O Agente Secreto

I finally saw (for me) the most anticipated film of the year, Kleber Mendonça's best-and I like them all. Despite having read about it and seen the trailers, the film still surprised me. The final scenes moved me, something I hadn't experienced with his other films. Wagner Moura has an absurd, magnetic stage presence. Unpredictable, funny, disconcerting, and moving, The Secret Agent manages to convey the Brazilian soul on screen-quite a feat. All the countless characters are rich, captivating. A masterpiece, worthy of all the awards it has received and may yet receive.

Watched on Sydney Film Festival 2025

Watching Kleber Mendonça Filho's "The Secret Agent" feels less like observing a story unfold, and more like stepping into the humid, throbbing heart of Recife during Brazil's 1977 military rule. Forget the usual spy thriller beats; this is something far stranger, richer, and ultimately more haunting. It wraps you in the feverish embrace of Carnaval, not as spectacle, but as a desperate refuge for Marcelo (a profoundly compelling Wagner Moura), a researcher on the run seeking camouflage in the very city that birthed him.

What lingers isn't just the plot, but the film's insistent, almost physical question: what survives when history tries to erase itself? Mendonça Filho, a son of Recife pouring his own lifeblood into every frame, suggests memory itself is the battleground. He meticulously rebuilds a world - the textures of the time, the sidelong glances, the oppressive heat - not just for accuracy, but to etch onto the screen the stories official archives ignored. We feel the quiet terror faced by LGBTQ+ folk, witness the exploitation shadowing indigenous workers, see how the city itself becomes a living archive, a character pulsing with secrets and scars. Marcelo moves through it all with a fugitive's alertness, yet also with the weary, amused detachment of a tourist in his own collapsing world, adding a layer of profound melancholy.

The film possesses an extraordinary, unhurried confidence. It breathes. It pauses for moments of bizarre humour, startling eroticism, or pure, aching sadness. Mendonça Filho is a sensualist, weaving a tapestry of sound - distant drums, whispered conversations, the city's own rhythm - and texture. He isn't afraid of the surreal: a severed leg appears, sexuality is presented with startling frankness, and meanings shimmer just below the surface like heat haze, resisting easy capture. That deliberate pace, stretching towards two hours and forty minutes, isn't indulgence; it's the very fabric of the experience. It demands your presence, inviting you not just to watch, but to inhabit Recife's streets and Marcelo's precarious existence.

"The Secret Agent" isn't merely watched; it's absorbed through the skin. It's a challenging, deeply rewarding journey into the weight of the past and the fragile resilience of memory. This is filmmaking of rare courage, unafraid to linger in the uncomfortable spaces, to make us feel the ghosts whispering in Recife's humid air. It's a testament to the power of cinema to hold history close, ensuring some truths, at least, refuse to be forgotten.

"The Secret Agent" is yet another proof of how great Brazilian cinema is. It's very comparable to I'm Still Here in terms of themes and filmmaking, but it's much more violent. The film tells an intense, heavy story set during a period of Brazilian history rich enough to spawn countless narratives. And despite its long runtime, it's always magnetic and gripping thanks to its incredible direction, cinematography, and-above everything else-the performances.

The cast, led by the legendary Wagner Moura (with a special shout-out to Tânia Maria), deliver Oscar-worthy, unforgettable work. There are even a few funny or lighthearted scenes sprinkled in to lift the mood, which I really appreciated.

On the other hand, the third act felt a bit underwhelming. The choice to use the same actor to play a different character (something I usually hate) felt unnecessary, and several loose ends were left hanging. You can fill them in with your own imagination, but with such a long runtime, those threads and the entire story deserved to be completed on screen. I would have trimmed some of the excess earlier to allow the story to conclude fully.

These issues prevent me from giving the film a higher rating-but it remains a great piece of art and filmmaking nonetheless.

I enjoyed this movie (despite its length, and I usually have a short attention span) and would like to see it again. It is an actors' film, full of great performances. The details of the period and locale seem perfect, it pulls you in. Friends who lived through the Brazilian dictatorship say this film captures the feeling of people disappearing for no reason, strange things happening without explanation.

There are quite a few important parts that I just don't understand, or maybe they are supposed to be open to interpretation.

Kleber Mendonça Filho's Secret Agent is a film of striking visual elegance. Its art direction is nothing short of superb, reconstructing 1970s Recife with a sense of texture and atmosphere that is both raw and poetic. The city emerges not just as a backdrop, but as a living, breathing character - a mix of beauty, decay, and tropical melancholy. The film is also populated by a gallery of eccentric characters, embodied by an equally eccentric cast that gives the work a peculiar and often intriguing rhythm.

Yet, despite this sensory richness, Secret Agent ultimately feels weighed down by its own self-awareness. The screenplay is disappointingly unoriginal and excessively self-referential, operating more as a parnassian memorial to the director's own childhood than as a gripping piece of suspense. What could have been an inventive political thriller dissolves into a predictable collage of Brazilian clichés - corruption, nostalgia, and class tension - presented with a kind of weary inevitability that borders on pamphleteering.

Wagner Moura, despite critical praise, delivers an oddly muted performance. His restrained acting feels more absent than subtle, and the decision to have him play both father and son proves to be an unnecessary and somewhat embarrassing gimmick that adds little to the story's emotional weight.

In the end, Secret Agent stands as a technically accomplished but dramatically hollow film - a beautifully framed echo chamber where form triumphs over substance, and personal memory overshadows genuine cinematic tension.