Victoria Fiore seeks light in the hells of the world—so does Carnival. In her short film “Pavilhão” the filmmaker unveils the transcendental and ancestral force behind the dazzling and pulsating celebration. She tells writer Sarah Lemos how she captured the light, color, warmth and gravity of Rio de Janeiro’s Carnival and its samba dancers.
I meet with Victoria Fiore at Birosca, a bar tucked inside an old colonial mansion. She shows me her bruised feet, the consequence of dancing samba barefoot. Today she wears flip-flops, a staple for any carioca (a native or resident of Rio de Janeiro). A passista (a samba dancer) and documentarist, she has created “Pavilhão,” an immersive dive into samba’s history—its artistry, resilience and the electrifying pulse of its spirit. She speaks with an almost imperceptible accent: “It’s a survival tactic to blend in,” she reflects—a strategy honed over 16 years. She first visited Brazil in 2009, back when her knowledge of Brazilian music was limited to bossa nova.
That was when she found a sense of belonging in Rocinha, the largest favela in South America, where lives are deeply intertwined. “In Rocinha, I felt like I was in the alleys and narrow streets of Naples,” she says about the time she spent in the favela. (Raised in a suburb of Naples, Fiore spent her childhood between her hometown and London.) In 2016, that same embrace led her to connect with people in Tuiuti in Brazil, a community with a long-standing Carnival tradition. “I fell in love with everything dance could convey. At the time, I traveled often, and dance became an instrument I could carry everywhere.”
Between gatherings and feijoadas—communal events centered around the experience of sharing feijoada, a traditional Brazilian black bean stew—she learned that samba is not just a dance. It is a ritual. She attended the G.R.E.S. Paraíso do Tuiuti samba school, where she met a community of people who introduced her to the terreiro (Afro-Brazilian religious temple). She realized that relationships extend beyond the rehearsal space—and even beyond the physical world. “Samba is about connecting to the spirit through dance and the drum,” she explains. “On the samba avenue, we become one, an army. There is no ego. Nothing is more magical than that.”
The film’s blessing was also spiritual: Fiore explains that when filming the reenactment of a ritual, a dancer was actually visited by Oxóssi— a deity known as the warrior of a single arrow for the precision of his hunt. The spirit, manifesting unexpectedly, moved through the performer’s body. “He danced before us. We sought his permission [to be filmed], and he granted it. This story was meant to be told,” she recalls before adding: “Okê Arô,” the Yoruba salutation to the deity.
Fiction and reality blur in this first filmed scene, as they do throughout Fiore’s body of work. “I believe fantasy carries a profound truth. It’s not imagined; it’s lived—it’s a way of telling stories that goes beyond mere fact.” In “Pavilhão,” as in her feature film “Nascondino,” the narrator is a child—this time, Aleksia Victoria, her xará (namesake), who’s training at the G.R.E.S. Paraíso do Tuiuti to become a passista. In these communities, children and elders share a profound connection—stories are passed down as part of a commitment to preserving memory. But it’s not just about safeguarding the past; children are also heard and valued. The filmmaker sees a deep truth in the child’s gaze—perhaps akin to her own unwavering fascination with the stories she captures. “It seeps into the bones with delicate intensity, yet you still understand what is happening,” she says. To Fiore, samba’s history and the very word pavilhão—a symbol of resilience and reinvention—carry this meaning. Quoting Italo Calvino, she reflects: “‘Even in the depths of hell, there is a light.’ I am searching for that light in the hells of the world.”
Beneath the sumptuous costumes, samba carries a history of survival: a way of existing in defiance of colonization, enslavement and segregation. Fiore believes that being happy and moving forward demand strength, and she wants to celebrate that. She hopes people will recognize the roots of samba beyond the spectacle. “These are people who fight for art, who give life its meaning,” she explains. “The least I can do is tell their story.”
To do justice to this grandeur, the film was shot on luscious 16mm, depicting a community that reinvents itself with every drumbeat. Fiore says that the deep tones gave weight to the story, while the vibrant colors enhanced every hue and the warmth of it all. “I fell in love with the result. It’s beautiful, just like them,” she says, “and they also want to be portrayed that way.”
Many steps have been taken on the samba avenue through the years, but filming Carnival is only the beginning. “I haven’t told enough yet,” Fiore says. “The path ahead runs much deeper.” She sees the film as a labor of love, shaped by countless conversations. There are still many stories to tell, like that of Tia Ruth, who died dancing samba on the avenue. “That’s how we want to go—truly. When you samba, you are no longer yourself.”