The great Ingmar Bergman once observed: “No art passes our conscience in the way film does, and goes directly to our feelings, deep down into the dark rooms of our souls.” His words continue to resonate today, carried by the evocative waters of the Venetian Lagoon towards the island of San Servolo, where, from September 10 to 12, the ONA Short Film Festival once again takes shape. 

At its core lies a belief in cinema as the ideal medium through which to convey messages that originate in sporting culture before transcending sport itself and reaching towards something deeper. Something capable, indeed, of touching the conscience, stirring emotion and reaching those hidden chambers of the soul. Of teaching us to open our perspectives towards other corners of the world, other communities and other individuals.

As has now become a tradition, we accompany this meaningful gathering with a dedicated editorial series. At the heart of this focus are director Gar O’Rourke and his short film, ‘Kachalka’.

As always, we like to begin with something we consider fundamental to every person we interview, just as it is to every filmmaker taking part in the ONA Short Film Festival: from childhood to the present day, what kind of relationship have you developed with the imagery and imagination of sport? In what ways has sport been, and does it continue to be, a source of inspiration in the way you see the world?

Gar O’Rourke: “I think everyone will have a different answer to this kind of question. For me, I never really fitted neatly into the world of sport. I was a skateboarder for a very long time and, almost by definition, skateboarders didn’t like to think of what they did in those terms. We were always outsiders. But skateboarding is incredibly athletic, while also possessing a very deep creative dimension. That was always central to me, and it really shaped who I am as a person, how I think about the world and even how I perceive space itself. As a skateboarder, you look at the built urban environment differently from most people. And when I think about the parallels between that and ‘Kachalka,’ they become quite clear. Here is a gym built from salvaged Soviet materials, where people have reimagined what those materials could ultimately become. I think there is a real parallel between those two ways of looking at the world.

Now, as an adult, sport is very important to me. I work out and train quite often, I run, and I like to stay active. I also think movement is intrinsically connected to creativity in some way. There is creative momentum and there is physical momentum, and I think there is a crossover between the two. But I’m not a great team player. I’ve always gravitated towards individual sports such as rock climbing, surfing and skateboarding. The closest I get to team sports these days is probably playing padel with someone else, or tennis. Basketball is a sport I’m too small to play, but if I were taller, I’d love to. So, yes, that’s more or less my history, or perhaps my non-history, with sport.”

How, on the other hand, did visual storytelling enter your life? What does it represent to you today? 

Gar O’Rourke: “My journey towards visual storytelling began in a fairly unexpected way. I was a terrible student at school. I think I was already a creative person, but I didn’t realise it at the time: I simply thought I was bad at school. Fortunately, because my grades were so poor, art college was really the only option available to me. So I moved to London for a few years and studied landscape architecture, which, in some ways, feels strangely appropriate in relation to ‘Kachalka.’ Landscape architecture is concerned with the built environment and with how we interact with design in our everyday lives. My studies focused particularly on public space—city parks, squares, the public realm—rather than garden design. 

I eventually worked as a landscape architect for about three months before realising that I wasn’t very good at it. At the same time, I had always been obsessed with making videos because of my skateboarding background. Moving image is deeply embedded in that culture. Skateboarding has an extraordinary relationship with video and photography, and I think that sensibility was simply in my bones. Even then, though, I didn’t realise I wanted to become a director until I was perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five. By that point I had tried an enormous number of different things: I once counted more than sixteen different jobs.

Eventually, I realised that directing was probably the right path for me. I never went to film school, and from the very beginning I was making projects for very practical reasons: people would give me an opportunity to work on a small video shoot, I would earn some money from it, and gradually I built a portfolio. If you looked at what I was making ten years ago and compared it with the work I’m fortunate enough to do today, you would probably be quite surprised. The scale is now much larger and the work has become considerably more artistic. But the constant throughout that entire journey has been an enormous enthusiasm for the craft itself. Whatever the job was, I genuinely enjoyed doing it: whether I was filming a wedding in Toronto, a communion for someone from the Irish Traveller community, corporate films, or any of the many other projects I worked on. The thread connecting all of them was simply a love of making films.

Today I’m very fortunate to be able to make films that I personally want to make. Documentary, in particular, gives me a way of commenting on the world we are living in, or offering a perspective on it, without having to do so too explicitly. A documentary can function as entertainment while carrying something more substantial beneath the surface, something that speaks truthfully to the particular time in which we are living. That is why I have remained committed to documentary filmmaking, and I feel incredibly fortunate and privileged that I’m now able to do it all the time. 

I’m probably the last person you should ask for advice on how to become a director, because I spent about six years moving in every possible direction before realising that this was what I wanted to do. But rather beautifully, ‘Kachalka’ was my first short film, and remains one of the very few short films I have ever made. I poured so much love, passion and everything I had into that film. In many ways, it contains the very things that motivated me to become a director in the first place.”

