result of heavy expectations imposed on women, in a society in which female sexuality is constantly neglected. If these expectations are met—whether in marriage, motherhood, or sexuality, as seen with many of the women in A Entrevista—solitude remains, because there is no other perspective beyond the roles they are forced to play. If these expectations are not met—if women dare to age, as did the girls in Meninas, or to divorce or remain unmarried, like Marlene in Duas Vezes Mulher or Ana Moysés in Ana—they run the risk, again, of social isolation.
I am reminded once again of Lispector’s words, echoed in Histerias: “I’m alone. I and my freedom that I don’t know how to use.” But, she continues: “Great responsibility of solitude. Whoever isn’t lost doesn’t know freedom and love it.” More than four decades later, we are still learning to love it. The question is: who will teach us? Perhaps the films of Six Times Woman offer the beginnings of an answer. While the women we see on screen are alone in their daily particularities, the films possess the power to connect them—not only within their own diegesis, bridging testimonies, voices, faces, and contexts—but also with an audience that, today, watches and remembers them. Villares, speaking in Meninas, was right: “a huge journey to reach you, to reach all of us.”
[1] Clarice Lispector, Água Viva, translated by Stefan Tobler (New York: New Directions Books, 2012), 19.
[2] The March of the Family with God for Liberty was a religious and political movement in 1964. Organized by conservative groups and mobilized by the Catholic Church, the movement was an opposition to Brazil’s government and President João Goulart’s progressive reforms. Its endorsers demanded military intervention, framing it as the only way to save Christian family values and defeat communism. Upper-class women, heavily influenced by the Catholic Church, formed the most significant portion of its supporters. The March, a public demonstration that gathered approximately five thousand people, became a symbol of legitimization of the coup d’état within civil society.
[3] Cristina Amaral is an active and prolific Brazilian film editor who began her career in the 1980s. As an editor, she has worked on more than 40 films, such as Raquel Gerbers’ Ôrí (1989), Carlos Reichenbach’s Buccaneer Soul (1993), Andrea Tonacci’s The Hills of Disorder (2006), and Seen, Not Seen (2013). Her most recent editing work was on Thiago B. Mendonça’s Curtas Jornadas Noite Adentro (2019).
[4] The Institutional Act Number 5 (AI-5) was enacted in 1968 by the military government during Brazil's dictatorship. The act, which included the suspension of individual constitutional rights, paved the way for the torture, murder, and disappearance of civilians by the government.
Hanna Esperança is a PhD candidate in Audiovisual Media Studies at the University of São Paulo (ECA/USP). She specializes in Brazilian documentary and women’s cinema, and is currently researching Olga Futemma’s cinema for her thesis, under the supervision of Prof. Esther Hamburger. Her work is funded by FAPESP. In 2024, she was a visiting researcher in Cinema & Media Studies at the University of Southern California (USC), working with Prof. Dr. Michael Renov.

A ENTREVISTA
The Interview
dir. Helena Solberg
1966, 20 min
16mm to 2K. Black and white
A Entrevista was made in 1964, the year that President João Goulart was overthrown by a coup, marking the beginning of the 21-year military dictatorship. The film is composed of fragments of the dozens of interviews Solberg conducted with young women from the same upper middle-class background as her own who, safe in the knowledge they would not appear on-screen, are able to speak candidly about sex before marriage, higher education, and politics. The soundtrack deconstructs the image: a woman enjoying her independence before being readied for her wedding day.
The film caused a buzz when it premiered two years later, though was not without some controversy. Its epilogue—composed of photographs of bourgeois women taking part in a series of reactionary marches, which reflects the sense of women’s subjugation and complicity—was criticised even by some of Solberg’s peers and supporters.
Helena Solberg (b. 1938) is a filmmaker, producer and screenwriter. Born in Rio de Janeiro, Solberg has spent most of her life in the United States, where she has made documentaries for the television. In Brazil, she directed the short films A Entrevista (1966) and Meio-dia (1969). Her body of eighteen films, including documentaries and narrative work, is permeated by political and feminist militancy. Her last film, the feature Meu corpo, minha vida, was released in 2017.
This programme is free but distribution, subtitling, writer and translation fees aren't. We receive no funding so please consider donating to us so we can keep this project available to all. We have a Patreon for regular supporters, or you can make a one-off donation here.

Interview with Helena Solberg
by Andrea Ormond
Andrea Ormond: You worked as a journalist at O Metropolitano, the Pontifical Catholic University of Rio de Janeiro’s student newspaper, and later at Manchete magazine, where you interviewed figures including Clarice Lispector. What is the difference between Helena Solberg the interviewer and Helena Solberg the interviewee?
Helena Solberg: Years working with the documentary form have made me acutely aware of the camera’s power and effect in a filmed interview. The potential for manipulation is staggering. Its presence is always unsettling for the interviewee. I can tell exactly when the interviewee forgets the camera is there, and that is a victory for the interviewer. A written interview allows for reflection and for shaping oneself as a character. Both forms reveal different facets. But I prefer to be behind the camera.
AO: Your debut short film, A Entrevista (1966), opens with a series of sounds that evoke the childhood of your generation. Among them is a witch’s laugh—the kind that sparked fear in the fairy tales of that era. To make the film, I imagine you had to overcome some kind of spirit, whether internal or external…
HS: I love the witch! She says: I will let the other fairies deliver their prophecies and, after that, I'll deliver mine! And then she lets out a sinister laugh. Thousands of women, accused of being witches, were burned at the stake. They threatened the system because they were wise, healers, and figures of power in their communities. They were seen as usurping male power and had to be eliminated. The witch’s presence in the film was a provocation: a warning that the role society prescribed for young women could not hold.
AO: Tell us a little about your experience as a student at PUC in Rio de Janeiro: one of the cradles of Cinema Novo.
HS: It was a new world. Until then, I had never shared a classroom with male students. There was also the unusual fact that our house, where I lived through important moments of my adolescence, was and still is inside the PUC-Rio campus. The past and the future met there, and being in that place stirred feelings and memories that were sometimes unsettling. As part of my undergraduate degree in Romance Languages at PUC-Rio, I discovered Latin American literature, which I had previously been unfamiliar with. Until then, my background was more eurocentric. I also met friends who became significant in my life, including Heloísa Buarque de Hollanda, Arnaldo Jabor, and Cacá Diegues. I would meet them again at O Metropolitano, where, as you acknowledged, I worked as a reporter.
AO: Can you explain the choice of the off-screen testimonies in the film?
HS: The women of my generation weren’t in the habit of having very intimate conversations. There was a certain self-censorship around what might be considered "taboo" subjects. I thought I could break down that barrier by making a movie in which identities would not be revealed. I needed to seek answers to many questions that were still taboo among us, and this was a tactic. Because they didn't want to be filmed, I came up with this sequence of the bride who is being “prepared” for her wedding: a scene that is deconstructed by the interviews that are laid on top. That was a saving grace, because otherwise I would have ended up with a series of talking heads. The film required a creative solution and I think it’s all the more enriching for it.
AO: From the late 1960s to the early 2000s, you lived outside Brazil. Did other societies and cinemas change your creative drive?
HS: Actually, I lived abroad for two years, from 1960 to '62. Then I was away for thirty years, from 1970 to the millennium. I don't know if these years altered my "creative drive", but I was certainly able to access more production mechanisms, more resources, more progressive sources of funding. For those who left Brazil right after the Institutional Act No. 5 of 1968 was introduced, it was a question of salvaging one’s freedom. Around the world, feminist movements were boiling over and the protests against the Vietnam War were impressive. There was a liberating atmosphere brought on by the hippie wave, on top of everything else. There were many Brazilians in exile. Looking at one's country from a distance was an essential experience.
AO: Besides A Entrevista, Bananas Is My Business, and Vida de Menina, several of your films center on female protagonists within a sharply defined historical moment. Meu Corpo, Minha Vida (2017), a documentary on abortion in Brazil centered on Jandira dos Santos Cruz’s 2014 case, is one of them. What bridge do you see between these women, from your sister Glória Solberg in A Entrevista to Jandira dos Santos Cruz in Meu Corpo, Minha Vida?
HS: This "bridge" you refer to is being challenged and analyzed by the feminist movement right now. Black feminist movements are growing stronger and forcing us to understand our struggles from a different perspective. The question of “situated knowledge” is, at the moment, the most discussed and contested agenda—one, we hope, will help us to walk together.
AO: In Bananas Is My Business (1995), you reexamine Carmen Miranda’s legacy. You narrate her life in your own voice while grounding the film in extensive archival research. What does the film mean to you today?
HS: It was a very interesting experience because I discovered aspects of her life that had always interested me and that had already been dealt with in other films. I think the most important was the realization of the loss that occurs in the effort to translate ourselves to the foreigner. The hardest part was introducing my alter ego. A half-fictional, half-real character, who was me. I find it very difficult to hear my own voice—embarrassing, even—and I struggled to find the tone and accept the role, but it was necessary to create empathy and convey emotion. I really like this mix of documentary and fiction that I think worked in Carmen.
AO: Your fiction feature Vida de Menina (2003), adapted from Helena Morley’s published diaries, is set in 19th-century Brazil. What was it like to bring that world to the screen?
HS: It was my first and, so far, only experience directing actors. In 2003, I spent two months at the Actors Studio in New York, observing rehearsals with directors such as Arthur Penn. It was eye-opening, but nothing compares to seeing scenes that had lived in my head for months finally take shape on set. Living with the whole team for two months in Diamantina, where the story takes place, was magical. The town welcomed us warmly, and many residents appeared as extras.
Andrea Ormond is a writer, researcher, curator, and art critic. She is the author of Ensaios de cinema brasileiro: Dos filmes silenciosos ao século XXI (2024) and Walter Hugo Khouri, O Ensaio Singular (2023). Since 2005, she has maintained the blog Estranho Encontro, devoted exclusively to Brazilian cinema. She has contributed to Folha de São Paulo, the magazines Cinética, Filme Cultura, Rolling Stone, and Teorema, and dozens of anthologies and exhibition catalogs. She curated the Franco-German Film Club at the Maison de France in Rio de Janeiro from 2018 to 2019, and Curta Circuito, Mostra de Cinema Permanente, in Minas Gerais from 2017 to 2022. In fiction she published, among other works, the novel Longa carta para Mila (2006).
Filmed interview
by Helena Solberg
As the 60th anniversary of her debut film, A Entrevista, approaches, documentary filmmaker Helena Solberg looks back on its production, reflecting on the central ideas and creative choices that shaped it.
THREE VIDEOS BY
LETÍCIA PARENTE
Preparação 1
1975. Black and white, 3 mins, U-Matic to SD
The artist’s unconventional makeup routine
In
1975, 1 min, U-Matic to SD
The artist hangs herself in a wardrobe
Tarefa 1
Assignment 1
1982, 2 mins, U-Matic to SD
The artist lies on an ironing board as her family's housemaid irons her.
Letícia Parente (1930–1991) was a Brazilian visual artist best known for her politically charged video art. Parente studied printing techniques at the Núcleo de Artes e Criatividade after moving to Rio de Janeiro in 1971. Until then, Parente had concentrated on teaching chemistry. In 1972 she completed a master's in analytical chemistry at Pontifícia Universidade Católica do Rio de Janeiro, and in 1976 she obtained the title Livre Docente (equivalent to a PhD) in inorganic chemistry at the Universidade Federal Fluminense in Rio de Janeiro. She published numerous articles and books on the subject and taught in higher-education institutions in Brazil and Italy. Parente also created prints, drawings, paintings, photographs, and mail art. Her first solo exhibition, in the city of Fortaleza in 1973, presented a series of monotypes. In the mid-1970s, she became involved with artists, curators and critics including Ana Vitória Mussi, Anna Bella Geiger, Sonia Andrade, Paulo Herkenhoff and Fernando Cocchiarale, who are considered to be pioneers of Brazilian video art. In 1975 Parente created her first videos—In, Preparação I (Preparation I), and Marca registrada (Trademark)—which announced themes that would remain central to her practice: the body and subjectivity and the female condition in a sexist culture.
This programme is free but distribution, subtitling, writer and translation fees aren't. We receive no funding so please consider donating to us so we can keep this project available to all. We have a Patreon for regular supporters, or you can make a one-off donation here.

On Letícia Parente
by Patrícia Mourão de Andrade
Ninety-five minutes. Letícia Parente’s complete body of work totals 95 minutes: 70 if we consider only what hasn’t been lost. This is not exactly surprising for someone working in Brazil, where fire, the dustbin, and the shelves of customs offices have been as common a final destination for celluloid as the big screen.
Ninety-five minutes, 16 films (four of them considered lost) over seven years, between 1975 and 1982. In 1982, Letícia Parente began to wind down her artistic production, which had begun in 1971 when she started experimenting with printing techniques (woodcut, monotype, linocut) after taking her first art classes. She never gave the precise reason for her withdrawal, but it was likely related to her work in the sciences. By the time she started making art, she had received a master’s in Analytical Chemistry and taught and written books about the discipline. Between 1984 and 1985, she began a PhD in Inorganic Chemistry, obtained a second master’s, and began a postdoc in Chemistry Education. The books she published on either side of her artistic career, including A Eletronegatividade ("Electronegativity") and Bachelard e a Química no Ensino e na Pesquisa ("Bachelard and Chemistry in Teaching and Research") constitute a legacy that, when measured in pages, surpasses by the hundreds the minutes she filmed. She was also raising the children she had given birth to between 1957 and 1963.
