IN CONVERSATION WITH TAINÁ MÜLLER

interview by LEANDRO DA SILVA

TAINÁ MÜLLER has built a multifaceted career, moving between acting, journalism and documentary filmmaking. With APOLO, her feature-length directorial debut, co-directed with artist and activist ÍSIS BROKEN, she follows Ísis and her partner, LOURENZO GABRIEL, through pregnancy and parenthood, exploring love, identity, family and the complexity of human experience. By documenting their journey, the film invites a deeper reflection on the assumptions we hold about ourselves, others and the world we inhabit.

Her interests extend beyond cinema, encompassing philosophy, spirituality and the complexities of human relationships. Throughout her work, Müller is drawn to stories and ideas that challenge assumptions and open up new perspectives, reflecting a deeper curiosity about who we are, how we relate to one another and the world we inhabit.

You have worked across different fields, including modelling and acting. At a time when your life could have taken many different directions, what was happening in your life when acting began to feel like the direction you wanted to pursue?

I entered university at 16 and soon began working in audiovisual production. My first job was as a third assistant director on Brava Gente, a project produced in partnership between Casa de Cinema de Porto Alegre and Globo. I went on to work in different areas of the industry, from editing and production to directing and presenting short programmes for MTV. After graduating in journalism, I felt a little lost. I enjoyed journalism, but it wasn’t what made my soul vibrate. I wanted to work with art.

I see modelling as an interlude in my life. I wanted to travel but didn’t have the money. Around that time, Ford Models signed me, and I already had some promotional photos from my time at MTV. I was 21 and never imagined I could have an international modelling career; I thought that was something only Gisele Bündchen could achieve. I left my job and, shortly afterwards, went to Thailand to work as a model. I ended up spending a year travelling.

During that time, people kept telling me I was an actress. While filming a music video for a well-known band in Italy, the director told me the same thing, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Italy was also where I saw snow for the first time. While playing in the snow with friends, I realised I wanted to play for the rest of my life. I remembered how much I had loved performing in school plays as a child, and I decided to return to Brazil to study theatre and pursue acting. I had planned to spend six months in Milan, but returned to Brazil earlier than expected. Soon afterwards, I moved to São Paulo with a friend who also wanted to become an actress, and things moved very quickly from there.

Good Morning, Verônica became a major international success for Netflix, bringing Verônica Torres to audiences around the world and turning the series into one of the platform’s most prominent Brazilian productions. What did it mean to be part of a story that brought issues such as violence against women, abuse and institutional power into so many homes and conversations?

It was an incredible opportunity. I had worked on films that travelled internationally, including one that went to Venice, but nothing compared with the reach of a platform like Netflix. The scale of Good Morning, Verônica, combined with the subject matter, gave me a strong sense of mission. The role was physically and emotionally demanding, but it was closely connected to what I see as my purpose in life: equality and women’s rights.

I also wanted to play a protagonist who was the subject of her own journey, rather than an object. When I started working in cinema, female characters were often the girlfriend, the muse or the object of a man’s desire. Verônica was the central character in her own story, and that mattered to me.

We live in a patriarchal world, and it feels as though we can never relax: just when we think we have moved forward, there is a backlash and issues we thought were settled come back into question. The response to the series showed me that gender inequality is a global issue. I heard from women in Iran and India, and the series also reached audiences in the Netherlands, where it entered the Top 10. People told me that it had helped them recognise a dangerous relationship, and some even said it had saved their lives. I’m very proud that the series is still there on the platform, continuing to reach people.

With work, productions and so many different commitments, how do you make space for the things you enjoy outside of work? What do you find yourself turning to when you have time for yourself?

At the moment, I’m experiencing something I haven’t had in a long time: more moments to myself. Since my son was born, my time has naturally revolved around him, and now he lives in Rio with his father. I live in Rio too, but I work in São Paulo once a week, so I’ve been finding more space to read again. I’ve always loved reading, and sometimes I’ll get on a plane and simply enjoy having that time with a book.

I also love meeting friends for a good conversation. Dialogue is one of the most important things in life to me. It nourishes us, helps us nourish other people and allows us to imagine possible futures. I think meaningful conversations can also help us move out of the loneliness and paralysis that so much of contemporary life can create. So, when I have time for myself, I tend to read, study and spend time talking to people.

