FROM BRAZIL

WHAT IT’S ABOUT: Transwoman Luana Muniz has been a sex-worker since the age of 11, surviving and fighting for the rights of her community throughout the Brazilian military dictatorship, as well as transphobia and violence. In the film, Luana is in her late 50s and the president of The Association of Transgender Sex Professionals. Still performing in cabaret shows and revered as a queer icon, she is intent on helping the younger generation of trans sex workers navigate the treacherous streets. In the vibrant Rio neighborhood of Lapa, Luana runs a hostel, where vulnerable young women can come for safety, mentoring, and autonomy from the pimps. What also awaits them is some sound advice on breast implants and a comfy couch on which to eat pizza.

WHO MADE IT: Theodore Collatos and Carolina Monnerat are a husband and wife team of filmmakers who had previously collaborated on a series of smaller-scale projects. Monnerat, a former dancer, grew up near Lapa and had known about Luana since childhood, as her father worked as the negotiator between the sex workers and the local community. Herself from a family of civil rights activists, Monnerat always wanted to share Luana’s story with an audience. Together with Collatos, they were able to entrust themselves to Luana and the girls congregating in the hostel, and to portray glimpses of their everyday life: from before work prayers to accident recovery. Although Luana is the glue that holds the community together, Gabi Corrêa, her protegee, emerges as another protagonist in the film. Or even a co-author, since Gabi documents the reality along with the filmmakers in her social media live feed.

WHY DO WE CARE: We need more sex workers’ voices to be heard in all kinds of media. It’s too easy for people who do not come into contact with sex workers to make irrelevant or harmful assumptions about the industry. And it’s especially infuriating when the politics of sex work become exploited by liberal movements to serve their particular agendas. Just as disgusting, really, as when prostitution is portrayed as something liminal, criminal, or fetish-adjacent. What we need instead are uplifting, inspiring portraits of people from within the community. Portraits of people who labor tirelessly to make the trade safe and civil and the people engaged in it respected as human beings. The documentary doesn’t go into excessive detail about the set-up, which allows Luana to help other sex-workers. However, it becomes clear that they call on her in situations of urgency, like when one woman gets hurt and needs an ambulance. Luana is a powerhouse whose genius lies in the fact that she’s able to hold all strings together. Most admirable is her preoccupation with what will happen after she’s gone, whether her memory will be able to inspire other people to put as much of their souls into the struggle. It is a beautiful facet of humanity that you so rarely see in those who represent even the more civilly conformist communities.