Born in Salvador, Bahia, Letícia Parente and her husband lived in Fortaleza, Ceará, until 1971, when they moved to Rio de Janeiro. They were both close to artists and had participated in Fortaleza's intellectual scene, but it was only after their move that Parente became immersed in an effervescent contemporary art scene. Between classes, studying, and the challenges of settling a family of seven into a new city, she began attending studios, art courses, and study groups. It was within a context deeply engaged in reflecting on the role of art and exploring nontraditional artistic media that Parente began creating and experimenting across various forms. In 1975, alongside colleagues from one of these study groups, she took part in what are now considered the earliest known video art experiments in Brazil.
The history of Brazilian video art is sui generis. Unlike what happened in Europe and the United States, video as technology and medium was not accessible to the public until at least the 1980s. In the early 1970s, it was used exclusively by television and the military police, primarily for surveillance and broadcasting purposes. So when, in 1974, the director of the Museum of Contemporary Art of São Paulo, Walter Zanini, received a letter from the American curator Suzanne Delehanty, asking for suggestions of Brazilian artists to include in a video art exhibition at the Institute of Contemporary Art in Philadelphia, he struck a blank. There was nothing remotely resembling a local video art scene.
Unwilling to accept defeat, Zanini reached out to Anna Bella Geiger, an artist and teacher based in Rio de Janeiro, and asked whether she knew any artists who might be willing to produce something. Geiger passed on the invitation to a group of young artists who had been gathering as part of an informal study group. Jom Tob Azulay, a diplomat with a passion for cinema who had just returned from Los Angeles with a Sony Portapak, volunteered to document their experiences. A year later, Azulay resigned from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in protest against the military regime, and became a filmmaker.
And so it was that—with a camera and help of a former consul turned filmmaker, in a highly homemade and collaborative setup—Letícia Parente, Anna Bella Geiger, Sonia Andrade, Mirian Danowsky, Fernando Cochiaralli, Paulo Herkenhoff, and Ivens Machado created their first videos and, with them, the foundations of Brazilian video art.
Over the course of a single week in June 1975, Parente produced her first three films: Marca Registrada (Trademark), Preparação I (Preparation 1), and In, all shot in her apartment and featuring her body, or parts of it. This simple setup recurs in nearly all of her videos. Taken as a whole, her video work maps out the domestic space—the bathroom, the wardrobe, the laundry area—and restages the gestures associated with these spaces—sewing, ironing, folding clothes, putting on makeup, etc—with a disarming, absurd humor that infuses acts of care, for oneself and for others, with an undercurrent of violence.
Within this domestic cartography, one recurring operation stands out: the transformation of the self into a thing among other things, a product to be cared for or traded. In Marca Registrada—a video that would become synonymous with Brazilian video art, featured in virtually every book and exhibition on the subject—she stitches, letter by letter, the words ‘Made in Brasil’ into the sole of her foot, branding herself with the mark of an industrialized export. In Preparação I, she exaggerates the rituals of makeup and self-care, turning her face into a mask. Instead of applying makeup directly to her skin, she applies it onto strips of medical tape which she has affixed to her eyes and mouth, blinding and silencing herself. If the scene, like many feminist videos of the time, evokes the clichés of femininity and the tyranny of beauty ideals that reduce women to mere images without agency—Sois belle et tais-toi ! (Be pretty and shut up!), as per the title of a French feminist video work—it also clearly speaks to the repressive dictatorship period, when guarding oneself against torture or exile often meant pretending not to see, and not saying, what one shouldn't.
Among all her commodity fantasies, Parente seems especially fond of forms of clothing. Both the inaugural and final images of her life as an inanimate object—the ones that open and close her video work—are of her transformed into a garment. In In, Parente steps inside a wardrobe and slips a hanger into the shirt she’s wearing, before closing the door. In Tarefa I (Assignment I, 1982), her last video, she lies stretched out on an ironing board, allowing another woman to iron her body.
By stepping into the wardrobe in her first video, Parente seems to perform, at least symbolically, the reverse movement of the feminist art of her time, which often performed the transition from private to public, a coming out of the closet (expressions of desire, of discontent, of rage, from women confined to domestic life). Whether she is surrendering to the fate of becoming a commodity, or to the monumental exhaustion of caring for so many bodies, is unclear. With the doors shut, she withdraws from the home, from work, from the world and its domestic obligations, embracing complete passivity.
In nearly all of her videos, there is very little subjectivity at play. The fact that it is Parente’s body or face on-screen matters little; the essential operation is the erasure of that body’s individual traits until the body becomes a surface, enacting and exaggerating domestic dynamics that have the power to discipline bodies and subjectivities. Her body does not find relief in performance. The suffocation of routine can not be sublimated, much less exploded. Instead, Parente schematises it, highlighting and amplifying a structural convention.
In her second incarnation as clothing, in Tarefa I, this operation of abstraction is rendered with striking clarity. This is the only video in which the artist shares the frame with another woman: a Black woman, whose face, like Parente’s, is cropped out of the frame. Together—the white woman lying prone, the Black woman standing—they form a cross, dividing the screen into quadrants.
Of all of Parente’s works, none is more unsettling than this one, especially considering that the Black woman is played by the Parente family’s housemaid. Of all of Parente’s works, none condenses as many contradictions of Brazilian society as this video. Brazil is the country with the largest number of domestic workers in the world. Many households, not only those of the elite, have more than one. Workers do not have defined hours and are at the mercy of the family’s routine. Marked by remnants of a slaveholding past, domestic labor is the Gordian knot of Brazilian social relations. The relations that bind families and domestic workers are rooted in a set of unspoken codes, synthesised in a vague notion of trust and a haze of affection that, precisely because it is genuine and unmediated, often becomes perverse and brutal. An unbridgeable chasm opens up in that which remains unsaid.
And yet a thread connects the mistress of the house and the maid. Historically, both have borne (and still bear) the responsibility of caring for other bodies in ways that are exhausting, undervalued, and unpaid. Of course, there is no symmetry in the way the labor of care has been and continues to be imposed on white and Black women’s bodies. And, in the care economy of a patriarchal and racist society, it is almost always the white woman who is tasked with the direct handling and supervision of the Black woman’s labour.
Still, in the day-to-day life of a household, it is perhaps the domestic worker who comes closest to truly understanding, and even empathising with, the solitude of the woman whose devotion is never fully acknowledged. This recognition is rarely mutual. And even when it is, it seldom results in an alliance toward a shared future; employer and employee remain separated by structures of exploitation. It is precisely these structures that make it possible for a white woman, a mother of five, to dedicate herself to both chemistry and art, distinguishing herself in both fields. One woman’s freedom depends on another’s renunciation of freedom.
All of this is present, indirectly, in Parente’s video. Few tasks condense the care, affection and violence that defines the dynamic between domestic worker and employing family as well as ironing clothes. Ironing is the act of gliding over a surface with the knowledge that a slight change in rhythm or pressure could destroy it, leaving behind an irreparable mark in the shape of a triangle. Few actions carry as much of the historical weight of slavery as that of holding a hot iron close to a body.
Of course, the power dynamic and agency reversal at play in Tarefa I is neither symmetrical nor entirely real. For one, we shouldn’t assume that the artist ceased to be an employer simply because she invited her domestic worker to participate in the video, under her direction. Nor should we presume that the worker would have felt comfortable refusing the request. Parente holds the power of the frame and the cut. And, even though the worker holds the iron and the possibility of inflicting harm, the employer knows that she can trust in the other’s care.
That such a caress can, in under two minutes of video, open and touch upon one of the deepest wounds in Brazil’s social contract—without any pretense of healing it or patching it up with rhetorical resolutions—is a staggering accomplishment. We don’t know what stopped Parente from making Tarefa II or III or IV, but sometimes, on art’s rare good days, one reaches so deeply into a problem that the only possible task is to keep staring straight at it.
Patrícia Mourão de Andrade is a writer, film curator, and researcher. She is currently a visiting scholar in the Film and Media Cultures Program at the Graduate Center, CUNY, and a post-doc fellow at the Institute of Arts of the State University of Campinas (UNICAMP). Her writing has appeared in journals and magazines including Film Quarterly, Crisis and Critique, Framework Journal, Ursula and Revista Zum. Her forthcoming books—A criança velha and O erro como aventura: Lygia Pape e o cinema—will be published in Brazil in 2026.
Filmed interview
with André Parente
André Parente, son of the artist Letícia Parente, offers his perspective on her life and career, revealing how her professional background as a chemist was deeply intertwined with her groundbreaking work in video art.
ANA
dir. Regina Chamlian
1982, 12 mins,
U-Matic to HD, Colour
An intimate, poetic portrait of the primitivist artist Ana Moisés by Regina Chamlian, made in collaboration with editor Cristina Amaral. Ana is prompted to talk (albeit elliptically) about some of the biggest subjects: love, death, ageing. Featuring an eclectic soundtrack that includes samba de roda and Bob Marley.
Regina Chamlian is a writer of children's books. She has received several awards for her work, among them the Author-Revelation and Best Children's Book Award from the Monteiro Lobato Library and the White Ravens Award from the Munich Library. Doctor in Literature, she graduated in Cinema at the School of Communications and Arts at the University of São Paulo. She directed one film: Ana (1982).
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Interview with
Regina Chamlian and Cristina Amaral
by Mariana Queen Nwabasili
At times overlooked by film historians due to the greater prestige given to feature films, the short film has been and continues to be the form that has most attracted and enabled artistic interventions and audiovisual experimentation for various filmmakers. Brazilian film scholar Noel Carvalho dos Santos writes of the “social groups excluded from the usual possibilities of audiovisual production and from dominant representations” that have made short films in order to construct their own narratives. These include “various social movements of workers, women, Black people, Indigenous people, and LGBTQ+ individuals”.
A recent study by Brazilian film scholar Nayla Guerra shows, for example, that between the 1960s and 1970s, 123 women filmmakers made 224 short films in the country. Since research on women's cinema in Brazil began only recently (the first full publications date back to the first decade of 2000s), as more studies emerge doubtless more women filmmakers and their films will come to light.
This interview with filmmakers Regina Chamlian and Cristina Amaral has the humble goal of contributing to the historicisation of women's cinema in Brazil, following in the footsteps of the Seis Vezes Mulher showcase, conceived by Another Gaze and Cinelimite.
Chamlian and Amaral co-wrote the short film Ana (1982), a formally experimental documentary that tells the story of the Brazilian Black visual artist Ana Moysés. Chamlian is credited as the director, while Amaral worked as the cinematographer and editor. Ana Moysés de Souza passed away in 2003. She was a self-taught primitivist painter born in Catanduva and settled in Embu das Artes, both municipalities in the countryside of the state of São Paulo. She began painting in 1959 and her work has been exhibited in Brazilian cities including Brasília, Rio de Janeiro, and Recife. Today, her works are part of private collections in Brazil and other countries, including Argentina, Japan, Portugal, Italy, and Germany.
Like a couple of other films in this program, Ana is among the few works of women's cinema made during the military dictatorship (1964—1985) in which white filmmakers explicitly adopted an “intersectional” feminist perspective (before the term was coined), bringing Black women and/or women from less privileged social classes. This concern and interest highlights an unavoidable aspect of Brazilian film history: the presence—and at times the tensions—of interracial dynamics embedded in the making of various films.
Taking into account, among many other aspects, the different racial backgrounds of the interviewees—Regina Chamlian, a white woman, and Cristina Amaral, a Black woman—the questions in this interview were structured into three sections, each introduced with contextual remarks from the interviewer.
I
Mariana Queen Nwabasili: When studying films directed by filmmakers during Brazil’s military dictatorship, unsurprisingly we find a significantly smaller number of works made by women. Regarding feature films, researchers including Alcilene Cavalcante and Karla Holanda cite the existence of 20 films made by 15 directors from the early days of Brazilian cinema until 1979. As for short films, more recent studies, like the aforementioned research by Nayla Guerra, indicate that 123 women directors made 224 short films during the 1960s and 1970s.
The vast majority of both feature and short film directors during this period were white women. As a result, when they sought to portray women's realities in their films, they often did so from specific class and racial perspectives, without including Black women and/or those from less privileged social backgrounds.
The Six Times Woman program highlights white women directors from the 1970s and 1980s who paid attention to the experiences of women across different class and racial backgrounds. Ana is part of this rare group of films, alongside Duas Vezes Mulher (Eunice Gutman, 1985) and Histerias (Inês Castilho, 1983). It’s also worth recalling other Brazilian films from the 1980s that embraced a broader perspective within women’s cinema, such as the feature films Feminino Plural (Vera de Figueiredo, 1976) and Orí (Raquel Gerber, 1989). Cristina Amaral, you worked as an assistant editor on that latter film.
With this context in mind, I ask: Regina, how and why did you decide to make a film about a Black woman artist, Ana Moysés?
Regina Chamlian: I graduated in film from the School of Communications and Arts at the University of São Paulo (ECA-USP) in 1979. Due to my circumstances at the time, in 1980 I ended up taking a job working on the shop floor of Mappin, a department store in São Paulo. Later, I got another job, also unrelated to film. Cris [Cristina Amaral] would often come over to my place, and we saw each other all the time. I was also friends with her sisters. One day, she and Joel Yamaji [also a screenwriter, and editor of Ana] showed up at my house asking if I wanted to join the team at Foca Filmes, a production company run by Ulrich Bruhn. I said yes. Foca was a place where we could develop our projects—it wasn’t how we made a living. So I juggled two jobs, working during the day and then at Foca. When the São Paulo State Department of Culture launched a call for the Prêmio Estímulo grant [an initiative of the government of the state of São Paulo, created to promote the production of short films], everyone at the production company submitted a project.
