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There is a familiar critique of María Corina Machado. That she is too rigid, not particularly interested in adjusting to the diplomatic realities surrounding Venezuela’s political crisis, and not especially inclined toward compromise.

The argument is straightforward. Moments like this are supposed to require flexibility, negotiation, and a willingness to adapt. From that perspective, her style can seem poorly suited to the situation.

But that reading is at best incomplete. It assumes a level of intransigence that is not always reflected in how she has actually operated, particularly in her dealings with international actors. More importantly, it assumes that Venezuela is going through a conventional political transition, one where the main challenge is to manage an orderly redistribution of power.

That is not quite what is happening.

Because in deeper national crises, the issue is not only how power changes hands, but whether the country still sees itself as a functioning political community. And in those moments, the tension is not simply between rigidity and pragmatism, but between adaptation and the risk of political dilution.

This is not a new tension. During World War II, Charles de Gaulle was widely seen by his allies as arrogant, inflexible, and almost impossible to work with. Franklin D. Roosevelt dismissed him as a prima donna who “thinks he is France.” Winston Churchill, more begrudgingly, called him “the heaviest cross I have to bear,” and both struggled with what they saw as his refusal to behave like the leader of a defeated country.

Preserving the idea of France as a nation, even in defeat, required a certain political stubbornness, one that inevitably generated friction with allies focused on managing the war.

Between them, Churchill and FDR sketched a portrait of a man too rigid, too proud, too self-appointed to be useful, and yet too symbolically indispensable to ignore.

De Gaulle, after all, had no real army at the outset, no territory, and no state apparatus behind him. Yet he insisted on speaking, and acting, as if France still existed as a sovereign political force.

From the outside, that posture often looked unreasonable, even counterproductive. From the French perspective, it was something else. De Gaulle understood that if the leader who claimed to represent France began to behave primarily as a dependent actor, the country itself risked being seen that way. Preserving the idea of France as a nation, even in defeat, required a certain political stubbornness, one that inevitably generated friction with allies focused on managing the war. At the same time, De Gaulle was careful to express gratitude for the support France depended on, even as he resisted being defined by it. The challenge was not to reject alliances, but to avoid being politically reduced by them. It was precisely that balance, difficult and often uncomfortable, that later allowed him to reappear not just as a political figure, but as the embodiment of France’s return.

There is a long tradition in political history of what the French call l’homme providentiel, the idea that, in moments of acute national crisis, certain figures come to embody more than a political program. They are read, sometimes reluctantly, as necessary to the resolution of the crisis itself. Charles de Gaulle was often described in those terms, not because he sought to cultivate that image, but because the collapse of the French state created a vacuum that only a figure with that kind of symbolic authority could fill.

In a very different context, María Corina Machado’s role in this most recent chapter of Venezuela’s history has taken on a similar tone. Not as a conventional political leader, but as a figure onto whom broader expectations about national recovery have been projected. That does not resolve the practical challenges of the moment, but it does complicate the assumption that she can simply be treated as another actor within the process.

More recently, Volodymyr Zelenskyy has faced a similar tension. Ukraine’s survival depends heavily on Western support, particularly from the United States, yet his relationship with Washington, especially under Donald Trump, has often been marked by visible strain. At times, Zelensky has had to absorb public criticism, adjust his tone, and even appear deferential in ways that, from the outside, can look uncomfortable. But that is only part of the picture. He has also been careful to consistently express gratitude for American support, acknowledging that it has been essential in sustaining Ukraine’s defense, even as he continues to press for more assistance and assert Ukraine’s strategic value. The result is not a simple posture of defiance or submission, but something more complex. A constant negotiation between dependence and dignity.

Machado is operating within that same tension. Venezuela’s political crisis is often framed as a negotiation problem, one that can be managed through calibrated concessions, international mediation, and gradual normalization. But that framing misses something more fundamental. For a large part of the country, the issue is not simply how power is redistributed, but whether the outcome reflects the democratic mandate that has already been expressed. In that context, a leadership style that appears inflexible from the outside may in fact be responding to a different constraint altogether, the need to sustain the idea that Venezuela has not accepted its political condition as final.

Political processes can be negotiated, structured, and even externally supported, but they cannot fully stabilize without a sense that they reflect the will of the society they claim to reorder.

If there is a lesson in De Gaulle’s trajectory, it is not simply that difficult leaders can prove indispensable, but that political arrangements built around figures who lack legitimacy tend to remain fragile. Over time, systems that attempt to bypass the actors who embody a country’s political mandate often find themselves circling back to them, not out of preference, but out of necessity.

Something of that dynamic is beginning to surface in Venezuela. The events of early January created a sense, however fleeting, that a political opening might finally take shape. That expectation has not materialized in a way that is broadly felt, and the gap between anticipation and outcome is beginning to generate visible frustration. What is emerging instead is a more ambiguous configuration, a transition that gestures toward change without fully convincing that it has arrived.

In that context, the question is not whether María Corina Machado is a comfortable actor within the process, but whether a process that unfolds without her can secure broad social buy-in. The instinct to view her primarily as a destabilizing force risks missing a more basic point. In moments like this, the leaders who carry political legitimacy are often the ones systems struggle to accommodate, even as they become increasingly difficult to exclude. Winston Churchill, who had once found De Gaulle exasperating, would later acknowledge as much: “Here was a man who, though not elected, though not even accepted by all Frenchmen, nevertheless represented France… He was the spirit of France.”

That may be the uncomfortable reality of moments like this. Political processes can be negotiated, structured, and even externally supported, but they cannot fully stabilize without a sense that they reflect the will of the society they claim to reorder. The difficulty is that the figures who embody that will are rarely the easiest to incorporate.

