Bruno “Ghoya” is at the centre of the film, where his personal journey intersects with Portugal’s colonial legacy and state racism. Firstly, could you tell us more about your encounter with him and the relationship that enabled you to make this film together?
I first met Bruno (Ghoya) in 2009, while filming “Li Ké Terra” alongside Filipa Reis and Nuno Baptista. We shot with part of his family. He was on the run, and we sensed it was only a matter of time before he’d be arrested again. Even in that short encounter, I felt the urgency and strength of his voice—he was already seen as a pioneer of the Rap Crioulo movement. The power we carried within stayed with me.
After that, our paths kept crossing. I met his mother, his wife and his daughter. His return to prison interrupted all these lives. Over the years, through other projects, especially around prisons and ghettoized communities, my understanding of these themes deepened. When he was released almost a decade later, I finally had the chance to make this film. I wasn’t just a filmmaker observing, I was involved, present, and implicated in this story.
The film opens with a striking scene of an anti-racist protest in Lisbon. The collective nature of this struggle is evident throughout the film, representing a statement of resistance against institutional violence. How did you collaborate with Bruno and his community?
This film emerged from a deep sense of engagement, with Bruno, but also with his community, his history, and the political struggle they embody. I never intended to remain an outside observer. My approach is grounded in building relationships that evolve into collaboration. I work with the same film crew from project to project, which creates a reliable, intimate environment for everyone involved. This continuity allowed me to propose scenes and improvisations that felt natural and respectful.
We didn’t stage the protest or orchestrate it as a symbolic moment. Instead, we participated. Just like Bruno, I and my team were there—not just to capture an image, but to be present in the urgency and resistance of the moment. That collective experience of protest, grief, and determination is what shaped the film’s tone. The collective resistance shown in the film against systemic racism, institutional neglect, and social erasure is something Bruno and his community live daily. It’s not symbolic for them. So our “job” was to be in it with them.
Rap in Creole plays a central role in the film, representing territory, identity, dignity, public outcry and mutual support. Can you tell us more about this dimension?
Rap Crioulo was always the soundtrack of this story, even before COMPLÔ existed as a film. From our first encounter, Ghoya’s music embodied the life he lived, the streets he walked, and the oppression he resisted. His lyrics narrate not only his own biography but also a collective experience of ghettoisation, imprisonment and survival.
The music was integral to the storytelling. The music wasn’t just about atmosphere - it was about testimony. And in this film, that voice is everything. The rawness of Ghoya’s lyrics, the repetition of certain refrains, and the emotional weight of his delivery helped us shape the rhythm and the emotional depth of each scene. Rap in Creole became a means of asserting identity, reclaiming space, and connecting isolated moments of pain and pride into a unified expression of collective resistance. The marginalization, the pride, the rage, the dignity are all there. His lyrics are rooted in the neighbourhoods that raised him and the violence that shaped him. He speaks of identity, exile, and love. For me this is key—Love is the answer, always!
Interview by Margot Mecca