Back when I was studying film, I was involved in a project for an animated film satirising the military dictatorship. I had the idea, but I wasn’t an animator. Cris suggested I reach out to Helena Alexandrino, a student in Fine Arts who was an incredible illustrator. Around that time, Cris also invited us to join a protest against racism that ended at the steps of the Theatro Municipal in São Paulo. This was on July 7, 1978, right in the middle of the dictatorship, during an action organised by the Movimento Negro Unificado (Unified Black Movement), which was being founded at that moment. There was a sea of Black and white people protesting together, holding up signs, their hearts on fire. Being part of that was incredibly moving.
Some time later, Helena introduced me to Ana Moysés. I was trying to decide on which project I should submit for the Prêmio Estímulo when Helena, who, by then, had become a close friend and knew how much I loved the visual arts, asked me if I had heard of the painter Ana Moysés, who lived and worked in the town of Embu, in São Paulo’s countryside. Helena had met Ana and was deeply impressed by her work—which is so expressive and beautiful—and she asked me, Why don’t you go meet Ana? And so we went. The whole Foca Filmes crew came along [Amaral, Yamaji, Bruhn and Carlos Alberto Gordon]. For me, it was love at first sight.
MQN: Still on the relationship between white women filmmakers and Black women protagonists, it’s important to remember the documentary Favela: A Vida na Pobreza [Favela: The life in poverty], originally titled O Despertar de um Sonho [The Awakening of a Dream]. Directed by German filmmaker Christa Gottmann-Elter in 1971, the film focuses on Black writer Carolina Maria de Jesus, who lived in a favela. It was banned in Brazil at the time for exposing poverty and was only restored by the Instituto Moreira Salles (IMS) and screened in the country for the first time in 2014. The profile of its central figure reminds me a lot of Ana…
RC: From a very young age, around six years old, I was an avid reader. I loved illustrated books, comics, photo novels—any books, really. I remember one day, Quarto de Despejo [‘Child of the Dark’] by Carolina Maria de Jesus appeared in our house, and someone commented that it was a very “intense” book. That immediately caught my attention—if it was intense, I wanted to read it. I grabbed the book at the first opportunity, making sure no one would notice, and read it with immense interest. I fell in love with Carolina. At the time I made Ana, I wasn’t fully aware of it, but indeed there were many similarities between Carolina and Ana. Both were Black women, had lived in favelas, worked as paper collectors, and had a deep desire—along with the talent and strength—to express themselves artistically. Today, I have no doubt that this is what motivated me to make the film.
MQN: How was the process of writing the script as a team of three?
RC: The first time we met Ana, we interviewed her. Based on her answers and the photographs taken by Gordon, I wrote up a project proposal, which we submitted to the Prêmio Estímulo, and it got selected. After that, I invited Cristina and Joel to co-write the script with me. I had no experience directing a film, and I thought that having a carefully structured script would help me produce the film as I had imagined it. Joel and Cris had much more experience than I did—Joel had already directed at least two films, Cris had edited a feature film, and both had collaborated on numerous shorts. Plus, they were my friends. I trusted them, and we shared a similar worldview and artistic sensibility. We wrote at my apartment, and it was a deeply immersive and intense process. I had a clear visual idea of the film in my mind, and they helped me explore the different paths we could take. They were my guardian angels, helping me bring to life the film I had dreamed of. The whole process was very smooth and harmonious.
MQN: Cristina, could you tell us more about your early work at Foca Filmes alongside Regina and male filmmakers like Joel Yamaji, Ulrich Bruhn, and Alberto Gordon? Was this your first experience working in a production company? Do you think working in a small, independent company in the 1980s influenced the formal freedom of the documentary Ana and/or your work on other films?
Cristina Amaral: I met Regina during our film studies at ECA-USP. Joel Yamaji, Ulrich Bruhn, and Carlos Alberto Gordon were in the same class. Regina, Joel, and I became very close—we spent entire days together at school, had lunch together, went to the movies together. There was a strong connection. When we finished the course, it was only natural that we would keep working on projects together. Ulrich had this production company, Foca Filmes, which made institutional films [for industrial companies]. He asked me to invite some young filmmakers to form a group for developing short film projects, mainly for the São Paulo State Secretariat of Culture’s Prêmio Estímulo [“Incentive Award”].
The film’s formal freedom came from Regina’s direction and the recurrent conversations we had among ourselves and with Joel. A filmmaker’s journey is a sum of experiences, shaped by choices and actions over time, and Ana is part of that evolution. At that young and inexperienced stage, we already carried the blueprint of what we would become as filmmakers. Our views on cinema and on Brazil were already firmly entrenched by that time. The film has a deep respect for its subject and the desire to bring her resilience and the beauty of her work to the screen.
MQN: How do you both see the collaboration between a Black and a white filmmaker in making a film about a Black woman artist? Did you discuss this dynamic behind the scenes?
CA: Regina and I are still great friends. We share a worldview that actively works against divisions. Respect, affection, and self-esteem guided us. Not just during the making of this film but throughout our entire lives, we’ve had deep conversations about so many things. It never felt exceptional for us to work together—it was just natural and wonderful.
RC: I didn’t approach the film from a theoretical perspective but I was fully conscious of the fact I was a white filmmaker portraying a Black woman. That’s exactly why I wanted Cris to be the director of photography and handle the camera. By that time, Cris was moving more toward editing than cinematography, but I felt it was important to have a Black woman’s perspective behind the camera, working alongside mine. The men in our team could have done it—Gordon took beautiful on-set photos, and Ulrich had extensive experience with cameras—but it made complete sense to have Cris behind the lens. Above all, she was a great friend. I told her, “Cris, I want you to do the cinematography and operate the camera. It has to be you.” She replied, “Okay, but then Katinha [Kátia Coelho, who later became the first woman to serve as director of photography for a commercial Brazilian feature film, Tônica Dominante (Lina Chamie, 2000)] will be my assistant.” And that’s how we did it.
My relationship with Cristina was built on friendship and a shared love for cinema. Making this film was a way to put our beliefs about racial equality and the celebration of difference onto film, without needing to verbalise them. For us, it was obvious—it didn’t need theorising. It was something instinctive and direct, almost like the moral clarity we have as teenagers when we just know what’s right and wrong. During the shoot, when we framed a shot and looked through the lens, our conversations went something like: “This is beautiful!”; “Look how stunning she [Ana] is!”; “Check out this light!” Those were our behind-the-scenes discussions.
MQN: Regina, was it a deliberate choice to make Ana’s identity as a Black woman unmistakable—both visually and symbolically—while not explicitly addressing race? Considering how color itself carries meaning in film, was there an effort to portray Ana beyond her racial identity and, in doing so, find common ground between a Black subject and a white filmmaker as women?
RC: I think the challenge was precisely to portray Ana beyond her Black identity while at the same time not denying it. Ana’s Blackness is not only evident in her skin color, but also in the symbolism of the clothes she wears throughout the film. She chose those outfits, and they were from a trip she had taken to Africa. Her Blackness is also present in parts of the soundtrack, which includes artists like Edith Oliveira, Bob Marley, and Sarah Vaughan. And yes, there was a desire to find a common ground not only between Ana and me as a white filmmaker but also between Ana and anyone watching the film, regardless of their racial identity.
II
MQN: It is well known that Brazilian women filmmakers such as Helena Ignez, Helena Solberg, Ana Carolina, Paula Gaitán, and yourself, Cristina Amaral, had specific connections with male directors from what is known as Cinema de Invenção, Cinema Marginal, and even Cinema Novo.
Helena Ignez was the actress in Glauber Rocha’s first film, the short Pátio (1959), and was also his partner at the time. Paula Gaitán, besides also being Glauber’s partner, was the art director of his last feature film, A Idade da Terra (1980).
Helena Solberg worked as an assistant director for Rogério Sganzerla on A Mulher de Todos (1969), and Sganzerla edited her film, A Entrevista (1966), which is also part of this Six Times Woman showcase. Ana Carolina was close to Sganzerla, but Helena Ignez, even more so: she was his life partner and collaborator as an actress-author in various works produced by Belair Filmes—a production company she co-founded with Sganzerla and Júlio Bressane. Though short-lived, operating for only a few months in 1970, Belair Filmes produced seven films.
Cristina, you not only edited several films by Carlos Reichenbach but were also closely associated with Andrea Tonacci, both professionally and personally.
More than linking these women filmmakers to these male directors in a paternalistic and sexist way as a form of validation, I believe these connections reveal perspectives, preferences, and affinities among these diverse filmmakers who, symptomatically, are not typically included within the historicisation of certain key Brazilian film movements in our cinematic history.
With this said, I ask: How do you see the erasure of Brazilian women filmmakers as contributors to formally inventive cinema between the 1960s and 1980s. I’m thinking about Ana, but also various other works you edited, Cristina, and in the direction of different women filmmakers mentioned in the introduction to this section?
CA: I think we need to consider this issue from a historical perspective. Women had to fight a lot throughout history to exist, to work, to vote, to have rights over our bodies, etc. This happened in general, and cinema was no exception. Non-commercial, experimental cinema, whether made by men or women, has never had an easy path. Recognition came with time—all these films grew in importance and became essential. I don’t think it’s useful for us to dwell on past erasures. It’s healthier to research, recover, and bring these works to light: to value them. I salute all these women, and today, filmmakers like Helena Ignez and Paula Gaitán, among others, who have continued to make their films in a highly personal way and are receiving international recognition.
RC: I believe this reflects Brazil as a whole. In a country as patriarchal, sexist, racist, and homophobic as ours, this is hardly surprising. Even in so-called progressive cultural spaces, these traits persist. And these are the spaces that establish the canons you mentioned. Not long ago, in a graduate class at one of the most highly regarded and innovative schools, known for being in tune with contemporary sensibilities—ECA-USP [School of Communication and Arts of University of São Paulo]—a professor stated in class that feminism in art was an American thing, since “this problem” didn’t exist here. It wasn’t clear whether “this problem” meant that sexism didn’t exist or that there were no feminists in Brazil. But this is a history being rewritten by young Brazilian artists, curators, and researchers, and they are already showing us how to perpetuate our traditions of invention and experimentation.
MQN: What kind of film circuits were you involved in in the 1970s and 1980s? Do you think these circuits influenced the language of Ana?
CA: We are the sum of everything we see, read, and listen to. However, when it comes to making something, it’s important to seek our own forms of expression, take risks, succeed, fail. I watched everything. In those decades you mentioned, we were in our early twenties, our minds filled with films, books and images. At that time, I used to watch at least one film a day. We went to the movies almost every day, and then there were the films we watched in class and on the television. However, the films that truly affected me were those from Cinema de Invenção, which professor Paulo Emilio Salles Gomes from ECA-USP introduced to us in the classroom. So my connection with a cinema of exploration and formal experimentation came from the films he screened, works by Andrea Tonacci, Carlos Reichenbach, Júlio Bressane, Rogério Sganzerla, Luiz Rosemberg Filho, among others. Carlos and Andrea had already won my heart long before I met them in person. They are part of my life and my story.
RC: Because we watched a lot of films at ECA-USP, made by both women and men, the university itself was an important film circuit for us. Many screenings there were programmed by professor Paulo Emilio Salles Gomes. We watched films in the auditorium and, afterwards, there were always discussions and debates. Filmmakers sometimes came to talk to us after the screenings. The students also organized film showcases. I remember seeing some works of New German Cinema that left a strong impression on me: Herzog, Fassbinder, Wim Wenders...
I wanted Ana to be an intimate and introverted documentary, almost like a poem or an essay, rather than a conventional, wordy, and invasively investigative or heavily ideological documentary. So I do think the way New German Cinema approached certain films—blurring the lines between documentary, essay, and fiction—may have influenced the language of Ana.
MQN: It seems like the films that were screened were mostly made by men, right? But I wanted to ask: how did you first come into contact with films and cinema in your youth, to the point of developing a passion for it and later deciding to pursue a degree in the field?
CA: I only started to reflect on how I first came into contact with and developed a love for cinema after years of working in the field. I remember that, during my teenage years, I only watched films on the television. I had no idea how a film was made, so my relationship with cinema was one of pure enchantment. I loved reading and was very interested in photography. I think it was photography that led me to apply for the film course at university which involved all areas of filmmaking. When I understood what editing was, I found my place in cinema.
RC: I honestly don’t remember watching any films by Margarethe von Trotta, for example, before 1982. I only saw Rosa Luxemburg (1986) much later. But how did I first come into contact with cinema in my youth? Well, besides loving to read books and comic books as a child, I watched a lot of television—mainly cartoons, TV series, and films. Some of those cartoons had beautiful soundtracks, featuring classical music, percussion, and jazz. In my teenage years, I started reading Brazilian, Russian, and North American short stories across different literary genres. I read Poe, Kafka, Cortázar, Clarice Lispector, Machado de Assis, anthologies of science fiction, fantasy, and horror. A little later, my bookshelf started filling up with Simone de Beauvoir, Virginia Woolf, Camus—and cartoons like Peanuts, and Mafalda by Quino.
I also went to my neighborhood cinema to watch the latest releases—the kind of films that drew queues around the block. From the age of 15, while still in high school, I started frequenting cinemas in São Paulo, like Cine Biju and Belas Artes. It was in those theaters that I was introduced to a different kind of cinema. It was the world of so-called art cinema, auteur cinema, independent cinema—mainly European and North American productions. The first Kurosawa film I watched was at Cine Biju, while the first Fellini and Buñuel films I saw were at Belas Artes. I might have had to make a fake ID to get into the films that were restricted to adults, since I wasn’t 18 yet.
At the end of high school, a girl from my class obtained unlimited access to cinema tickets for four people. So the four of us would go to the theater next to our school practically every day. If the film was interesting, we’d go back and watch it again. There were movies I saw three or four times—I memorized the dialogues and the soundtracks by heart. When it was time to decide what path to take, I was torn between majoring in literature or history. At the last minute, I had a sudden realization and decided to study cinema.