They are, more often than not, the ones who insist on speaking as if the country they represent has not yet accepted its condition as final.

For casting director Gabriel Domingues, putting together the ensemble of “The Secret Agent” meant materializing characters inspired by director Kleber Mendonça Filho’s recollections.

“It’s not that he was showing us a picture and saying, ‘They must look like this.’ They were ideas of memories that could change,” Domingues says of the Brazilian period thriller about a father on the run during an interview at The Times newsroom. One of the nominees for this year’s inaugural Academy Award for casting, Domingues appreciates how politically charged Mendonça Filho’s films are. His narratives are often fertile ground for an eclectic mix of performers.

And there are no throwaway roles in “The Secret Agent”: “Even the small characters represent ideas about Brazilian life and its contradictions,” Domingues adds.

To honor his large cast, a “panorama” of his country’s people, Mendonça Filho includes a montage at the end of the film in which each actor is acknowledged individually. The director thinks of this as the cinematic equivalent of a curtain call or final bow at the end of a stage production.

“Gabriel tries to find an interesting mix of experienced actors and people that we can discover,” says producer Emilie Lesclaux about Domingues, with whom she’s worked on multiple projects. He first collaborated with Mendonça Filho and Lesclaux on “Aquarius” as a casting assistant.

Domingues believes working on “Aquarius” was instrumental in developing his casting method, which involves searching for the least obvious option to cast the character. He prides himself on doing the shoe-leather work of looking for fresh, compelling faces in cities where others might not think to look — those without a prominent arts scene, for instance.

Gabriel Leone as Bobbi/Abdias  (Victor Juca)

Hermila Guedes as Claudia  (Victor Juca)

Luciano Chirolli as Henrique Ghirotti  (Victor Juca)

Roberio Diogenes as Euclides Cavalcanti  (Victor Juca)

Tânia Maria as Dona Sebastiana  (Victor Juca)

Joalisson Cunha as Frentista  (Victor Juca)

Isabel Zuaa as Tereza Victoria  (Victor Juca)

Kaiony Venancio as Vilmar  (Victor Juca)

That’s not to say the entire cast was discovered. Mendonça Filho had lead Wagner Moura in mind from the outset, while others sprung to mind as he wrote the screenplay: Maria Fernanda Cândido, a famous soap opera actor, as a crucial ally to Moura’s character; and the late Udo Kier, who had previously appeared in the director’s blood-soaked film “Bacurau,” as a German Jewish immigrant who lived through World War II.

The filmmaker admits that envisioning parts with a specific person in mind is “dangerous.” “I can write a character thinking of you, but I never know if you will want to make the film,” says Mendonça Filho. “And I grow attached to the image.”

Among the other supporting roles, the most challenging to cast, the team agrees, was that of Euclides, the sleazy police chief. Though the character is “repulsive,” it also required an edge of charisma to make him more emotionally layered. Eventually, they came across actor Robério Diógenes. “Robério has studied the clown art in the theater, and he’s a very funny guy, so he adds a component of ridiculousness to this character,” Domingues says.

For Vilmar, an impoverished man hired as a subcontractor for a murder, Mendonça Filho had in mind a real-life contract killer he’d seen in a 1970s TV program. The actor had to convey a certain ambiguity not often afforded to people of a lower social class. There’s no doubt Vilmar is acting out of necessity, but he is not entirely without agency since he negotiates his payment. Domingues found the ideal embodiment of this complex character in Kaiony Venâncio, an actor from the city of Natal who had mostly worked in short films.

Then there’s the scene-stealing Tânia Maria, who plays the endearing, chain-smoking Dona Sebastiana. The 79-year-old talent first appeared in “Bacurau” as an extra. “I just could not help thinking of her,” says Mendonça Filho about casting her in his latest film. “I even pre-ad-libbed many of her lines knowing what she might say.”

Before finding her way onto the screen, Tânia Maria has long made a living as an artisan handcrafting rugs. “I never thought about being an actress. I only thought about sewing,” she says with an endearing smile. “All of this came as a surprise.”

Igor de Araujo as Sergio  (Victor Juca)

Joao Vitor Silva as Haroldo  (Victor Juca)

Robson Andrade as Clovis  (Victor Juca)

Maria Fernanda Candido as Elza/Sara Gerber  (Victor Juca)

Alice Carvalho as Fatima  (Victor Juca)

Thomas Aquino as Valdemar  (Victor Juca)

Licinio Januario as Antonio  (Victor Juca)

Udo Kier as Hans  (Victor Juca)

And though she’s still sewing, her acting prospects look bright. She’s already appeared in another film, “Yellow Cake,” premiering at the Berlin International Film Festival this month. That Tânia Maria also recently starred in humorous local commercials for Burger King and Heineken is proof of her current status in Brazilian pop culture — as are the Dona Sebastiana costumes that have become popular during this year’s Carnival.

“I can’t go out on the street without people stopping me. They ask me for autographs, for photos, they want to talk to me, they ask me questions,” she says in Portuguese via an interpreter while on a video call from her home. “I make time for everyone, and I’m enjoying all of it.”

Undaunted by what she calls the most challenging aspect of acting — memorizing the lines — Tânia Maria is eager to continue exploring this unexpected new facet. “I don’t want to stop because I’m not old! I’m waiting for more invitations to move forward in acting,” she says.

The success many of the actors have found thanks to “The Secret Agent” very much pleases the filmmakers, but it also has a major downside.

“That’s all that we want for the people that we work with, that the film is good for them and their career,” says Lesclaux. “But for us, it also makes things more complicated for the next film because we will want to work with them, and they might not be available.”