The Second Mother

Uma das melhores produções aqui do Brasil nos últimos 7 ou 8 anos, com a enxurrada de comédia sem graça da Globo entupindo a cota de filme nacional no cinema fica difícil o acesso a filmes de autor para o grande público...

It's not only beautiful but painfully/uncomfortably real.

“The Second Mother” is, above all, a sharp and uncomfortable portrait of a Brazil that insists on hiding its deep social fractures behind fake politeness and a forced sense of closeness between bosses and workers. Anna Muylaert builds a drama that, while centered on a mother-daughter relationship, ends up as a case study in power structures, affection disguised as servitude, and the blurry line between kindness and condescension. What makes the story powerful isn’t just the dialogue, but especially everything left unsaid—the automatic gestures, the stiff routines, the boundaries drawn not only inside the house, but throughout the country.

The main character, Val, played with emotional depth by Regina Casé, represents a Brazil that’s gotten used to “knowing its place” with resignation, gratitude, and a forced smile. Her connection with the family she’s worked for over a decade is full of a cruel paradox: she’s “almost part of the family,” yet she sleeps in a windowless closet, eats separately, and remains practically invisible unless she’s doing her job. Casé gives soul and texture to a woman who’s internalized her social role so deeply she passes it on like a rulebook—even to her own daughter. Her performance is so organic that small gestures, like the slow dimming of her eyes after a hollow compliment, speak louder than any monologue.

But if Val is the past that clings on, Jéssica—played brilliantly by Camila Márdila—is the spark of the present that refuses to follow the same script. She walks into the employers’ house without asking, without lowering her gaze, without apologizing for taking up space in a world that’s always told her she didn’t belong. If Val believes “people are born knowing their place,” Jéssica is the living challenge to that idea. Her presence isn’t just disruptive—it shakes the very foundation of that house and upsets the quiet order built on voluntary servitude that keeps everything running so smoothly.

Within this setup, Karine Teles and Lourenço Mutarelli nail their roles as a performative progressive elite. Bárbara is the kind of woman who repeats self-help slogans and preaches individuality and “personal style”—until the maid dares to use her fancy coffee mugs. Carlos, on the other hand, is a washed-out dreamer, a ghost of a man: depressed, apathetic, frustrated with his own irrelevance. His behavior toward Jéssica borders on predatory, but he hides it behind a faux artistic sensitivity, which makes it all the more disturbing. In the end, he’s the textbook definition of male privilege—he never has to take responsibility, not even to drive his son to the airport. His stillness says more than any line of dialogue, a reflection of a generation of men who inherited everything and still gave up on doing anything meaningful.

Muylaert’s direction is quietly sharp. The framing of shots traps Casé’s character in her tight world: the kitchen, the little room, the half-open door, the sideways glances from the outside in. When Val dares to cross those boundaries (like in that unforgettable pool scene), the film doesn’t need soaring music or grand speeches—just those few steps into that crystal-clear water are crushingly powerful. That’s when cinema becomes political without needing to preach, when the character’s body dares to step into a space she was always denied.

Bárbara Alvarez’s cinematography works as a silent accomplice to the film’s mise-en-scène: it favors tight spaces, neutral tones, and uses doors and windows as symbolic frames of containment. The editing avoids easy sentimentality and lets the pacing reflect real life—it’s slow, repetitive, sometimes suffocating, but all it takes is a single gesture, a single sentence, or a single look to break through decades of inertia.

The script, also written by Muylaert, smartly avoids turning anyone into a villain. That’s what makes everything hit harder: it’s not about individual bad intentions, it’s about a deep-rooted system—one that survives through daily routines, social codes, and quiet hypocrisies. “The Second Mother” doesn’t need to yell to hit deep. Its strength lies in how subtly it shows a society that calls itself modern but still thinks it’s normal for the maid to eat last, to sleep in a stuffy room, and to be grateful for a life lived on the sidelines.

The final scenes, when Val finally allows herself to breathe something new, are among the most beautiful in recent Brazilian cinema. The restrained goodbye with Fabinho (Michel Joelsas), the quiet hug, the return to the outskirts, the phone call to check on her daughter—it’s all handled with such moving delicacy. And when Val starts sketching, trying to make sense of a new world around her, it’s impossible not to feel something. In that moment, she stops being just a symbol of the past and maybe—just maybe—starts imagining a future.

“The Second Mother” is one of those rare films that manages to tackle social inequality without falling into moral clichés or cartoonish stereotypes. It’s precise, elegant, cutting, and deeply human. Every rewatch reveals new layers, new silences, new aches. It’s an experience that forces us to face the country we actually live in—and everything we still pretend not to see.

Such an amazing and delicate movie. I was touched by the acting and this amazing script.

Ótimo! Possui uma crítica bem interessante sobre o velho e novo brasileiro.

Filme para ser visto com sensibilidade, observando os detalhes.

This movie seems just overrated to me. Maybe because I can't relate with it.

I have a very hard time finding brazilian movies that do not have this forced telenovela acting, and this one disappointed me in this regard too.
A part from it, the characters do not act realistically at all, so it feels like it's been written for a highschool play.

amazing acting. amazing script. incredible real.