MQN: Regina, you ended up making only one film in your career. Did you give up or become disenchanted with filmmaking? Do you think gender played a role in your decision not to continue directing? You pursued literature instead, is that right?
RC: I have always considered myself both a writer and a filmmaker. I’ve been writing since I was a child. I published my first children’s book in 1980. Ana was made in 1982. After making the film, I spent some time looking for freelance work in production companies, but I didn’t have much luck. There were long gaps between one job and the next, which didn’t suit me. Maybe gender played a role, but at the time I wasn’t conscious of it. So I started looking for a stable job outside the industry. But I never stopped writing. Cris would tell me about open calls for film projects and wanted me to apply. I would send proposals, come up with ideas, but nothing ever came of it. At some point, I began publishing books more regularly and continued down that path to this day.
MQN: Cristina, you have had a long and acclaimed career as an editor. As a director, however, you only made one film—the short Abá (1992), co-directed with Raquel Gerber. Did you not want to continue directing?
CA: I’ve explained this many times: I am not a director. My way of being in the world, and in cinema, is through editing. I don’t have a hierarchical view of filmmaking. Editing is my choice, and I feel respected and recognized in that role. I may occasionally direct a film, but I’ve worked closely with real directors—I know that directing is a deeper, more serious responsibility. It’s a whole different way of being in the world.
The directing credit for Abá was a kind gesture from Raquel. The material used in the film was shot by her and didn’t fit into the feature-length Orí [an experimental documentary from 1989, directed by Gerber and narrated by Maria Beatriz Nascimento]. Since Raquel wanted to make a film to take as a gift to FESPACO [the Panafrican Film and Television Festival of Ouagadougou, in Burkina Faso], we made Abá [a short film about African religion practices] which I love and consider a film-prayer. But, in it, I did nothing beyond what I do in my editing work. I accept and carry Raquel’s kind gesture with me. She is a sister that cinema gave me.
III
MQN: Now, I’d like to talk more specifically about the form and content of Ana. The cinematography and editing of the short film are particularly striking. At times, the framing emulates the form of a portrait, thus valuing the most dignified types of portraits of Black people made throughout history. In other words, by proposing varied framing and representation of the Black female protagonist—including the use of jump cuts—Ana seems to question and rework an entire photographic and cinematic representation of Black women that preceded it and was linked to historical periods such as colonial slavery.
At the same time, in some moments, the film frames works of art/paintings alongside the protagonist’s face in extreme close-ups, highlighting the desire and possibility of maximum proximity and attentive listening to what these artistic image-voices—both the character’s and the artworks’—have to say to the director as an interlocutor on set and to the film’s audience.
With that in mind, I ask: What was the process in terms of the cinematography and editing of the film, Cristina and Regina? Were there any pre-established intentions regarding framing, and who made these decisions? Was there an editing script after the footage was selected? How did you conceive of the film’s fragmented editing style?
CA: It was a long time ago. What I remember most is how much discussion there was between Regina, Joel, and me. It was truly a process of deep conversation, affection, honesty, freedom—always accompanied by lots of laughter. We thought about framing and editing choices together afterwards. Everything stemmed from the attention, listening, and gaze that we directed toward the protagonist.
What I can add is that sometimes a small detail, something that wasn’t necessarily planned, led us down an editing path. It’s beautiful to let yourself be carried by the life that the material presents. I don’t recall which camera we used. But, honestly, that doesn’t really matter—in cinematography, what’s essential is the gaze.
RC: More than four decades after the film was made, it’s difficult to recall every detail with precision, and memory can deceive us. The film was shot on 35mm. If I’m not mistaken, that was a requirement of the funding program for which the film was made. And Foca Filmes had a 35mm camera, I’m not sure which, that belonged to Ulrich.
Our greatest desire was to show Ana, to portray her in all her richness, complexity, and magnificence. We relied on the multiplication of images: here, there, facing forward, in profile, laughing, serious, full body shots, close-ups. The framing and camera movements for filming her were established in the script, meaning that the visuals were conceived during the writing process. Then, during the shoot, Cris, Katinha, and I, with the camera position already predetermined, would make adjustments and review the script. There was also room for spontaneous input—Cris might suggest something, Katinha might suggest something else, and sometimes something even better would emerge on the spot.
One thing I was mainly anxious about was that jump cut sequence where Ana wears the dresses she brought from Africa, set to Bob Marley. It’s precisely the moment when multiple images of her in alternating poses are captured—images of different sizes, with different backgrounds—and edited together as if following the rhythm of a heartbeat, like a pulse. The fragmented editing followed this same idea of systole and diastole, of a composition shaped by the rhythms of life.
I’m really happy with your reading of the film: how you interpret the Ana we were able to reveal, and recognize our intent behind those extreme close-ups. And regarding the idea of portraits and history, it’s worth mentioning that the portrait Ana holds in her hand during that jump cut sequence is a portrait of her mother.
MQN: Another aspect that stands out to me is the film’s soundtrack, which moves between samba de roda—a cultural heritage of the Recôncavo Baiano—Bob Marley’s reggae, and string music with a more classical feel. How was this soundtrack put together, and how was it conceived to relate to—or at times distance itself from—the protagonist, leading the film through different layers of dramatic expression?
RC: The soundtrack was chosen in two main phases: during the scriptwriting process and during the edit. You could also say that the soundtrack was basically made up of the records I had in my possession and loved listening to—a very homemade approach, really. As far as I remember, I don’t think we used anything outside of my personal LP collection. I would put one of those records on and suggest that we include it. This helped set the tone of a scene, its movement, its rhythm.
I remember that, after considering using Emoções by Roberto Carlos and Erasmo Carlos to open the film, we asked Ana if she liked that song. Since she said yes, it was in. The samba de roda, sung by Edith Oliveira, is from Caetano Veloso’s album Araçá Azul, a record I must have worn out from listening to it so much. The three of us—Cris, Joel, and I—would listen to everything and discuss what we thought. Some tracks were selected for the film which ultimately didn’t make it.
We chose the soundtrack thinking about the person we were filming and the themes that emerged when we brought together images and music. Then, there was the moment of testing—or even adding—songs during the edit. That was the real test, where we could feel whether what we had imagined actually worked on the moviola or not.
MQN: At around the nine-minute mark, you ask AnaL “Do you have anything to say about loneliness?” Even without explicitly framing it in such terms—as is the case throughout the film—this question engages with certain social markers, such as her racial identity and her age. Additionally, the question brings to mind contemporary discussions around the loneliness of Black women. After you ask this, the camera, which was fixed on the character’s face, slowly zooms out until the surrounding space becomes larger in the frame than the space Ana’s body occupies. This perception is heightened by the fact that, throughout the scene, Ana remains silent, looking down, without facing the camera or responding to the question. The dramatic weight of the moment is clear through both the camera movement and the character’s silent resignation. The way this scene is constructed made me wonder whether the question was asked in real time, triggering Ana’s silence in direct response, or if it was instead a scripted and edited device, shaping a specific directorial interpretation of the character.
RC: At various moments during my interactions with Ana before filming, she expressed feelings of loneliness. Whether due to the hardships and abandonment she experienced at several points in her life—her relationship with the group of artists that formed in Embu das Artes later dissolved—or other social and existential struggles, she conveyed a feeling of absence. I remember Ana saying that she didn’t or couldn’t relate to the people she met, that she longed for a more genuine life, and that she wanted society to operate as if we were all siblings, which is something she said she had seen in Africa. It was in the script—I intended to ask it in the scene. I asked Ana my questions in real time. However, it’s possible, though I can’t be sure, that I might have told her she could choose whether or not to answer—that she could remain silent if she wanted to. What I do know for certain is that this was meant to be the last question in the film, and the zoom-out was also meant to mark this farewell, along with Sarah Vaughan’s song To Say Goodbye.
So, I think the scene was a deliberate narrative choice, with the camera and editing emphasizing the film’s perspective. But, even so, the scene feels profoundly real to me, fully aligned with Ana’s own desire to express her genuine feelings about the world. Watching it again moves me—her gestures, her expression, her gaze. That was entirely her, no one else.
MQN: About halfway through the film, we see Ana and you sitting together at a table, having coffee and talking. As far as I can tell, this is the only moment where you, Regina, appear on camera as the director. However, in this scene, you are not a conventional interviewer who asserts control by staying off-camera while asking questions, nor do you position yourself in the traditional hierarchical structure of interviewer and interviewee. Instead, to ask Ana a sensitive question ("Ana, are you afraid of death?"), you sit with her at the table, sharing a coffee. Would you say that this moment highlights your authorial approach to documentary filmmaking?
RC: This way of doing things reflects my approach to documentary filmmaking. We were really just sitting there, having coffee together. But I didn’t think about it that way—I was guided by intuition. And it never crossed my mind that I held any kind of directorial superiority over the person being interviewed. If there was any kind of superiority in that moment, it belonged to Ana. She was the star.
I wanted to make an intimate, personal film, one that bordered on the poetic. How could I possibly achieve that while imposing any kind of hierarchical dynamic?
MQN: Did you stay in touch with Ana after the film? Do you know how she was doing before her death in 2003?
RC: Unfortunately, I didn’t keep in touch with Ana after the film was completed. In that sense, our relationship existed within the timeframe of the shoot. I think there are two scenes in the film that might carry another layer of meaning in this regard—scenes that are more self-referential, autobiographical, and emotionally tied to the filmmaking process itself. These are the first and last scenes.
In the opening, when Emoções by Roberto Carlos plays, the lyrics say: “I am here today, living this beautiful moment.” That beautiful moment was the experience of making this film—of being able to present Ana to the film’s audience. And in the final scene, Sarah Vaughan sings To Say Goodbye as the camera zooms out. That’s a farewell from the film as well. It’s ending. Ana is leaving. And, in a way, so are we all—isn’t that right?
Mariana Queen Nwabasili is a journalist and researcher. She is a PhD candidate in the School of Communications and Arts at the University of São Paulo (USP). Her research examines authorship, representation, and cinematic reception in relation to race, gender, class, colonialism, coloniality, and decoloniality, with a particular focus on Brazilian cinema. She was a short-film curator for the Tiradentes Film Festival between 2023–2025. She also writes film and theater criticism.

HISTERIAS
dir. Inês Castilho
1985, 17 mins
16mm to 2K, Black and white
Interspersed with documentation of dancer Juliana Carneiro da Cunha’s "Possession" performance, which draws from Christian mysticism, in the filmmaker’s words this experimental short is about “the psychic suffering of women in a patriarchal society”. It takes the viewer on a disorienting journey—with abrupt cuts in sound and image—through the Catholic Church, repressed sexuality, racial violence perpetrated by white women, maternal fatigue, male chauvinism and drug addiction…
As a journalist, Inês Castilho played an important role in the alternative feminist press in Brazil in the 1970s and 1980s, writing in newspapers including Nós Mulheres and Mulherio. As a filmmaker, she made the short experimental film Histerias (1983) and the documentary Mulheres da Boca (1982), co-directed with Cida Aidar. She also worked as a scriptwriter, producer, and assistant director in other productions of the time. She currently writes for the blog Outras Palavras.
This programme is free but distribution, subtitling, writer and translation fees aren't. We receive no funding so please consider donating to us so we can keep this project available to all. We have a Patreon for regular supporters, or you can make a one-off donation here.







Interview with
Inês Castilho
by Laura Batitucci
Laura Batitucci: How would you describe Histerias in your own words?
Inês Castilho: Histerias is a political and poetic reflection on the desire for love and transcendence. The film emerges from the pain, absence, suffering, and discrimination experienced by women. These forms of deprivation manifest in many ways, from social inequality to the repression of desire, as well as exclusion based on race and class. Rooted in this context, the film exposes a deep human restlessness in search of divine passion. It portrays a body struggling to breathe under the weight of a society shaped by structures of oppression and silence.
LB: What was the driving force behind the film, or how did you describe it to the participants?
IC: The film was born out of the intense excitement I witnessed in myself and in the women on the crew of my previous [non-fiction] film, Mulheres da Boca, as we engaged with the world of prostitution. There was something in the air, something overflowing, impossible to contain. The situations we created were charged with eroticism and, to the actors and extras, I offered an invitation to reflect on love, gender, and racial dynamics.
LB: How did the political climate of the dictatorship and the position of the feminist movement at the time shape your perspective and influence the making of your film?
IC: The emerging second wave of feminism, which I consider myself to be part of, posed no real threat to the dictatorship. The murders of journalist Vladimir Herzog in 1975 and factory worker Manoel Fiel Filho in 1976 had already set in motion the beginning of the regime’s decline, and the United Nations’ declaration of 1975 as International Women’s Year provided institutional support to the feminist movement. At the time, the Brazilian left dismissed feminism, arguing that women’s demands distracted from class struggle, which they saw as the central cause. Feminist issues, they claimed, would be addressed only after the revolution.
It’s important to remember that, in São Paulo, the feminist movement was largely composed of white, educated, middle-class women. The voices of Black, Indigenous, and queer women were not being heard. The idea of intersectional feminism, one that comes with the understanding that oppression occurs at the intersection of class, race, and gender, was introduced by Black [Brazilian] women in the 1980s.
LB: What was the process like in securing support from state cultural institutions to make Histerias (1983)? Was there any attempt to censor its themes or scenes?
IC: Our work as insurgent women was still in its infancy, largely invisible. We were white, middle class women in a country with a Black majority, where illiterate people were still barred from voting. We flew under the censor’s radar.
Despite strict controls—over the press, music, and theater—short film funding grants continued to take place in São Paulo. At the federal level, Embrafilme, then directed by the intellectual Carlos Augusto Calil in São Paulo, was open to supporting strong projects. Franco Montoro, [a key figure in Brazil’s democratic transition from 1983 to 1987], was the governor of São Paulo at the time. These were years of slow redemocratization.
