SAUDADE DO FUTURO - film review

        "Saudade" is a Brazilian Portuguese word difficult to translate into English. It is a longing, missing or nostalgia, often bittersweet. "Saudade do Futuro" roughly means "Longing for the Future."

        This 2000 documentary film centers on the lives of nordestinos (people from the northeast of Brazil) who have migrated to São Paulo, a city of 16 million, looking for a better future. Most nordestinos are thought of as unwelcome hillbillies who ought to stay in the Northeast growing potatoes in the drought-prone sertão (hinterland). Some are successful in São Paulo, including Dona Erundina who became mayor (1989-1992) and Emanoel Araujo, an internationally-known sculptor who is a respected member of São Paulo's art scene. Many end up as street vendors, laborers, or the musicians who are the heart and soul of this film.

    

        Clearly related to rap, the musical style called "repente" that evolved from African rhythms, is featured in this film. 

        Repentistas tap out music on tambourines, guitars, flutes, or drums while improvising verses, often saudades for the simpler life in the Northeast, the hardships of the big city, or humorous (& often sexually suggestive) insults hurled at each other or audience members who gather to listen and donate money. One family group, Banda da Pifanos, started in 1924. The oldest members of the multigenerational ensemble recall being forced to play for Lampião, a notorious bandit who roamed the Northeast with 50 to 100 followers in the 1920’s and 30’s.

        Interspersed between the music are everyday nordestinos who work long hours at mundane jobs for little pay in São Paulo. Their lives are enriched by their social events, dancing, and the repente music which is both humorous and a celebration of their lives.

        I lived in the Northeast of Brazil in the late 60's. I saw, in the varied nordestinos of this film, the faces I had lived with every day during my time there. The faces are filled with the combination of despair, optimism, and humor that creates the wonderful improvised music that infests the film with rhythmic beats that are uniquely Brazilian. There is no narration. The characters tell their own stories through words or verses. The stunning photography of bustling São Paulo makes New York traffic look like a rural joy ride. The film may not be for everyone, but for those who would enjoy seeing a unique slice of Brazilian life, it is “maravilhoso!” 

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Portuguese with English subtitles.

Sample verses:

          São Paulo may thrill you
          but its sadness can kill you
          some have a tear in their eyes
          others stifle their cries
          some live in fine villas
          other suffer in favelas

                         the mason from the Nordeste
                         slaves away with no rest
                         builds pools and mansions
                         embellished like gardens
                         but he and his own
                         have no roof to call home

                                        to this city we come
                                        and end up in a slum
                                        we build lovely villas
                                        with door and windows
                                        but once we've painted the place
                                        they slam the door in our face

Update 2/04/09: This post was chosen as the Featured Post of the Week at WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS. Thanks, Contest Chris. Click on the link to join his Worth a Thousand Words Contest.

AN AMERICAN BY ANY OTHER NAME

My first sighting of the Brazilian town of Glória, 

barely visible on the horizon.

Note: Although the following is true, some names have been changed. (I couldn't remember the names of all the Brazilians in the story.)

      At the festa, I studied my neighbors swaying to the rhythm of the Brazilian beat. I heard the music, but I didn’t internalize the samba the way the Brazilians did as they moved fervently around the dance floor.

      I had been in Brazil only a few weeks. My Portuguese was still flawed and I could understand only those who slowed their speech to half-speed. I already understood that while Brazilians led unhurried lives, they were also an impulsive and passionate people. From stoic German and Swedish stock, I hadn’t yet learned how to let loose in a culture famous for Carnaval, its annual national pressure valve.

Brunie (in light blue shirt) and I (in straw hat)

purchase fruit and vegetables at Glória's weekly market.

      Brunie, on the other hand, with her Hispanic background, dark hair and eyes, nearly perfect Portuguese, outgoing personality, and more than a year as a Peace Corps Volunteer, fit in perfectly. So that I could be successful in my assigned Peace Corps work, Brunie had been tutoring me in how to survive the harsh conditions of Brazil’s northeast.

     The town of Glória had no running water, no phone service, and not one television. Electricity was generated four hours each night. Glória compensated for its inconveniences with the warmth of her citizens and the unpredictable experiences each new day delivered, be they exotic, tragic or humorous.

Not a great photo of Linda,

but the only one I have.     

      That weekend, Brunie and I were visited by Linda. Although stationed in another interior town, she and Brunie had been in the same Peace Corps training group. Linda was short, had reddish-brown hair, and freckles.

