THE BALLAD OF A STOLEN FISH

The film follows a single gesture, the theft of a fish, and observes how it escalates when necessity collides with authority. I was interested in the distance between an act and its consequence, and in how quickly survival can be reframed as threat. Set during Holy Week, the story unfolds through movement, space and escalation. The film does not seek resolution, but remains with the moment when a life is reduced to a choice and what follows from it. This film was born from a simple and unsettling image: A man running with a fish in his arms. Not as an initial metaphor, but as a raw gesture of survival. From that image, I began to think about how certain bodies, when in motion, seem never to be in the right place, even when they are only trying to live. I chose to set the story during Holy Week because I am interested in the contrast between ritual, faith, and everyday violence. The fish, a symbol of abundance and sacredness, here becomes a reason for condemnation. Good Friday does not appear as redemption, but as repetition: a sacrifice that silently renews itself. The coast, often associated with rest and promise, emerges as a space of tension. The sea observes, receives, and erases traces, but it does not judge. It remains, as memory does. I was not interested in explaining the characters or justifying their actions. Instead, I chose to follow their bodies, their silences, and their smallest decisions. The film does not seek answers, nor does it offer consolation. It simply stays beside a loss that could have been avoided and that, even so, still happens. The Ballad of a Stolen Fish is an attempt to film that fragile moment when necessity meets violence, and where life, even when interrupted, insists on leaving its marks.