It is also important to recognize the role played by the group of women researchers at the Carlos Chagas Foundation (FCC) who, in 1978, launched the first Women's Studies Research Contest. The initiative emerged in the context of Brazil’s democratic opening and became part of the Foundation’s Support Program for Studies on Women and Gender Relations. Between 1978 and 1998, three editions of the contest were held, supporting more than 170 research projects over two decades, which focused on producing knowledge about the condition of women in Brazil. It was thanks to this support that Cida Aidar and I made Mulheres da Boca. The Ford Foundation, which funded the FCC’s research program, also contributed to the post-production of Histerias.
As you can see, there were cracks in the dictatorship’s structure of oppression that made our work possible.
LB: What was your creative collaboration like with Tatu Filmes, which also produced Mulheres da Boca (1982)?
IC: Tatu Filmes was fundamental to the making of both films. The “seven Tatus” generously embraced the projects, offering us not only technical expertise and equipment but also enthusiasm. I am deeply grateful to them, and I want to give special thanks to Chico Botelho, who passed away in 1991.
The company, which emerged from a collective formed at ECA USP, brought together filmmakers with a range of specialties: Chico Botelho in cinematography, Walter Rogério in sound, Wagner Carvalho in production, and Adrian Cooper, Mário Masetti, Alain Fresnot, and Claudio Kahns: they were all directors in their own right, with projects of their own.
LB: How were the first screenings of Histerias received? How was the film distributed?
IC: The first screening of Histerias was unforgettable. It took place in the small moviola editing room of Tatu Filmes, on Rua Wisard in Vila Madalena. It was not a screening space, and screenings there were not common. On that occasion, after a screening at the São Paulo International Film Festival, I mentioned that Histerias was finished, and Jean-Claude Bernardet, who was there, suggested that a small group of filmmakers go watch it. We all headed to the Tatu offices.
I was unsure about the film and watched their reactions closely. When the screening ended there was a long silence, broken only by Jean-Claude’s quiet sobs. That moment marked the beginning of a deep friendship.
The film’s distribution, however, was precarious and improvised. It relied on the efforts of Isa Castro at CDI, Cinema Distribuição Independente, a small distributor based in Bixiga, São Paulo. The film was shown at universities, as part of women’s groups, psychoanalyst collectives, and in a few curated programs. It was selected for the documentary showcase in Cachoeira, in the Recôncavo Baiano, and screened at the Festival de Films de Femmes in Paris. However, it was rejected by a showcase organized by [the newspaper] Folha de S.Paulo, despite Jean-Claude’s strong support.
That rejection already pointed to some of the resistance the film would encounter from broader audiences. It was an experimental work that addressed a subject often ignored: the psychic suffering of women in a patriarchal society. In the wake of the dictatorship, with its legacy of prisons, torture, and death, there was still deep, unresolved pain that needed to be confronted.
LB: In Histerias there is a performance by Juliana Carneiro da Cunha titled ‘Possession’, credited as being inspired by the lives and works of Saint Teresa of Ávila and Saint John of the Cross. Can you tell us what role the performance plays in the film and how it was adapted?
IC: ‘Possession’ was not created for the film. It was an existing solo performance by the incredible actress and dancer Juliana Carneiro da Cunha, originally staged in 1976 under the direction of Alain Louafi. The piece drew deeply from Christian mysticism, inspired by the intense spiritual ecstasies of Saint Teresa of Ávila and Saint John of the Cross, as noted in the film’s credits.
I saw the performance in 1979 while working for the culture pages of Folha de S.Paulo. I had been assigned to cover the show and write about it. I was deeply struck by the emotional force of the piece, although I no longer remember what I wrote in the article. Years later, when I began developing Histerias, the memory of that experience returned with great clarity. I invited Juliana to recreate the performance for the film and she accepted.
Within the film, the performance functions as a visceral meditation on spiritual and psychological liberation. It resonates with the broader themes we were exploring around desire, suffering, and the inner lives of women. Rather than recreate it from scratch, we adapted Juliana’s original staging for the cinematic space. We filmed it in a single continuous shot, preserving its intensity and presence. The result remains one of the film’s most powerful moments, in which the expressiveness of the body becomes a form of resistance and transcendence.
LB: Histerias was made a year after Mulheres da Boca and takes the blurring of documentary and fiction even further. How did you and Cida Aidar develop that approach? Was there any prior research for the interviews?
IC: For Mulheres da Boca, we carried out intensive research in the Boca do Lixo region of São Paulo, where women worked on the streets, and in the so-called Bocas do Luxo: the nightclubs.[1] With Histerias, it was a different story. The project emerged from the emotional intensity we experienced during the production of Mulheres da Boca. It felt like a kind of celebration.
We were not working within academic frameworks. Our process was guided mostly by intuition, with support from many friends who joined us. At the same time, Cida was connected with a group of psychoanalysts who were studying female neurosis. These connections planted the seeds of the film, which originally had the working title "Três Marias ou Histeria" ("Three Marias, or Hysteria").
The brilliant synthesis of what the film would eventually become came from Isa Castro, actress, editor, and one of the main creative forces behind its final form. Apart from Cida’s personal engagement, the psychoanalyst group did not participate directly in the film.
LB: The film opens with a striking image of a Black woman, seemingly experiencing a psychotic episode, being forced into a car by white nurses, with a church looming in the background. Elsewhere, there are other subtle gestures that touch on racial and gendered hierarchies, including within the office setting at Tatu Filmes. Could you speak about how these dynamics were treated in the film?
IC: What I think is most important to highlight is that the opening scene depicts the oppression of a Black woman by white women. The church is present, but only in the background. It is not the central focus.
Another moment that gestures toward this is the scene in the Tatu Filmes office [12:24 - 13:27], in which we see Cristina Amaral, a Black woman who is now widely recognized as a legendary editor of Brazilian cinema, alongside Geleia, one of the interns at the company. His quiet, attentive presence, captured spontaneously by Chico Botelho, adds another layer to the film’s engagement with race.
That said, we are all aware of the historical role the Catholic Church has played in repressing female sexuality and the deep harm that has caused. These structures—racism, patriarchy, and religious authority—intersect and reinforce one another in both subtle and visible ways. Histerias does not aim to explain these dynamics through direct discourse, but rather to suggest them through mood, gesture, and image, leaving space for the viewer’s reflection.
LB: In your opinion, what impact have women’s liberation movements had on women’s mental health today? Have things improved in recent years?
IC: We are still living with the effects of poverty and hunger. No feminism can ease the suffering of women who are heads of households and struggling just to survive. But feminism, as a cultural force, has opened new spaces where women can begin to breathe more freely.
It has been a joy to witness, over the decades, the growth of Black feminism, the strength of lesbian movements, and, more recently, the emergence of Indigenous women as political and cultural leaders. Of course, there is still a long road ahead. We have celebrated important advances, such as the inclusion of Black and Indigenous women in President Lula’s cabinet, but we must remain alert. Setbacks are always possible.
[1] Boca do Lixo = lit. “trash mouth” vs. Bocas do Luxo = “luxury mouth”. Both are popular, unofficial names for their respective neighbourhoods, though the latter is rarer.
Laura Batitucci is an archivist and film technician. Currently works as a film restoration technician at the National Archive of the Moving Image (ANIM) of the Cinemateca Portuguesa in Lisbon. She is also the executive director of Cinelimite.
DUAS VEZES MULHER
Two Times Woman
dir. Eunice Gutman
1985, 11 mins
35mm to 4K, Black and white
Jovina and Marlene, two Black women of different generations, left Northeast Brazil for Rio de Janeiro’s Vidigal favela, in search of new opportunities. They relate how they thwarted Portuguese landgrabbers and transcended their status as housewives.
Their stories reflect the growing number of women regarded as heads of household in Brazil (which has continued until this day), and the migration of significant numbers to urban centers, until the 1980s, which saw a severe economic crisis and high inflation.
Eunice Gutman (b. 1941) is a filmmaker, editor, and screenwriter. Following her studies at INSAS in Brussels, Gutman worked as an editor for Belgian and French television. She returned to Brazil in the 1970s, where she directed her first film, the documentary E o mundo era muito maior que a minha casa (1976), about adult literacy in rural Rio de Janeiro. She has made at least seventeen films throughout her career including, most recently, Lights, Women, Action (2022). Much of Gutman's work is dedicated to women's issues and women's struggle for their spaces.
This programme is free but distribution, subtitling, writer and translation fees aren't. We receive no funding so please consider donating to us so we can keep this project available to all. We have a Patreon for regular supporters, or you can make a one-off donation here.


Interview with
Eunice Gutman
by Lorenna Rocha
Eunice Gutman’s identity as a filmmaker emerged as she began to recognise herself as a feminist. After studying at the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro, Gutman moved to Belgium in 1965 to escape Brazil’s military-civilian dictatorship and attend the Institut National Supérieur des Arts du Spectacle (INSAS), where she learned filmmaking and television production techniques. During her years in Europe, particularly in Belgium, she encountered feminist thought: reflections on gender, and debates about women's history and sexuality. On returning to Brazil in the early 1970s, she found that, given the country's conservative environment and limited freedoms, similar discussions were still incipient. Throughout Gutman’s filmography, an engaging dialogue between gender, class, and race is evident. The attention she pays to her documentary subjects is always sensitive, and the themes she explores – such as prostitution and housing struggles, always from the perspective of working women – are fairly unconventional for her time.
The director of numerous short films, created both independently and collaboratively, and a co-founder of the short-lived Rio de Janeiro Women’s Film and Video Collective (1985–87) alongside Regina Veiga, Ana Carolina, Tereza Trautman and others, Eunice Gutman remains one of Brazil’s most committed voices in the fight for women’s emancipation and the power of cinema. Her latest feature, Luzes, Mulheres, Ação (2022), premiered at the Rio Film Festival. This documentary blends interviews, scenes that borrow from theatre and archival footage to trace the history of women’s movements, from early 20th-century suffrage to today’s public figures, and to connect generations in creating a more inclusive vision. A native of Rio, Gutman’s work continues to display an unwavering commitment to pursuing women’s social rights through film.
Lorenna Rocha: In an interview you gave as part of the Mulheres, uma outra história programme on Another Screen, you mentioned that you made films as a way to reveal things to yourself, as a way of discovering yourself as a woman. What did you hope to better understand about yourself or about Brazil in the 1980s, when you chose to approach Jovina and Marlene, two Black women from a community in Rio de Janeiro, for Duas Vezes Mulher (1986)?
Eunice Gutman: This is a film about immigrant women. There were, and still are, many people who leave the Northeast for the communities of Rio de Janeiro in search of a new life and new opportunities. Brazil is a country made up of people who come from other parts of the world, whether by choice or due to circumstance. So in a way, this is a story that lives within all of us. My mother came from Pernambuco and my father from Poland. I was curious to hear Jovina and Marlene recount their lives, their arrival in Rio de Janeiro. I was interested in portraying life in these communities. I visited, did some research here and there, and that’s how I met them.
LR: The film foregrounds the active and reflective voices of its two protagonists: Black working women who are rarely centered in conversations about housing struggles and labor in Brazil. With Duas Vezes Mulher, were you intentionally responding to the Brazilian cinema of the time, particularly its dominant strands of leftist and militant filmmaking, which often remained masculinist and insufficiently attuned to race when portraying the working class?
EG: My interest in interviewing those two women stemmed from a desire to understand how they confronted this patriarchal world. My entry into filmmaking did not begin with feminist films. I was engaging with writers like Simone de Beauvoir. Around that time, I was struck by a phrase from Carol Hanisch: “The personal is political.” That idea fundamentally changed me. My life felt political, and it sparked the desire to explore issues from a woman’s perspective.
LR: I get the sense that you became a feminist at the same time that you were coming to understand yourself as a filmmaker. Would you say that’s true?
EG: Exactly. The first film I directed was in 1976, for Mobral, the Brazilian Literacy Movement, which focused on adult education. The subject was a 77-year-old woman who said that, as she learned to read, she discovered the world was bigger than her house. I thought that was fantastic. The project was originally going to be directed by a man with no background in film. When I found out about it, I approached the directors at Mobral, told them I had studied in Belgium, and insisted that I should direct it myself. In the end, they agreed, and they loved the result. E o Mundo Era Muito Maior que a Minha Casa was screened widely across Brazil. That experience gave me confidence in my abilities, though I hadn’t previously imagined myself directing a film.
When I arrived in Europe, directing was still a male-dominated field. At the time, women were steered toward editing. But when I returned to Brazil, I was told that even the editing room was not considered a place for women. I laughed at the absurdity of it, refused to back down, and began working as an editor while continuing to direct. After the Mobral film, I went on to make three more: Com Choro e Tudo na Penha (1978), Anna Letycia (1979), and Só no Carnaval (1982), in collaboration with Regina Veiga, who had been my classmate in Brussels.
There was a strong feminist wave moving through Europe and the United States at that time, and eventually it reached Brazil. That energy helped bring us together as women in film. That’s how we began the activities of the Women’s Film and Video Collective in Rio de Janeiro. Other collectives later formed in São Paulo and elsewhere. But over time they dissolved, in part because it was difficult to maintain that momentum without broader structural support. Still, it was an incredibly powerful force that pushed us to keep making films.
LR: What was your relationship like with the other members of the collective, such as Tereza Trautman, Ana Carolina, and Regina Veiga?
EG: I’m still in touch with these women today. We came together after collectively realizing that cinema was dominated by men. We needed to support one another and refused to accept the divisions imposed by the patriarchy.
LR: Retrospectively, how do you perceive the impact of the civil-military dictatorship on your work?