      On Saturday evening, clad in our best dresses, we set out to partake of Glória’s night life. The town sported two social clubs run by local political parties. While Brazilians from one political group would not attend a festa sponsored by another, to avoid any semblance of favoritism, we needed to attend events at both clubs.

      Festas were held in long, narrow pastel buildings lined with small tables in front of a dance floor. Soft drinks, alcohol, boiled peanuts, and hard-cooked eggs were served. Many months later, I would introduce potato chips to Glória. 

      Combos dominated by guitars and accordions played numbers lasting until the musicians tired of the musical selection. Thus, if a woman accepted an invitation to dance, she could be stuck with a partner for as long as half an hour.

     Male partygoers swaggered in baggy pants and loose, straight-bottomed shirts. The men shook hands hardily, ogled the women, smoked, drank beer and cachaça, a strong rum made from sugar cane.

      Single girls in semiformal dresses, glamorous make-up, and immaculate hairdos, exchanged hugs and cheek-to-cheek kisses. They whispered about single men behind blood-red fingernails. The few married women in attendance wore less flashy attire. Brunie, Linda and I were over twenty-one and unmarried. In Glória, that made us spinsters.

      I had already met many of the citizens I most needed to know in Glória: vendors, bankers, town officials, postal workers, priests, teachers and students. At the festa, everyone I met for the first time said, "Much pleasure in knowing you," followed by a lengthy, mumbled name such as José Carlos Fernando Oliveira da Silva Vilas Boas. I forgot each name almost as soon as it was uttered, for it seemed that everyone in town wanted to meet the new americana. That both thrilled and embarrassed me.

      Brunie and Linda danced while I excused myself from a married man who had been clutching me to his chest. I retreated to our table where José Paulo, Veralucia, and Bruno, soon to be my English students, asked the usual questions. Was I liking it here? Was Linda my sister? Why did I leave home? How much money did my father earn? I pretended I didn’t understand questions I didn’t want to answer.

      José Augusto invited me to dance. A shy dark man in his mid-twenties, he politely kept his distance as he expertly maneuvered me around the floor. He explained that he had enrolled in the high school as soon as it had been established three years earlier. He was proud to be a member of the first class which would graduate the following year. He supported himself through his work as a tailor.

      Later, I joined my neighbor and her family, crowded around a small table. Seu Francisco worked a farm while Dona Maria minded their grocery store. Six of their nine children had survived infancy.

      When the younger children fussed, the family went home, leaving their handsome, fourteen-year-old nephew at the table. Eduardo was visiting from a small town close to the state capital, 126 kilometers from Glória. Unlike most Brazilian men, he was tall and fair.

      “Are you liking it here?”

      In my fractured Portuguese, I answered, “Yes, Eduardo. I like very much.”

      "Are you Brunie’s sister?"

      "Não. She a friend. We work together. We are voluntários da paz."

      "Then she is your colega."

      "Sim. She is colleague."

      "Who is the woman dancing with Gilberto? Aunt Maria says she is an americana too? Is she your sister?"

      "Não. I meet her here.”

      "Do you think she would dance with me?"

      I shrugged. "You must ask her.”

      Eduardo moseyed onto the dance floor. When a new tune began, the boy clutched Linda close to him, timing his steps to the bossa nova.

      More high school students visited my table to practice their English. They informed me many men didn’t ask me to dance because they thought I was in mourning. My black dress, so elegant at home, sent the Brazilian message that a family member had recently died. When Linda and Eduardo joined me, the students ran off to flirt and dance.

      Eduardo asked a lot of questions about the United States. Suddenly, he leaned across the table, seizing Linda’s hand. He asked, "Will you be my namorada?"

      Only the boy’s solemn expression kept me from laughing.

      Linda winced. "Oh, uh, but... I can’t be your girlfriend. I am much too old for you. Besides, you don't even know me."        

      "But I love all Americans.” Gesturing toward the dance floor, he said, “I like very much Dona Brunie." Nodding toward me, he continued, "And now that I have met her, I like Dona Carolina.”      

        He grabbed Linda’s other hand and looked into her startled blue eyes, adding, “And, oh, I like you so very much, Dona.... uh, Dona.... What's your name?"

(Story and photos: ©2008, C.J. Peiffer)

I recently visited a web site for the town of Glória. To see how the town had changed, I viewed the virtual postcards on the site. The first one to pop up was a photo of the town's cell tower. Despite its underdevelopment in the late 1960's, Glória has now entered the 21st Century.