Cristóbal Lopez Baena

Alba is away on a trip while, in her hometown, a friend of hers dies. Her travel companions cannot seem to grasp what happened and, without being able to go back home, Alba is forced to go through mourning alone, even though she’s surrounded by people.

Year 1866. Venancio, a young gaucho, embarks on a journey to escape from a curse through a war-torn region desperately seeking salvation among rustlers, priests, shamans and deserters. The stronger his fear is, the more real the legend becomes.

Camila is going through a crisis in her 30s. Everything in her life seems to be falling apart: growing up proves more difficult than she expected. Julian, her best friend, suggests she resume her major and work in a play. Together, they will live a memorable summer.

This is not about actors, nor about a theater in ashes, nor about a play without an audience, nor about a ghost actress, nor about the outline of a dead man, nor about a theater with a life of its own, nor about an actor who is also an actress, nor about a fake phone call, nor about a house with four walls that turns, nor about a psychotic clown, nor about one, two, three, four NN bodies tied up without choice, much less about a certain theater, with a certain fire, with a certain collapse, with a certain 2007 scratched in the mind of a certain ghost actress, of a certain faggot and of a certain clown, nor about the revelation of their secret that neither you, nor I, nor they know if it was like that or not.

This is not about actors, nor about a theater in ashes, nor about a play without an audience, nor about a ghost actress, nor about the outline of a dead man, nor about a theater with a life of its own, nor about an actor who is also an actress, nor about a fake phone call, nor about a house with four walls that turns, nor about a psychotic clown, nor about one, two, three, four NN bodies tied up without choice, much less about a certain theater, with a certain fire, with a certain collapse, with a certain 2007 scratched in the mind of a certain ghost actress, of a certain faggot and of a certain clown, nor about the revelation of their secret that neither you, nor I, nor they know if it was like that or not.

This is not about actors, nor about a theater in ashes, nor about a play without an audience, nor about a ghost actress, nor about the outline of a dead man, nor about a theater with a life of its own, nor about an actor who is also an actress, nor about a fake phone call, nor about a house with four walls that turns, nor about a psychotic clown, nor about one, two, three, four NN bodies tied up without choice, much less about a certain theater, with a certain fire, with a certain collapse, with a certain 2007 scratched in the mind of a certain ghost actress, of a certain faggot and of a certain clown, nor about the revelation of their secret that neither you, nor I, nor they know if it was like that or not.