EG: I was at university at the time, and it was a very tense time. Students were under a lot of pressure. Many were being followed, arrested, even expelled for speaking out or joining protests. A lot of people decided to leave, with most going to Paris, which was a kind of reference point. Regina Veiga’s brother, who was a friend of mine, was studying in Brussels and told me the cost of living there was cheaper. I was studying Social Sciences at the National Faculty of Philosophy in Rio de Janeiro. The film course in Brussels cost just fifty dollars a year, which was practically nothing. Brussels was lovely, I was able to live comfortably, everything was more accessible. We spent the whole day at the film school, with both practical and theoretical classes. Some professors even came from France to teach. When I finished the course, I was offered three jobs. One of them was at Belgian TV. At that time, European television stations still produced films and offered jobs to recent film school graduates. But Brazilians have this habit of coming back, don’t we? [Laughs]. I went back just to visit and ended up staying.
LR: Since you studied education before turning to film, do you think your experience as a teacher shaped how you understood cinema or the kind of films you wanted to make?
EG: My mother really wanted me to be a teacher. It was a revolutionary thing for a woman to have a job and a salary of her own. She persuaded me to sit an entry exam for the Institute of Education. I passed and became a teacher of children. I woke up at five o'clock in the morning, I hate waking up early to this day [laughs], and although I loved teaching, I knew it wasn’t what I wanted for my life. It was after that that I enrolled in a Social Sciences course and started engaging with the feminist thinkers I mentioned earlier, like Simone de Beauvoir and others. And that’s how the story goes.
LR: Does cinema have an educational or pedagogical function for you?
EG: Always. I think all of us women are a little bit like teachers. It was one of the few professions we were actually allowed to pursue.
LR: What led you to work in documentary? Did you ever consider going into fiction instead?
EG: A lot of women made documentaries because it was cheaper, the budgets were smaller. But documentary is also a kind of fiction. When we interview people, we ask questions that reflect our own concerns. We’re shaping a story through that person. Why do we ask some questions and not others? That too is a kind of fiction. There are so many facets to a person’s life. It’s up to us to choose what we want them to talk about.
LR: What is the most exciting part of the interview process for you? What do you feel in those face-to-face moments with your subjects, as a director?
EG: I like it when I find reciprocity to my thoughts, when a partnership is formed. We are really creating a story together with the person on screen. But I also made a fiction film, Tempo de Ensaio (1986), with Joana Fomm and my sister, Regina Gutman. It follows the rehearsals for a play, and, little by little, the actress starts to struggle with her character’s role as a mother and wife. That tension starts to spill into the group and creates real discussions among the cast and crew. It was a way to bring up questions about how women are expected to live, and what happens when they want something different.
LR: You mentioned building a story with your subjects, and it made me think of Amores de Rua (1994), which takes a distinctly progressive approach to prostitution. Could you talk a bit about that film?
EG: During the 1970s, I attended some feminist meetings here in Rio. And in one of those meetings, I saw Gabriela Silva Leite speak with incredible lucidity, which made me want to make a film with her. I spoke to her right after the meeting and she agreed on the spot. I asked Banco Itaú for funding, and the guys who received me – since they were always men – said, "Eunice, prostitution? Come on now, don't you have another theme?" [laughs]
I thought [prostitution] was interesting because it raised a side of women that had been invented by patriarchy. And on the other hand, some women became prostitutes because they wanted to exercise a kind of freedom in the world. But it’s not an easy life. I made the film and Gabriela Silva Leite said amazing things. We went to New York, Buenos Aires. I participated in the UN Congress in 1995 after winning ten thousand dollars and a plane ticket as a prize at a festival in Argentina. With that money, I hired a cinematographer and made Palavra de Mulher (1999), a film about the conference. The theme never left me. It is my life.
LR: How has it been for you to witness this process of revisiting, preserving and disseminating your work, through initiatives such as Another Gaze, with Cinelimite and the Moreira Salles Institute?
EG: For a long time, the discussions in my work were seen as marginal, subjects that weren’t supposed to be talked about. But with this new wave of feminism, those themes are finally out in the open. I feel encouraged to bring the films back, to show them at festivals, to programme them again.
Recently, an exhibition of my work took place in Laranjeiras. It was beautiful. I was honored by Cavídeo, the company run by Cavi Borges, and they helped me finish my most recent film, Luzes, Mulheres, Ação (2022). I had made several films with feminist themes and thought no one would ever see them. So I decided to bring them together in a feature. I interviewed younger women and filmed some of the marches that began in 2013. We screened it at Rio Film Festival [in 2022].
I think we’re living a moment of victory. There’s more space for these kinds of films now. It’s much easier to find them and to get people to watch. I’ve been following what younger women are making and I’m really enjoying their films. In the end, we’re still telling the same story. Why do they want to silence us? We don’t want to be silent.
Lorenna Rocha is a historian, film critic, and programmer and curator of film series and festivals. She is a cofounder of INDETERMINAÇÕES. She has written as a critic for the blog Sessão Aberta and for the magazine Cinética. She has been part of the programming and curatorial teams of festivals such as Janela Internacional de Cinema do Recife and Festival Internacional de Curtas-metragens de Belo Horizonte. Since 2024 she has been on the short film programming team of the Mostra de Cinema de Tiradentes.
Filmed interview
with Eunice Gutman
Eunice Gutman reflects on the making of Duas Vezes Mulher, emphasising her approach to documentary filmmaking and the significance of creating cinema within favela communities.

MENINAS DE UM OUTRO TEMPO
Girls From Another Era
dir. Maria Inês Villares
1987, 25 mins
16mm to 2K, Colour
The woman interviewed in Meninas De Um Outro Tempo, who were born at the turn of the century and live in the same nursing home, open up to filmmaker Maria Inês Villares about sex, loneliness and their dead husbands. Villares’s connection to the home is only revealed, obliquely, towards the end of the film. In her words, the film is "a reflection on life when there is little of it left".
Maria Inês Villares graduated in cinema at the School of Communications and Arts at the University of São Paulo where she made her first films, the short films Circulando (1976) and Tamo ino (1977). Outside the university environment, she made the documentaries Como um olhar sem rosto (As presidiárias) (1983) and Meninas de um outro tempo (1986). In addition to being a director, Villares worked as an assistant director, scriptwriter, and editor.
This programme is free but distribution, subtitling, writer and translation fees aren't. We receive no funding so please consider donating to us so we can keep this project available to all. We have a Patreon for regular supporters, or you can make a one-off donation here.

Filmed interview
with Maria Inês Villares
Maria Inês Villares discusses the origins of her film, Meninas de um outro tempo, explaining how her experiences as a young woman shaped the work, and what led her to focus on the lives of elderly women in São Paulo during the late 1980s.
Who Gets Preserved: Women, Access, and
the Past, Present, and Future of
Film Preservation in Brazil
with Marina Cavalcanti Tedesco,
Natália de Castro and Débora Butruce
Marina Cavalcanti Tedesco: In Brazil, building a long-term career in film preservation is no small thing. How did you come to work in the field? And how do you think your experience has been shaped by being a woman?
Débora Butruce: I’ve been working in film preservation and related fields for over two decades. I was a student in the first film preservation course in Brazil, taught by Hernani Heffner at the Fluminense Federal University (UFF). It was a groundbreaking initiative that completely transformed my professional life. From there, I secured an internship at the Cinemateca do Museu de Arte Moderna in Rio, where I worked on the Censo Cinematográfico Brasileiro (Brazilian Film Census)—another pioneering initiative led in collaboration with the Cinemateca Brasileira.[1] To further my studies, I had to leave Brazil. I trained at the Filmoteca Española in Madrid and the British Film Institute in London. While there are now several short-term audiovisual preservation courses in Brazil, a more robust and comprehensive education in the field is still lacking.
After that, I worked at the Brazilian National Archive for a few years and later collaborated with CTAv (the Audiovisual Technical Center), providing archival consulting and project support. In 2009, I started a company to help formalize my work and provide the structure I needed to operate independently. I named it Mnemosine, after the Greek goddess of memory, as a tribute to my profession. Since then, I've been able to pursue a unique career path in Brazil, with highs and lows.
I also engage in other activities, because film preservation is a very unstable field in Brazil, with numerous setbacks. Professionals often face challenges such as inconsistent funding, institutional crises, and shifting priorities according to whichever government is in power. Many preservation efforts rely on short-term projects or grants, which makes long-term sustainability difficult. Public institutions responsible for safeguarding audiovisual heritage often face budget cuts, and private investment in the sector remains limited. These factors create an uncertain landscape, requiring those of us in the field to diversify our work. That's why, in addition to preservation, I also work in curation, cultural production, and film exhibition. Since last year, I’ve been particularly focused on coordinating digitization projects.
Historically, women have been well represented in film archives, particularly in roles focused on care, such as film inspection. This process involves closely examining reels for physical damage, shrinkage, or deterioration, ensuring they remain stable for handling and preservation. There are old photographs documenting this work that show rooms filled with women inspecting film.
However, women have been largely absent from leadership positions, which are crucial in shaping long-term planning and institutional priorities. While this is beginning to change as the field becomes more recognized, it remains essential for women to step into these leadership roles. By doing so, we can ensure a broader range of perspectives and avoid confining women to behind-the-scenes roles, important as they may be.
Natália de Castro: My career path is very similar to Débora's. Many in our generation have followed a similar trajectory—those of us who studied at UFF became interested in preservation through the course that, at the time, was optional but later became a mandatory part of the curriculum. I later interned at the Cinemateca do Museu de Arte Moderna. Like Débora, I had to go abroad to continue my education, at the Cinemateca Portuguesa, the Filmoteca Española, and the Santo António de Los Baños school in Havana.
We began as outsourced workers, providing services for the Technical Audiovisual Center (CTAv) on a temporary, project-specific basis. Instead of offering stable contracts or full-time positions, the CTAv—like many government-run institutions—relied on outsourcing: bringing in workers for specific projects without providing job security.
Later, around 2012, a major crisis hit the Cinemateca Brasileira. The institution faced severe budget cuts and layoffs, leading to a complete shutdown of operations. This crisis was a consequence of the federal government's decision to rescind the contract with the Associação de Comunicação Educativa Roquette Pinto (ACERP), which had been managing the Cinemateca. The decision was influenced by ideological factors and a broader pattern of neglect towards cultural institutions that piqued during Bolsonaro's administration. In August 2020, the government took control of the Cinemateca, dismissing all employees and halting activities for over a year. This situation had a ripple effect on other institutions, including the CTAv, leading to the termination of our projects and leaving us unemployed. I took whatever work I could find but wasn’t able to return to preservation right away. Eventually, I passed a public service exam and became an assistant librarian at UFRJ (Federal University of Rio de Janeiro). I worked in libraries for a while until, in 2021, I was reassigned to CTAv as a government-appointed employee.
Since then, I have been working with the CTAv film collection. Although I don’t hold a leadership position, I am the only employee with formal training in preservation. As a result, I have taken on responsibilities beyond my official role, including making key decisions about the collection. This involves setting priorities for film restoration, determining which materials require urgent conservation efforts, and guiding the team on handling and storage practices.
Débora Butruce: CTAv was very fortunate to have Natália join the team. She’s somewhat of an exception, having made her way back to film preservation after being forced to take an alternative route. Public institutions not only lack clear career pathways for film archivists, but many don’t even have designated positions for film preservation.
During my tenure at the National Archives, I encountered a significant challenge. A public service exam was announced to hire new employees—a rare event in the institution. However, the exam did not include any content related to audiovisual preservation: our area of work was not recognized as an institutional priority. This oversight was particularly frustrating for those of us who had been working in archives for several years, as it underscored the lack of career pathways in our specialized field.
We find ourselves in a kind of limbo. Film preservation is not placed on the same level as more traditional fields like archival science, museology, or library sciences, which are typically included in these public exams. At the same time, within the film industry, we’re not fully recognized as an essential part of the production processes.
It’s long overdue for us to be fully integrated as an essential part of the audiovisual field. We urgently need concrete public policies to ensure this recognition, allowing us to build stronger institutional ties with related disciplines that already have well-established structures and professional frameworks.
Marina Cavalcanti Tedesco: There is no long-term training in audiovisual preservation in Brazil. So, what does it mean to be an audiovisual preservation professional here?
Débora Butruce: Well, an education in film preservation is only truly effective when paired with hands-on experience in an archive. You need to have engaged with the challenges of managing collections, planning conservation projects, and allocating limited resources. Managing collections may involve tasks like cataloging films, checking for missing or damaged materials, and ensuring proper documentation. Conservation planning includes assessing the condition of films, determining the best methods for restoring or preserving them, and prioritizing the films that need immediate attention. Resource allocation refers to managing limited funding, staff, and storage space, which is especially critical in Brazil, where archivists often face issues like deteriorating film materials due to bad storage conditions (due to extreme temperatures, for example) , inadequate preservation facilities, and the challenge of working with fragmented collections or unidentified film reels.
As we’ve established, our generation was the first to receive a formal, theoretical foundation in the field through dedicated university courses. It wasn't until around the 1970s that international methodologies and workflows began to take root in Brazil. Earlier generations learned on the job, often relying on expertise developed abroad. What we’ve come to realize is that film preservation training needs to be hybrid—combining both theoretical knowledge and hands-on experience. Our generation is a product of this shift, where academic discourse started to influence how preservation is understood and practiced.
The archives in Brazil were established around the same time as most film archives worldwide. Of course, our consolidation process has been different, especially in terms of access to funding and resources. Take the Cinemateca Brasileira, for example, which originated in the 1940s from the Clube de Cinema de São Paulo, a film society founded by Paulo Emilio Salles Gomes and other cinephiles, dedicated to film appreciation, criticism, and preservation. For comparison, the International Federation of Film Archives (FIAF) was founded in 1938. So, we're not too far behind, but it's true that our process of consolidation is still ongoing.