‘Kachalka’: a remarkable place, described in the short documentary as a Mecca of sport in Kyiv. How did you first encounter this singular space? And what made you feel that its story needed to be told?

Gar O’Rourke: “All you need to do is look at a single image of that gym and it immediately sparks your curiosity. It is an incredibly unusual place. This was in 2018, when my brother was living in Kyiv and working out there. One day, he sent me a WhatsApp video while he was training, and I remember thinking, ‘What the fuck is this place?’ It looked like he was on the set of ‘Mad Max.’ I was completely blown away by how unusual it was, and by the creativity behind every single piece of training equipment. I was equally fascinated by the people who went there: the men and women who inhabited that space. Within a couple of weeks of seeing that first video, I was on a plane to Kyiv. I wanted to understand the place and began researching the possibility of making a film about it. 

When I first visited, it was the middle of winter. Everything was covered in ice and it was around minus ten degrees. I walked into the gym and the first person I saw was this guy who must have been about seven feet tall, shirtless, with steam billowing off his back. Within ten seconds, I remember thinking, ‘Holy shit, I have to make this film.’ Initially, it was the physical space itself that fascinated me. But as I began to understand how Kachalka operated, and who the people going there were, it became much more interesting. 

There is no real hierarchy. It is the kind of place where a street cleaner can work out alongside a movie star. Everyone is simply there to train. I’ve always been drawn to places without clear divisions between people, and I fell in love with that quality at Kachalka. It might sound slightly Soviet as a way of thinking about it, but there was something about that absence of hierarchy that really appealed to me. I did a lot of research before making the film and interviewed many of the people who went there. The first time I visited, I made it my mission to speak to as many people as possible. And when you’re that open to talking to anyone, you inevitably end up meeting some pretty unusual characters.

For example, I met this guy who almost seemed like a cult leader. Whenever he spoke, there would be ten people gathered around listening. He told me they all went swimming in the river on Sundays. It was around minus ten, so the river was basically full of ice. I told him I’d join them, but that I didn’t have a swimsuit. He said, ‘Don’t worry, we all swim naked.’ So I went down there, took off my clothes and, when everyone entered the water, realised I was the only person who was naked. For a shy Irish person it was quite a formative experience. But I really enjoyed it. The whole thing felt slightly wild. 

More importantly, though, there was an incredibly strong sense of community, and I found that beautiful. Think about the gyms we normally pay a membership to use. There’s music playing, mirrors everywhere, and everyone exists within their own little world. I was at the gym this morning and it was exactly like that: people have their headphones on and don’t really want to talk to anyone. What I love about Kachalka is that people spend time together. They talk to one another. It almost feels like a social club rather than simply somewhere you go to work out. There was something very pure and very honest about it.”

On one side, there is an ever-evolving collection of DIY equipment, rooted in craftsmanship that began during the Soviet era and has continued to transform into the present day. On the other, an extraordinarily diverse community of people: across genders, generations, styles and ways of inhabiting the space. What was it like to immerse yourself in such a singular social, sporting and even artistic environment? And given everything that surrounds Kyiv today, what thoughts and emotions arise when you look back at ‘Kachalka’?

Gar O’Rourke: “One of the challenges you always face in documentary filmmaking is that you can never represent everyone. You would like to, but it is almost impossible. What mattered to me was being honest and showing the kinds of people you would genuinely encounter there on an ordinary day. That was one of the things that really touched me. You might see a ninety-year-old grandfather teaching his ten-year-old grandson how to do pull-ups, or a grandmother working out with her friends on these enormous cardio machines. A lot of the film was planned, but then these incredible moments would happen that you could never have anticipated. 

Visually, though, I arrived with a very specific idea of how I wanted to make the film. Whenever you make a documentary or any visual or photographic work within a space that possesses that much power, you have to ask yourself: how do you actually represent power? What does strength look like? How do you translate it into images? I drew a lot of inspiration from Soviet-era cinema, but particularly from Stanley Kubrick. Obviously, almost any filmmaker will tell you that Kubrick was an influence, but I was interested in very specific aspects of his work: his use of Steadicam and the sense of intimacy it can create, but also the way it allows you to move through a space; the use of slow, powerful zooms; and then those enormous wide shots. 

Kachalka itself almost resembles an industrial wasteland, so I knew the scale of the environment had to become part of the film. I had a very clear visual approach in mind. I even assembled a kind of reference film from clips taken from other films to communicate what I wanted ‘Kachalka’ to become. I also had an extraordinary resource available to me. An Austrian photographer had made a photographic series about the gym a few years before we made the documentary, and the images were incredible. I remember drawing a great deal of inspiration from them.

