The first scene of Caramelo already gives it all away: a hungry stray dog, a chicken on display, and Waldick Soriano singing “I’m Not a Dog.” It’s almost a synthesis of the country; the hunger, the improvisation, and the nostalgic soundtrack accompanying the chaos. Directed and written by Diego Freitas, the new Netflix film attempts to Brazilianize the “dog movie” subgenre by focusing on a national symbol. And although the titular stray dog is the main draw, the film ultimately divides the spotlight between the dog and its owner, a chef who also has a lot to learn about survival.
Pedro (Rafael Vitti), a chef on the verge of realizing his dream of opening his own restaurant, has his life turned upside down when he discovers he has cancer. The turning point comes in the form of four paws and a pleading look: Caramelo, a stray dog who changes the course of the story, and Pedro’s own outlook on life. It’s the kind of synopsis that could easily slip into sentimentality, but Diego Freitas balances emotion and social critique with some astuteness.
The film isn’t about a “cute” dog; it’s about what he represents. Caramel is a portrait of the real Brazil: abandoned, resilient, and yet willing to offer affection. According to recent WHO data, the country has around 30 million abandoned animals—half of them dogs. An estimated 10 million live on the streets, and public and private shelters are constantly overcrowded, with capacity far below demand. In other words, the scene of the dog stealing chicken isn’t fiction: it’s a snapshot of everyday life on every street corner.
Rafael Vitti finds a role here that escapes the “soap opera heartthrob” aesthetic, and it works well. He delivers a restrained character, stricken by loneliness and fear of time. The counterpoint comes from Amendoim, the real-life dog who plays Caramelo, who steals the film with pure charisma. Freitas succeeds in using the dog as a metaphor for the country: cheerful, resilient, and eternally improvised.
Visually, the film has one foot in realism and the other in advertising, perhaps a reflection of Netflix itself trying to domesticate precariousness. The soundtrack helps, the scenes in São Paulo are textured, and the supporting cast (including Paola Carosella, in a small but sympathetic role) sustains the tone of humanity.
But Caramelo’s greatest merit lies off-screen: the 60 dogs used in filming were rescued and adopted by the crew itself. In a country where a canine’s gaze begs for care on every corner, this gesture transforms fiction into action.
In the end, Caramelo is about what remains when haste and indifference pass: the gaze of a dog that still believes in us. And perhaps, amidst so much cynicism, that’s what Brazil needs most—a little loyalty, even after so many hardships.
You can find Caramelo on Netflix.
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