We need to establish our place within the broader field of film and related disciplines like archival science, museology, and library science. It’s essential to develop protocols that align with these fields, and to gain recognition as an integral part of them. This will help us standardize key processes such as cataloging practices, implement long-term preservation strategies, and create structured access policies for both researchers and the public.
Stability is a fundamental pillar of film preservation—without it, it’s challenging to establish sustainable workflows, maintain preservation efforts over time, or plan for future restorations.
Natália de Castro: Education and the consolidation of film preservation as a profession must go hand in hand. The issue isn’t a lack of interest—in fact, we see many professionals from fields like museology, film, and data science drawn to film preservation. But without stable career opportunities, they will inevitably move on to other fields.
We cannot manage public heritage institutions with a workforce hired on 36-month contracts. What meaningful preservation work can be accomplished in that time? Even with an exceptionally skilled and well-trained team, short-term contracts prevent continuity and long-term planning.
We also need to build a network of archives. Preservation efforts cannot remain as centralized as, they’ve been in Brazil historically. Additionally, we can't focus solely on narrative feature films. We must consider other types of filmmakers, creators, and audiovisual works, and we need to establish a structure that allows a more diverse group of professionals to enter and sustain careers in this field.
Marina Cavalcanti Tedesco: The question of which projects are carried out is a crucial one. Which films will be preserved? Which directors, genres, and forms will receive attention?
The same structural inequalities that have shaped Brazilian cinema—such as limited resources, regional imbalances, and a focus on certain filmmakers over others—are also present in the preservation process. Often, the films of well-established, predominantly white male directors from major cities like Rio and São Paulo are prioritized, while works by women, BIPOC filmmakers, and those from outside these urban centers are neglected in both preservation efforts and public access.
Today’s generation of Brazilian cinephiles has had a vastly different cinema education from ours, largely due to increased access to films. Access is directly tied to preservation: if films are not properly preserved, they become difficult to study and exhibit—not just because they may be inaccessible, but also because poorly preserved versions often lack the clarity, quality, and completeness required for meaningful academic research or public screenings. And, if research is limited, film education in Brazil will continue to prioritize the same works that shaped past generations—predominantly films by white male directors from Europe and the United States. While that was once the dominant framework, it has begun to shift thanks to preservation and digitization projects, which have expanded the range of films available for study and appreciation.
Natália de Castro: You touch on something crucial: we have to ensure these works can be accessed. This may sound simple, but making them accessible involves more than just opening a digital file or making a film available for screening. It requires a significant amount of preparatory work to ensure the materials are in a state that allows them to be viewed, studied, and preserved for future generations. First and foremost, we have to guarantee the conservation of these materials, ensuring they are free from deterioration and are in a condition suitable for proper exhibition or research. This includes not only restoring damaged elements but also standardizing formats and ensuring that the storage and handling of these materials meet high preservation standards.
What you say about certain audiovisual works having been prioritized over others connects to our earlier discussion about the structure of film archives and collections and the need for a decentralized network of regional archives.
The use of regional archives means that the research and preparation of materials will be done by people who have a direct connection to the film’s subject matter and community. This helps ensure that the community has a role in shaping how its own history and identity are preserved and represented.
To digitize collections and make digital preservation a reality, several essential steps must be taken. This includes securing proper storage conditions, conducting inspections to assess damage, cleaning and repairing prints when necessary, scanning or transferring the materials, and creating accurate metadata to ensure that the materials can be easily identified and accessed in the future. However, many of these crucial steps have not been implemented widely due to a lack of infrastructure and resources.
For instance, ensuring that metadata is written by people with the necessary knowledge and sensitivity is critical. Metadata refers to the information recorded about a film during cataloging, such as its title, director, year of production, synopsis, technical details, and keywords that help classify its themes and subject matter. Films made by women and other historically neglected filmmakers often lack proper content descriptions, synopses, or relevant keywords, making them harder to locate in databases and archives. Without accurate metadata, these films remain marginalized, inaccessible, and excluded from wider cultural and academic discussions.
It's crucial that these films be accessible for research and that a network of archives exists to encompass a variety of perspectives and cultural agents. Just as film preservation must address these structural challenges, filmmaking itself must evolve to make room for new voices. By ensuring the preservation of these materials, we are also safeguarding a broader, more inclusive view of film history.
Débora Butruce: What we observe in audiovisual archives reflects the way Brazilian cinema has been structured over time. This landscape has expanded in recent years, with the inclusion of new actors, cultural producers, and filmmakers. While significant gaps remain, Brazilian cinema has become much more diverse, largely thanks to public policies introduced by institutions like ANCINE [Agência Nacional do Cinema] and various state and municipal cultural departments. These initiatives include regional film funding programs, affirmative action initiatives for film schools, and grants supporting productions by marginalized filmmakers. These policies take years to establish fully, and the same long-term approach is needed for film preservation.
Archival methodologies—the ways in which films are classified, restored, and made accessible—are also shaped by historical processes. Preservation practices tend to follow directorial or institutional recognition rather than acknowledging collaborative or performative forms of authorship. When curating films made by women, we often need to rethink conventional ideas of authorship, which have long been defined through a male-centric lens focused on directors. Authorship can also be understood through performance. Actresses have frequently played key roles in shaping the creative direction and production dynamics of a film. While films starring prominent actresses may be preserved—particularly if they were directed by canonised male filmmakers—the actresses' creative contributions are rarely what drives the decision to preserve these works. This points to a gap in how value is assigned and recorded, and it calls for a broader understanding of whose contributions are prioritized when building and restoring a cinematic legacy.
Because film preservation in Brazil is an underfunded and unstable field, it often feels like we are constantly playing catch-up. But that doesn’t mean important work isn’t being done. This programme, Six Times Women, is a recent example of how preservation and curatorial efforts are moving forward.
It’s also important to remember that these films are only accessible today because they were properly preserved. Digital technology has opened up incredible possibilities, but it’s not a miracle solution. There’s often a lack of awareness about the steps involved, with archives frequently being asked, “Why isn’t this film available? Why isn’t it online?” But making materials public comes with great responsibility. Archives are not simply repositories of content, and they certainly aren’t streaming platforms. Decisions about what can be made available involve legal, ethical, and technical considerations, and must be guided by professional standards of preservation and access.
It is the responsibility of archives to provide well-organized and meaningful access to their collections—and this is a long-term commitment. Extensive work is required to describe content, catalog materials, and ensure that the resulting metadata and catalog information can be easily located and used. When it comes to so-called “minor” works, such as a set of amateur or home movies, this process becomes even more complex. Because these collections fall outside traditional types of classification, they require different types of contextual information for proper cataloging.
There are extremely valuable collections that remain largely unexplored simply because they present perspectives that dominant cinema has overlooked. When it comes to marginalized groups, including women, we have to ask: what did they choose to film? What stories were they able to tell from their points of view? Who were these women, and how did they capture the world around them on film?
The ability to access films has driven important discussions, but we often overlook the work required to make that access possible. The invisible labor of archives and preservation professionals remains largely unrecognized. We need to take a step back and ask ourselves, "Why are these the titles that are available?" Despite precarious conditions and inadequate resources in Brazilian archives, these titles were preserved in the best possible way. Not always in the most ideal conditions, but within the realities of our circumstances.
There's something Natália mentioned that I’d like to highlight because it's essential: the decentralization and regionalization of archives. Institutions in the southeast—historically the ones that have received the most resources and, as a result, greater visibility—are not necessarily the ones that should be responsible for identifying and preserving regional collections. Film preservation efforts must be genuinely national in scope and presence.
Institutions across Brazil are at different stages of institutional development and each has its own needs and challenges. These differences directly impact their ability to provide access to their collections. In many cases, institutions that are just beginning their preservation efforts don’t yet have the infrastructure or capacity to make their materials accessible to the public.
The demand for public access to archival materials has grown tremendously in recent years, and when institutions aren't actively making collections available, it can often seem as though no work is being done. However, immediate access cannot come at the expense of long-term preservation. Films in fragile condition require careful evaluation, with attention paid to effective conservation strategies for each title or collection.
At the same time, making materials accessible can raise awareness and even mobilize preservation efforts. These are the dilemmas that archives and “memory institutions” (instituições de memória) face every day. That’s why it’s so important to discuss these issues publicly—so that people can better understand the complexity of the work and the reasoning behind these choices.
Marina Cavalcanti Tedesco: Providing access is the visible side of the work—what people see and interact with. But behind the scenes is an enormous, labor-intensive process. When we’re dealing with individuals or groups who have been historically marginalized, this work becomes even more complex, layered, and time-consuming. Could you share your experiences with this side of the work: the part that so often goes unseen?
Natália de Castro: Going back to what we were discussing earlier and linking it to this question, we need to ensure not only decentralization and regionalization, but also that non-institutional initiatives are supported. We know, for example, that many groups won’t entrust their collections or their memories to a government institution. There are safety concerns for certain people—groups that have faced violence or persecution. If we truly care about the memories of these different communities, and if we believe they are an essential part of our shared history, then we need to think carefully about the best ways to ensure their preservation.
Another critical issue I want to highlight is our over-reliance on platforms like YouTube, due to the lack of viable alternatives. For example, at CTAv, we used to upload indigenous films to YouTube, but the platform would often restrict viewership to users over 18 because of nudity. Recently, they’ve been blocking all indigenous films entirely due to concerns over child nudity, even though their guidelines permit this kind of non-erotic nudity. Ultimately, because YouTube owns the platform, its rules dictate what can and can’t be shared. This means we, as a Brazilian public institution, face the dilemma of not having full control over the dissemination of cultural materials.
This issue highlights a deeper, longstanding problem—the dependence on private platforms and services like streaming or storage platforms, which are often our only options. These platforms can impose restrictions that undermine our ability to preserve and share important cultural works. As we move forward, we need to find alternative solutions that offer more control and respect for cultural contexts.
When it comes to access, this is an issue we face daily. If we can’t make a film accessible right away, we need to have a clear plan for how and when access will be possible in the future. What often happens in archives is that access is delayed because the material requires preservation or another type of intervention first. However, if these actions never take place, access is postponed indefinitely.
Once a film begins to experience acidic degradation, the deterioration accelerates quickly. It becomes a race against time. If we isolate the film and take all possible measures to slow down its deterioration, but then fail to proceed with preservation or digitization, the film is ultimately lost.
On the other hand, providing access can help people engage with the film, raise awareness, and advocate for its preservation. There are so many factors to consider.
Débora Butruce: We need to think about independent projects as well. The arrival of digital technology has expanded possibilities and made both filmmaking and digital preservation more accessible. However, digital preservation is complex and much more fragile than people realize. Many assume that platforms like YouTube are reliable storage solutions—“It’s preserved on YouTube!”—but this is a misconception. While YouTube is a stable and well-established platform, and unlikely to disappear overnight, preservation requires a different mindset. It’s about planning for the future, ensuring accessibility over decades, not just for a few years.
When we discuss digital preservation, even the longest-term strategies generally look ahead only about 20 years. Institutions already bear significant responsibility in managing their analog film collections, and they must also develop structured strategies for digital materials. If we don’t address this comprehensively, we won’t be able to keep up. Without urgent and responsible action, we will face significant gaps in the preservation of born-digital Brazilian films.
Filmmakers must take this issue seriously, considering what can be done on an individual level to preserve their collections—even if it’s on a small scale.
The access issue is an interesting one because it touches on both internal and external factors. How can we carry out the necessary internal work in archives while grappling with precarious conditions? Having worked in various public institutions, I’ve observed that we are constantly managing urgent internal issues, which prevent us from setting clear priorities and making long-term plans. At the same time, we face ongoing demands from external entities, such as researchers, filmmakers, production companies, and cultural institutions. While these demands can be beneficial because they bring attention to collections we might otherwise overlook, the lack of stability creates significant challenges. When we focus too much on responding to external pressures, effective internal planning is often neglected.
This is why defining clear priorities is so crucial in collection policy. This topic has been widely discussed both in the field globally and within ABPA (Brazilian Association of Audiovisual Preservation). Many Brazilian institutions struggle to establish solid policies for their archives because they are overwhelmed by daily operational challenges—such as understaffing, insufficient funding, and the constant need to respond to external requests. These factors leave little room for structured medium- and long-term planning.
The demand for archival footage and heritage films has increased significantly, both within Brazil and internationally, as interest in Brazilian cinema has grown. However, this surge in demand has not been matched by an increase in resources. The budgets and staff of archival institutions remain the same, while the workload continues to expand.
Marina Cavalcanti Tedesco: Could you talk about the importance of having a Brazilian Association of Audiovisual Preservation? ABPA faces many of the same challenges—such as funding, infrastructure, and instability—but it serves as a crucial space for discussion and has the potential to create a broader impact. What are some key discussions currently taking place within ABPA and other, perhaps even international, forums that you believe are important to share?
Débora Butruce: ABPA was founded in 2008. We are part of its current board—I'm the president, and Natália is the director of institutional relations.[2] The association reflects the evolution of the field. After 2000, projects like the Brazilian Film Statistical Yearbook (Anuário Estatístico do Cinema Brasileiro) began to emerge, helping professionals recognize film preservation as a distinct area of work.[3] This marked an important shift, and the creation of the association was a natural step in that process.
Our challenge is that we are an association of professionals, not archives, and this affects our ability to influence decisions. While we bring together specialists in audiovisual preservation, we don't represent the institutions that hold collections, which can limit the reach and direct impact of our discussions. However, in recent years, our influence has grown through stronger advocacy, increased collaborations, and greater public awareness of preservation issues, allowing us to make a more significant impact on policy discussions.