My relationship with Ukraine continued long after ‘Kachalka.’ I’ve returned many times and later made another feature documentary there, ‘Sanatorium,’ which was filmed in Odessa and became Ireland’s submission to the Oscars last year. So I spent a great deal of time in the country, both before and during the war. The truth is that I had already recognised an extraordinary strength in Ukrainian people before the war. It is difficult to explain if you have never been to Ukraine or that part of the world, but people there are incredibly tough. Their history is a difficult one. This history of violence did not begin in 2022, or even in 2014; it stretches back across centuries, and I think that has shaped a certain toughness in people. 

That doesn’t mean they are cold. Ukrainians might sometimes appear that way when you first meet them, but once you get to know them, they are incredibly warm and beautiful people. So when I think about Kachalka today, there is a whole range of emotions. I believe the gym will continue to exist through all of this, even though I know fewer people are going there now. The saddest part is that many of the men you see in the film will no longer be in that gym. Some will have been drafted into the army; some have died. 

And ultimately, when you watch a film like ‘Kachalka,’ what you see is simply people enjoying a workout and spending time together. That is what people want. It is actually very simple: people want to have a good life. The reality is that there is a full-scale war getting in the way of that every single day. You only have to look at the news to understand that it has not stopped. At the same time, what gives me some sense of optimism is the strength of the Ukrainian spirit. You can see something of it in ‘Kachalka,’ and perhaps even more in my other film. That strength is pretty unmatched. So, yes, there is a whole range of emotions when I look back at the place. Recently, I also have noticed that since the war there seems to be much more grass growing around the gym, and apparently there are more animals wandering through it now.”

Your ‘Kachalka’ will be screened on San Servolo before the ONA audience. What feelings arise when you imagine your work taking shape in such a singular setting, surrounded by the Venetian Lagoon? And what would you ultimately like the ONA audience to carry with them after experiencing the film?

Gar O’Rourke: “First of all, I’m really honoured to have the film screened there. I would love to be there myself, have a glass of wine and enjoy it. But I also think there is a surprising parallel between Kachalka and the place where the film will be shown. San Servolo has lived through different histories. It was once used for military purposes, then became a hospital, and today it has been reimagined as a creative place: somewhere that can give energy to young creative people, filmmakers and others. 

For me, Kachalka represents something similar. It is a place that has also lived through different histories, until at some point a group of people came together and decided, ‘We’re going to build a gym.’ They didn’t really have the money to do it, so it became a community effort. Even the materials within the gym have been reimagined. They come from warehouses, factories, an army tank, even a submarine. People took all these disparate pieces and gave them an entirely new purpose. In that sense, I feel San Servolo is the perfect place to screen the film. 

As for what I hope people take away from ‘Kachalka,’ first and foremost, I hope it helps keep Ukraine in their consciousness. One of the problems when a war continues for such a long time is that, inevitably, people begin to turn their attention elsewhere. It’s a sad truth. So I’m incredibly grateful that this film is still being shown and that audiences are continuing to engage with it. I hope the Italian and international audience at ONA will also recognise that the people they see in the film are really no different from them. Ukrainians are the same as Italians; they’re the same as Irish people. They want to have a good life, enjoy themselves, be healthy and appreciate simple things. So I hope the audience laughs. I hope they feel something. And maybe I hope they leave wanting to get a little pump themselves and have a workout afterwards.”

The great Ingmar Bergman once observed: “No art passes our conscience in the way film does, and goes directly to our feelings, deep down into the dark rooms of our souls.” His words continue to resonate today, carried by the evocative waters of the Venetian Lagoon towards the island of San Servolo, where, from September 10 to 12, the ONA Short Film Festival once again takes shape. At its core lies a belief in cinema as the ideal medium through which to convey messages that originate in sporting culture before transcending sport itself and reaching towards something deeper. Something capable, indeed, of touching the conscience, stirring emotion and reaching those hidden chambers of the soul. Of teaching us to open our perspectives towards other corners of the world, other communities and other individuals.

As has now become a tradition, we accompany this meaningful gathering with a dedicated editorial series. At the heart of this focus are director Alex Tiernan and his short film, ‘Ang Ritwal’.

As always, we like to begin with something we consider fundamental to every person we interview, just as it is to every filmmaker taking part in the ONA Short Film Festival: from childhood to the present day, what kind of relationship have you developed with the imagery and imagination of sport? In what ways has sport been, and does it continue to be, a source of inspiration in the way you see the world?

Alex Tiernan: “Growing up, I think I took sport largely at face value. I took it for granted, really. It was simply something all kids did. I grew up playing football and, because there was a basketball court at school, we eventually picked up basketball as well. Later, I played rugby and did athletics. But I was never more than average at any of these sports. For me, they were really just a form of entertainment. If I think back to the first major sporting event that made a real impression on me, it would probably be the 1994 World Cup. I was supporting Brazil, my mother’s team, and that year they won. Obviously, there was this sense of ecstasy in watching the team I had followed make it all the way to the final and ultimately win. But beyond the excitement itself, what really stayed with me was the sense of collective participation.