Brazilian telenovelas occupy a very particular place in the country’s cultural imagination. They enter people’s homes, cross generations and often reflect Brazil while it is going through profound social changes. Having experienced that world from within, what do you think the telenovela still says about Brazil today?

The telenovela is a very important Brazilian cultural product. It can bring debates to people with a reach and effectiveness that other platforms may not have. When I started working in telenovelas, the audience ratings were enormous, so whatever was being discussed on screen could reach the whole country.

I grew up in southern Brazil and, in a way, I got to know Brazil through telenovelas. I hadn’t travelled much, and I learned about different regions, accents and cultural traditions by watching them. I remember discovering folklore such as the Boitatá through a novela. I watched them as a child and wanted to work in them, so they have always meant a great deal to me.

I’ve done around eight telenovelas, and one that was especially meaningful was Em Família, Manoel Carlos’s final novela, in which I played one half of the first lesbian couple to marry on Brazilian television, alongside Giovanna Antonelli.

In a world full of short videos, AI-generated content and an overwhelming flow of information, I’m glad telenovelas continue to tell stories and bring important social issues to audiences who might not otherwise have access to them. Of course, they need to be well made, but their ability to create a shared conversation is still significant.

Cão sem Dono marked your debut in cinema, and you played a model, a world you already knew from your own experience. How did that familiarity shape your approach to Marcela, and what did interpreting her allow you to see about that world from a different perspective?

This year marks 20 years since Cão sem Dono, the film that changed my life and marked the beginning of my career. I had just arrived in São Paulo to study theatre when I got the role, and it was all very new. I even won an award for my first film. It felt like a welcome into this career.

Looking back, Marcela was a dreamer, much like I was. She wanted to see the world and travel, and modelling gave me some of that experience. She has this hunger for life; then, when she becomes ill, it is as though the light goes out, leaving Ciro completely disoriented. I have a lot of affection for the film.

As a young actress, I was spontaneous and free. I felt I had nothing to lose, and I was experimenting with how to use my body on screen. There was a great deal of physical exposure, so it took courage, but the experience also opened many doors for me. It taught me about the commitment acting requires — the willingness to surrender to a scene and expose your emotions and your body. That was an important lesson at the very beginning of my career.

The Mothers of Chico Xavier brought you into a story deeply connected to faith, spirituality and motherhood. You played Lara, a young woman facing an unplanned pregnancy and a profound personal dilemma. What did it mean to you to be part of a film that approached such intimate questions of motherhood, choice and faith?

That film changed everything for me, but in a very internal way. At the time, I was filming Tropa de Elite 2 when I was invited to take part. I wasn’t religious or a Spiritist, so I wasn’t sure whether it was the right project for me. But my grandmother was very ill in hospital, and I went to see her in Porto Alegre. It was the last time I saw her.

She was a very spiritual person and always asked me about my work. I told her I had been invited to do this film but was unsure. She said, ‘Do it. It will be very good for you.’ She died soon afterwards, and I felt as though she had placed a mission in my hands.

At that time, I was meditating twice a day, practising Transcendental Meditation, and I immersed myself in the book that inspired the film, by journalist Marcelo Souto, who investigated Chico Xavier. The whole experience opened me up to spirituality and to possibilities I had previously kept at a distance. I think I began to build what I call my faith through that film. I came to understand that matter does not define us, and that life and existence may have other dimensions. It started an investigation that continues for me to this day.

With Apolo, your feature-length directorial debut, co-directed with artist and activist Ísis Broken, you followed Ísis and Lourenzo Gabriel through pregnancy, parenthood and their experience within Brazil’s healthcare system. What was it like to be so close to their lives and transform that experience into a film?

Apolo carries forward something I began to explore with The Mothers of Chico Xavier: the idea of transcendence. The film’s slogan was “Love is transcendental”. I wanted to invite the audience to pull the camera back and look at things from a wider perspective. We tend to make everything binary — black or white, one thing or its opposite — when there are so many colours in between. Life is much more diverse than that.

Their story caught my attention during the pandemic because it raised questions about gender identity and the beginning of life. What happens when two transgender people decide to have a baby? I hope the film invites people to open their minds, think beyond binary perspectives and respect people’s choices and experiences.

When documenting such a personal journey, how did you approach filming and gathering the images?