ABPA currently has a board of seven members—six women and one man—reflecting a broader shift toward greater gender balance in the field. We work to highlight the importance of archival institutions, raise awareness of the need to preserve film heritage, and advocate for recognition of film preservation professionals. We also aim to foster dialogue that extends beyond the preservation sector, as securing meaningful change requires engagement with other industries and stakeholders. Structural public policies are essential for the sustainability of preservation efforts in Brazil.
One of our key efforts has been working with filmmakers to challenge the idea that preservation is a secondary concern. Too often, it is seen as something to address only after disaster strikes. But, by the time a collection is lost or irreparably damaged, it’s too late. Those who experience the personal tragedy of losing their archives inevitably come to understand, in hindsight, the vital importance of preservation. Our goal is to ensure that this awareness takes root before such losses occur.
We’ve also been actively involved in international discussions. For example, AMIA (Association of Moving Image Archivists), a U.S.-based organization with members from around the world, has invited ABPA to participate in its annual conferences and ongoing discussions. These invitations have provided us with the opportunity to engage with international experts, share our experiences, and learn from other countries’ approaches to audiovisual preservation. However, the challenges we face in Brazil require solutions tailored to our specific needs. I always return from international events feeling inspired and, at times, surprised by the topics being discussed—some of which seem quite removed from our reality. We must engage in deeper, more substantial discussions within our own context. Whether in terms of infrastructure, available resources, or the unpredictability of climate, our efforts must be adapted to our specific environment. We’re still grappling with basic structural issues. Our hot and humid climate alone presents a significant challenge to preservation efforts.
When we engage in international discussions, we’re starting from a different set of circumstances. But this challenge has also fostered the production of valuable knowledge within Brazil. In fact, we often joke that Brazil is like an accelerated experimentation lab for preservation in a warming world — a place where we’re already confronting the realities of how heat, humidity, and limited resources test the boundaries of archival care.
A good example of this is the issue of polyester film deterioration, which Natália and I have been examining closely. Polyester film was introduced as a more stable alternative to acetate film because it doesn’t suffer from vinegar syndrome. However, in recent years, we’ve observed significant deterioration in polyester films due to Brazil’s climate. This situation puts us in a unique position to lead research on polyester film degradation. But, for this to be truly effective, we need more than just reactive measures—we need the ability to engage in long-term planning and dedicated research. Brazil has a wealth of specialized knowledge to offer in this area, and our research can contribute to global conversations.
The challenges archives abroad face are different, but there are key points of connection. Other hot and humid countries, such as those in Central America, likely share similar concerns, yet we rarely engage in dialogue with them. Instead, much of the research and many of the theoretical frameworks in preservation are produced in wealthier countries with more resources. Best practices regarding storage environments, conservation materials, and risk management were largely developed in these wealthier settings, which have stable funding, specialized equipment, and climate-controlled facilities. As a result, the methodologies and practices we use in Brazil are often based on assumptions that what works in these more stable environments will work here too. These approaches were not designed for the specific challenges we face in Brazil, making them imperfect fits for our reality.
However, this dynamic is slowly shifting. Latin America has begun to position itself as a hub for cutting-edge preservation research. Yet, for our contributions to be fully recognized and for international dialogue to be truly effective, we need greater stability—both financial and institutional. Without it, we remain trapped in a cycle of crisis management, unable to shape the field with the knowledge we are generating fully.
Natália de Castro: It’s true. Many countries, archives, and professionals face challenges similar to ours, but there is not enough dialogue between us. While we have the capacity to develop certain technologies locally, we often struggle to access key tools and equipment, such as film scanners, which are widely produced in Europe and the United States. The high costs and logistical difficulties associated with importing these technologies make them much less accessible to institutions in Brazil.
A prime example of this is the acidity test strips we use to detect acid degradation in films. These strips are imported and were designed for controlled environments in other countries. They work by changing color from blue to yellow as acidity increases. However, in our conditions, the strips often turn orange, exceeding the measurement limits of the tool. This suggests that the materials we work with undergo chemical processes that differ from those in the environments for which the strips were designed. Humidity, fluctuations in temperature, and other local variables likely contribute to this discrepancy. This is just one example of how we need to develop preservation tools tailored to our specific reality. We have the expertise to create technologies suited to our needs, yet research and development in this area remain severely underfunded.
It is essential to recognize the role of universities, research institutions, and the bridge between archives and academia. Without this connection, we continue to rely on imported methodologies and tools that do not fully address our unique challenges.
ABPA is both a product of the field’s development and a reflection of its instability. Many professionals have passed through ABPA and the preservation field, only to leave. After years of study and training—often with the support of public funding for courses in Brazil and abroad—we lose skilled professionals simply because they cannot sustain a career in this field. The lack of stable job opportunities and institutional support forces many to move on, weakening the long-term growth of audiovisual preservation in the country.
Marina Cavalcanti Tedesco: I'd like to revisit the topic of women in archives. There's a long-standing connection between caregiving, memory preservation, and women. Working in film archives, while still part of the audiovisual field, often provides more flexibility compared to working on a film set, making it easier to balance with motherhood and domestic responsibilities. It’s also a profession that, until recently, has been undervalued. These factors have contributed to the significant presence of women in film archives since the early days of cinema. However, as in many other areas, their roles have often been overlooked and underappreciated.
Débora Butruce: This is something we've always reflected on, but it has been coming up more strongly in recent years. Natália and I are mothers, and motherhood has undeniably shaped my career in film preservation. I was fortunate to have my own film inspection table at home, which allowed me to resume work shortly after my daughter was born. When the CTAv project was terminated, following the work stoppages in 2020, around the time the Cinemateca closed, it threw me into a state of panic. Having access to the means of production—bringing back the longstanding issue of class struggle and inequality—was what enabled me to keep working despite the challenges of the postpartum period, unemployment, and instability.
The termination of the CTAv project was a direct consequence of the severe crisis in the national audiovisual sector in 2020. This crisis was marked by significant political instability and a lack of governmental support. In August 2020, the federal government dismissed all technical staff and dissolved the Associação Roquete Pinto (ACERP), the organization responsible for managing key audiovisual preservation efforts. The restructuring of the Ministry of Culture, which was transferred to the Ministry of Citizenship, dismantled critical cultural policies that had previously supported film preservation. As a result, projects like CTAv, which relied on stable infrastructure and governmental support, were unable to continue their activities, leading to their termination.
This issue isn't so different from other challenges women face in the workplace. Instability generates panic because we never know what the future holds, and we can't make medium- or long-term plans. Personally, I’ve managed to maintain some regularity in my work, but I'm always on edge, knowing that this regularity might well not last. This uncertainty impacts my everyday life. When I started my PhD, I had many conversations with my advisor, who wanted me to focus exclusively on research, but I couldn’t afford to turn down any work. I knew that, if I were to step away from the field, it would be hard to return. We understand how difficult it is to come back to film preservation—and what exactly would we be returning to? A field that barely exists in the first place.But things have been changing, and it’s important to acknowledge and celebrate that. We often complain in this field, and sometimes it feels like it’s all doom and gloom—but it’s not. Some things are shifting. In the analog world, film is increasingly being recognized as a museological artifact, and people are gradually starting to understand its significance. The work of preservation professionals has gained more recognition, and, at its core, this grassroots effort has been—and continues to be—largely carried out by women.
Natália de Castro: The gender issue permeates every aspect of our lives. When I became unemployed, I started taking on gig work, working at film screening events, and so on. Fortunately, I was already in a master’s program and had a scholarship, which allowed me to support myself for a while, along with occasional freelance work. During my master’s, I got pregnant, and I was only able to receive maternity pay because I had been contributing to Brazilian Social Security for years. That maternity pay helped sustain me for a time, and I could only begin looking for work again once I secured a spot for my daughter in a public daycare.
Now, as a public servant in a post-pandemic reality, I’ve been able to work in a hybrid model. A few days a week, I need to pick up my daughter from school at 2:30 PM, and I recognize that I can do this because of the position I hold today. But for those who don’t have this flexibility, the options often boil down to staying home or leaving the workforce altogether.
Débora Butruce: Natália brought up an interesting point about academia, which ended up being an alternative for her. The same thing happened to me when I found myself unemployed. I started my PhD research because I felt I had so much potential, experience, and a desire to share that knowledge with the world. I returned to academia out of a need to stay active in the field and, at the time, university seemed like a viable path.
I jumped headfirst into the PhD program in the ECA (School of Communication and Arts) at the USP (University of São Paulo) without a scholarship. Halfway through the program, I managed to secure an emergency scholarship because I met the criteria—having a child, among other factors. That support was crucial in allowing me to make a living and carry out my research properly.
Natália de Castro: It’s important to take a moment to reflect on these issues and develop ideas. We often miss that opportunity because we’re always rushing—we can’t pause our daily routines to think and write.
Marina Cavalcanti Tedesco: Many film professionals spend their entire careers as freelancers, working under precarious conditions, with no stability or rights. How can they afford the time to pause, reflect, and organize their experiences into knowledge? If that knowledge doesn’t turn into a thesis or a dissertation, it often remains with the individual and their immediate circle. Film preservation is inherently research-driven—film archivists and academia should be in constant dialogue. You and your generation are proof that, when that happens, both academia and film preservation benefit tremendously.
Before we move on to your final thoughts, is there anything I haven’t asked that you’d like to discuss?
Débora Butruce: There’s a specific issue we touched on briefly, which is the digitization of collections. While this is becoming more common, especially in Brazil, we need to approach it responsibly. We’re generating an enormous amount of data—how will we preserve all of this digitally? It’s not just about putting it on a hard drive and storing it away; digital preservation requires much more complex steps. We will continue to deal with the analog aspect of the work—original films are not discarded once they’re digitized—and we need to think more broadly and systematically about digital preservation. We welcome digitization initiatives; they have a significant impact and draw attention to the field of film preservation. However, if we don’t approach this responsibly, in five years the materials will be in worse condition and the digitizations will need to be redone.
Natália de Castro: This is a crucial moment for us to communicate more effectively with the public, helping them to understand that uploading a film to YouTube doesn’t necessarily mean it’s preserved. People need to grasp all the steps involved in preservation for our work to be truly recognized and legitimized.
Returning to what we discussed earlier, academia is closely tied to instability. We must be cautious to ensure that the specialized knowledge of film archives isn’t lost. Too often, when projects end, people lose their jobs overnight, institutions are left without staff, and the valuable knowledge accumulated during the project vanishes. It’s our responsibility to systematize that knowledge—writing, researching, and consolidating it—so we don’t have to keep starting from scratch.
Regarding digitization, I had never seen any of the films in this program before, and it’s amazing that we can now access them. We need to make the most of this opportunity. At CTAv, for example, and also at ABPA, we’ve made a tremendous effort to make these kinds of films available: audiovisual content such as home movies, documentaries, and independent films that have long been overlooked. It’s incredible being able to watch these films. So often, we only have access to a synopsis, or simply to the fact that the film existed. I remember so many films that I was unable to fully appreciate when I was an undergraduate because the copies were so bad—VHS copies, faded magenta copies. When we have the chance, we must seize the opportunity to provide access to high-quality copies. The quality of the copy we watch significantly impacts our enjoyment of the work. I want to commend the initiatives that have made these films available; all of the films are incredible, showcasing many aspects of what it means to be a woman, addressing not just gender issues but also various other societal questions. Access has the power to do that.
Marina Cavalcanti Tedesco: It's impossible to think about gender without considering the broader context—we quickly realize that what we often see as specific or personal issues are, in fact, deeply interconnected and shared.
I want to thank Natália de Castro and Débora Butruce for taking part in this panel, part of the Seis Vezes Mulher program presented by Cinelimite, Another Gaze, and IMS. I hope this conversation is as meaningful and engaging for the public as it was for us.
Marina Cavalcanti Tedesco (Nina Tedesco) is a professor in the Department of Film and Video and in the Graduate Program in Film and Audiovisual at Fluminense Federal University. Her main research areas are women in Latin American audiovisual media, and cinematography. She also works as a researcher, screenwriter, director, and cinematographer.
Natália de Castro is an audiovisual preservationist, holds a master’s degree in Audiovisual Media and Processes, and is a public servant with the Audiovisual Collection at the Centro Técnico Audiovisual (CTAv), part of the Ministry of Culture. She is the author of the book Film Inspection: A Basic Manual (2023).
Débora Butruce is an audiovisual preservationist, film restorer and independent curator. She holds a PhD in Audiovisual Media and Processes from ECA-USP and was a Visiting Scholar at NYU's Moving Image Archiving and Preservation Programme. She has 25 years of experience in the field of preservation, working with Brazil's leading audiovisual heritage institutions. Her restoration work on classic and rare Brazilian films has been screened worldwide at film festivals and in commercial cinemas in Brazil and abroad. She is the creator of the International Domestic Film Festival and the Coleção Cinema Campineiro project, and was the film programme curator for the 2025 São Paulo Biennial. She is a founding member and current board member of the Brazilian Association for Audiovisual Preservation (ABPA).
[1] The Censo Cinematográfico Brasileiro (Brazilian Film Census) was a project aimed at surveying and documenting the production, distribution, and exhibition of films in Brazil, helping to map the country's cinematic output and infrastructure. The project was active between 2001 to 2003.
[2] This conversation took place in 2023. As of 2025, Nátalia no longer holds this position within ABPA.
[3] The Anuário Estatístico do Cinema Brasileiro (Brazilian Film Statistical Yearbook) is an annual publication by the Agência Nacional do Cinema (ANCINE) that compiles data on film production, distribution, exhibition, and public policies in Brazil. Created in the early 2000s, it became a key reference for researchers and professionals, helping to systematize information about the national audiovisual sector.
Translated with DeepL.com (free version)