by Hudson Moura
Marcelo Caetano’s Baby (2024) is a striking addition to Brazil’s long cinematic tradition of portraying marginalized youth navigating survival in an unforgiving society. But unlike its predecessors—such as Hector Babenco’s Pixote (1981) and Sérgio Toledo’s Vera (1986)—Baby diverges from the purely tragic register to explore tenderness and desire within a cruel and deeply unequal social system. Here, the streets are not just spaces of violence and exploitation, but also of longing, affect, and complex emotional entanglement.
A Love Story on the Edge of Survival
At the center of Baby is Wellington, nicknamed “Baby” (João Pedro Mariano, in a luminous and nuanced debut performance), a queer adolescent caught between boyhood and adulthood. Nearly 18 years old, Baby searches for meaning and belonging through a series of relationships with older men. But this is not a tale of sexual awakening in the romantic sense—it’s a brutal, yet deeply intimate, portrayal of dependency, vulnerability, and emotional survival.
Baby is drawn into the orbit of Ronaldo (Ricardo Teodoro, remarkable for his restraint and subtlety), a 42-year-old pimp and small-time drug dealer who becomes a contradictory figure of stability and control. What begins as a transactional relationship—Baby sells drugs and sex in exchange for shelter—evolves into something far more emotionally charged. Ronaldo, with his patchwork family consisting of an ex-wife, a biological son, and the wife of his ex-wife, unexpectedly offers Baby a glimpse of familial belonging. Yet, their relationship, marked by both care and violence, quickly morphs into an “amor bandido”—a criminal love shaped by power imbalances, generational gaps, and unresolved traumas.
The Brazilian Tradition of the Marginalized Youth
Caetano positions Baby within a legacy of Brazilian cinema that has long grappled with the figure of the child or adolescent on the margins—characters whose lives are molded by abandonment, exploitation, and state neglect. From Pixote‘s devastating portrayal of institutional violence to Vera‘s complex narrative of gender identity and alienation, these films reflect the brutal cost of Brazil’s economic disparities and its systemic failure to protect its most vulnerable.
However, Baby offers something different. While the film does not shy away from depicting violence—emotional, physical, structural—it imbues its protagonist with moments of interiority and tenderness that are rarely afforded to queer characters in poverty. Caetano’s camera is both observant and gentle, capturing Baby’s desire not only for survival but for affection, for touch, for connection. The film resists the voyeurism often associated with poverty and violence, instead opting for a slow-burning, emotionally rich storytelling that centers Baby’s subjectivity.
Tenderness as a Political Gesture
One of Baby‘s most radical gestures is its refusal to frame its characters as mere victims or villains. Ronaldo is abusive, yet capable of care. Baby is exploited, yet assertive and emotionally intelligent. Their relationship—messy, volatile, and at times unsustainable—complicates easy moral judgments. Caetano invites the viewer to inhabit the ambiguity of this emotional terrain, where love is both a sanctuary and a trap.
What truly sets the film apart is its tone. Whereas Pixote and Vera descend into nihilism, Baby flirts with hope. There is pain, yes, but also moments of quiet beauty: a shared meal, a longing gaze, a day in the sun. The film is grounded in realism, but it offers a glimpse—however fragile—of emotional redemption.
Performances and Aesthetic Choices
João Pedro Mariano brings a magnetic presence to the screen, his beauty and vulnerability recalling a young Jean-Paul Belmondo but filtered through the streets of contemporary São Paulo. His expressive silences, body language, and understated charm make Baby a compelling and empathetic figure. Ricardo Teodoro, in contrast, plays Ronaldo with stoic complexity—a man hardened by experience, incapable of true softness, but not entirely devoid of it either.
The film’s cinematography embraces a muted palette that mirrors the bleakness of Baby’s material world, while the occasional warmth of natural light suggests moments of grace. Some scenes seem semi-improvised, featuring non-professional actors and unpolished dialogue that adds a documentary-like texture, grounding the narrative in a tangible social reality.
Baby portrays gritty social realities through a tender and emotionally resonant lens, inviting audiences into deep engagement with characters too often relegated to the margins. Marcelo Caetano offers a rare and necessary queer perspective on poverty, masculinity, and emotional dependence in Brazil, foregrounding the affective complexity and humanity of protagonists frequently reduced to symbols or stereotypes. Baby shifts the focus from systemic brutality to the intimate, interpersonal dynamics of survival. While Pixote and Vera exposed the institutional violence faced by abandoned minors, Baby reframes this tradition through the prism of queer desire and emotional vulnerability. It dares to depict tenderness amidst precarity, portraying a world where emotional survival is just as urgent as physical survival.
Verdict:
In a cinematic landscape often saturated with sensationalized violence, Baby stands out as a raw, intimate, and quietly subversive film—a deeply human story of love, longing, and the fragile bonds that form at the edges of society. It adds a vital and timely chapter to Brazil’s ongoing cinematic engagement with the lives of its most invisible youth.
(4/5)