The process took four years in total, although we filmed the pregnancy over a shorter period. We couldn’t wait, so we used our own resources rather than spend time applying for funding. We filmed for around 29 days during the early stages of the pregnancy, then returned to film Apolo as he grew older, with additional studio shoots. It was a complicated process, especially during the pandemic, but I followed their lives and the changes that unfolded over time.

Ísis filmed much of the material with a small camera, while a crew also followed them. We had a separate team for the studio shoots. During the edit, I brought the images together because I wanted to create a baby album — a collage, almost a patchwork of moments. Tatiana Lohmann edited the film and helped me with that process.

In Paula e Hortência – A Última Chance, you play Magic Paula, alongside Juliana Didone as Hortência, two of the most important figures in Brazilian basketball. Their relationship brought together competition, admiration and an extraordinary partnership. What do you think makes the relationship between two people capable of producing both such intense rivalry and such profound connection?

Their relationship is fascinating because it’s difficult to name. Is it a friendship? Not exactly. There is rivalry, but there is also deep admiration and respect. The film invites us to look at the complexity of relationships between women. We are often raised to compete with one another; that is one of the ways patriarchy keeps women apart. I remember hearing adults say, when I was a child, that women aren’t friends with women. I never understood why. When women are divided, they lose the power they could have together.

Paula and Hortência show what can happen when rivalry turns into collective strength. They played on opposing teams, and the media and the crowds loved the rivalry. But when they joined the Brazilian national team, they became a formidable force and achieved extraordinary results, including beating the United States, a country with a much stronger basketball tradition at the time.

Their story is also a reminder of how neglected women’s sport has been, and still is. Women athletes can draw large crowds and yet earn far less than men. When Paula and Hortência played in the Olympics, there weren’t even uniforms designed for women, so they had to wear oversized men’s kits. It was a privilege to make this film with a women-led crew, directed by Geórgia Guerra-Peixe, known as Joca, with cinematographer Lilis Soares. I wanted to make a film about femininity, but I hadn’t imagined exploring it through the transformation of rivalry into collective power.

TV Cultura has been part of Brazil’s cultural life for generations, and Café Filosófico has created a rare space for genuine exchange between ideas and people. What does it mean to you to be the person opening that space for others, and what happens to you in return when you listen to people who have dedicated their lives to understanding the world?

I was delighted when Maria Ângela, who worked with me on Good Morning, Verônica and invited me to play Verônica, asked me to join Café Filosófico, a programme on TV Cultura. I describe myself as an informal student of philosophy. I began studying it after my son was born, taking courses with Djamila Ribeiro and Márcia Tiburi, particularly around feminism. Later, I took a course on Nietzsche and tragic thought, and during the pandemic I enrolled in a postgraduate programme in contemporary philosophy at PUC-Rio.

I wanted to organise my thoughts and better understand what was happening in the world. We are constantly flooded with information through the media and social networks, and it can create the illusion that we are learning, when we are often just absorbing fragments without depth or context.

The programme felt like a chance to return to journalism. I started out interviewing people at MTV and later worked on A Liga, a programme on Band, a Brazilian television network. I’ve always loved interviews, but I didn’t want to do superficial ones.

Café Filosófico gives me the chance to talk to people who are deeply specialised in different subjects, and every conversation opens a new door that makes me study beforehand. I call it ‘the gym for my brain’. Each guest teaches me something I can use in my own life and helps me reorganise the way I think about the world.

Some films change the way we see the world, and sometimes even ourselves. Is there a film that has profoundly shaped the way you think or feel about cinema?

One film that immediately comes to mind is Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. I was ten years old when I watched it on television in southern Brazil. I was knitting at the time, and I didn’t understand the film, but I felt that it turned my insides upside down. I’ve watched it many times since, and I later discovered that there are still study groups devoted to it.

What Kubrick did was extraordinary. HAL 9000 is almost an oracle, but also a villain — a computer that turns against human beings. Watching the film today, in a world shaped by AI, makes that even more striking. To me, it is pure philosophy. I think it changed my life in a way I can’t quite define. A child who watches 2001 at ten might grow up a little unconventional, study philosophy and go on to do some unusual things!

That film may also have stayed with me in the way I approach my own work. Apolo opens with space — with emptiness — and the voice of my son asking what I was before I existed. The film returns to the questions that continue to fascinate me: where we come from, what it means to exist and what might have come before us.