Pelé

The 2021 documentary Pelé opens not with a bicycle kick or a roar from the stands, but with the squeak of a walker. A frail, elderly man shuffles into a room, sits down, and looks at the camera. For anyone who grew up with the grainy, god-like images of the 1970 World Cup, seeing Pelé (Edson Arantes do Nascimento) reduced to such a fragile state is a sharp, immediate reality check. It’s the kind of sobering "human behind the highlight reel" moment that has become the calling card of the modern streaming-era sports biography.

I watched this on my laptop while my neighbor was power-washing their driveway, the hum of the machine weirdly syncing up with the crowd noise in the Maracanã, and it honestly added a layer of industrial grit to the 1960s footage that worked surprisingly well.

The Netflix Gloss vs. The Brazilian Dirt

Released during the height of the "prestige sports doc" boom—right when we were all still reeling from The Last Dance—directors David Tryhorn and Ben Nicholas clearly understood the assignment. They weren't just making a movie about goals; they were making a movie about a symbol. The film focuses on the twelve-year span between 1958 and 1970, arguably the most turbulent decade in Brazilian history.

The production value is top-tier Netflix: the archival footage has been cleaned up so well you can practically smell the liniment on the players’ jerseys. We see a young Pelé as a seventeen-year-old kid in Sweden, weeping on the shoulder of Gilmar after winning his first World Cup. It’s beautiful, but the film is smart enough to pivot quickly. It’s not interested in just being a "best-of" compilation. It wants to know what it felt like to be the only source of joy for a country that was slowly being choked by a military dictatorship.

Silence in the Face of the Storm

This is where the drama really kicks in. Unlike many contemporary documentaries that scrub their subjects clean of controversy, Pelé leans into the uncomfortable. It touches on the "King’s" perceived apoliticism. While Brazil was suffering under a coup and the brutal suppression of civil liberties, Pelé remained largely silent, continuing to play, continuing to smile for the cameras, and even meeting with the dictator, General Médici.

This doc finally admits that Pelé was essentially a state-sponsored antidepressant during the lead-pipe years of the dictatorship. Seeing modern-day interviews with figures like Gilberto Gil and Benedita da Silva provides a crucial perspective that older, more hagiographic documentaries lacked. They don't necessarily condemn him, but they acknowledge the complexity. Pelé himself, in the present day, seems haunted by it. When he talks about the pressure of the 1970 World Cup, he doesn’t talk about glory; he talks about relief. He talks about wanting it to be over so he could breathe again. It’s a heavy, psychological angle that makes the football scenes feel much more significant.

The 1970 Apotheosis

If you’re here for the football, though, you won't be disappointed. The 1970 segment is the film’s heartbeat. After the heartbreak of the 1966 tournament—where the 1966 World Cup highlights look like a collection of sanctioned assaults on Pelé’s knees—the comeback in Mexico is framed like a religious experience.

The chemistry between Pelé and teammates like Amarildo and Zagallo (who later coached the 1970 squad) is palpable even through the old celluloid. The cinematography by Michael Latham manages to bridge the gap between the slick, high-definition interviews and the sun-drenched, yellow-and-blue haze of the 1970 final. The score by Gabriel Ferreira also avoids the typical "triumphant sports" tropes, opting for something a bit more soulful and contemplative.

One of the cooler details I picked up on is how much Pelé genuinely didn't want to play in 1970. He had been so battered in previous years that he was ready to walk away. The film captures that internal tug-of-war—a man who wanted to be Edson, but was forced by an entire nation (and a government) to remain Pelé. It’s a classic dramatic arc: the aging hero forced back for one last job, except the stakes aren't just a trophy; they’re the collective psyche of millions of people.

Ultimately, Pelé succeeds because it understands that its subject is a myth that is still alive. It’s a film that fits perfectly into our current cultural moment—where we are obsessed with deconstructing our icons and seeing the cracks in the marble. It doesn’t take away from his greatness on the pitch; if anything, seeing the immense political and social weight he carried makes those three World Cup wins feel even more miraculous.

If you’ve only ever seen Pelé as a smiling face in a coffee commercial or a FIFA ambassador, this is the corrective you need. It’s a moody, beautifully shot, and often heartbreaking look at what happens when a human being becomes a national monument. It’s well worth the 108 minutes, even if you don't know a header from a hole in the ground. You’ll come for the goals, but you’ll stay for the heavy, quiet sighs of a man who changed the world and is still trying to figure out if it was worth the cost.