The idea that millions of people—that an entire nation—could be completely invested in something happening on a football pitch on the other side of the world made a profound impression on me. And when I think about my instincts as a filmmaker today, and about where my curiosity tends to lead me, I can see a strong connection with sport in that idea of vicariousness. Something very specific, performed by a single individual, can somehow encapsulate a much broader story, while an entire collective becomes emotionally invested in that moment. I think that relationship between the individual experience and the collective experience has stayed with me ever since.”

How, on the other hand, did visual storytelling enter your life? What does it represent to you today? 

Alex Tiernan: “If I can think about storytelling in a broader sense, oral storytelling was deeply emphasised throughout my childhood, on both sides of my family. We come from long histories of migration and displacement, and I think you often find within families shaped by those experiences a strong emphasis on storytelling as a way of preserving a sense of place when the ground itself has so often shifted. Stories about my grandparents and great-grandparents, and about the people they had known, were constantly being recounted. That kind of storytelling was very present throughout my childhood. It was only later that I became interested in visual storytelling and visual craft as, in some ways, an extension of that tradition.

My grandmother was a painter, and I think she recognised in me a certain ability to draw and paint. She used to tutor me after school, and when I eventually went to university, I studied painting and drawing for my degree. That was really my introduction to visual storytelling, but also to the idea that form gives shape to story. A medium such as painting or film doesn’t simply contain a story; its form is what allows meaning and narrative to be conveyed. I think that understanding has remained fundamental to the way I approach visual storytelling today.”

‘Ang Ritwal’ is an ode to the cultural and social significance of basketball in the Philippines: a significance that transcends sport itself and enters, in every sense, the realm of the sacred. Can you take us through the genesis of this short documentary and the creative process that led you to shape a narrative capable of elevating the ritual dimension of the Game within the country?

Alex Tiernan: “I would say the process was organic, to say the least. I came across this community somewhat by chance. I was travelling through the Philippines and exploring Manila, and I have what might seem like an unusual habit when I travel: I visit cemeteries. It isn’t a morbid fascination. I often find cemeteries very beautiful, but more importantly, the way different cultures deal with death and memorialise it can offer a fascinating window into the mindset of a place. If you visit cemeteries in parts of the United States, for instance, they can resemble immaculately manicured parks, often separated from the city. There is almost an idea of paradise as a pristine, distinct realm that you enter specifically for burial or to pay your respects. I once visited a cemetery in Algeria, near the Libyan border in the Sahara, which was almost the opposite. There was little more than a perimeter marked by bricks and fragments of broken pottery where you might otherwise expect headstones. There were no names or inscriptions. It suggested an entirely different relationship with death.

So when I was in the Philippines, I decided to visit Manila North Cemetery, where many of the country’s national figures are buried. I had been told that people lived there, but I wasn’t prepared for what I encountered. It really is a city within a city, a living community in the fullest sense, with multigenerational families occupying the mausoleums. At one point, I found myself in a space between the graves where a makeshift basketball court had been created. Some of the boys asked me if I wanted to join them and shoot some hoops. I was immediately struck by the juxtaposition: this completely ordinary, prosaic activity taking place alongside mausoleums and statues of weeping Madonnas. To me, the contrast was remarkable, almost surreal. But of course, to the people who lived there, there was nothing surreal about it at all. 

I think that was the moment when I first began drawing a connection between basketball—or sport more broadly—and much older sacred practices. Anyone who has spent time in the Philippines will notice that basketball is ubiquitous. It is everywhere. But I didn’t want to fall into the cliché of saying that ‘basketball is religion,’ in the same way people might say that football is religion in Italy or elsewhere. What interested me instead were the structural parallels between sport and practices such as religious ritual, burial rites, folklore and culture more broadly. They create a shared language capable of producing a sense of place, belonging and identity for those who participate: not only the people playing, but also those watching and everyone engaged in the ritual of the game. 

That was really the genesis of the project. I returned several months later during Undas, All Souls’ Day in the Philippines, without really knowing what I was going to film. Until then, I had generally approached directing with the feeling that you needed to know exactly what you were trying to create. ‘Ang Ritwal’ became an experiment in doing the opposite. I had an intuition, something I was curious about, something pulling me back towards that cemetery, but I didn’t want to impose a predetermined story on it. Through the relationships I had already begun forming with people there, I gradually pieced the project together. 

There was no conventional script. The structure emerged through encounters and interactions. The film is bookended by a ghost story that some children in the cemetery told me, which I reworked to frame the film. Most importantly, I wasn’t trying to make a documentary in the traditional sense: an exhaustive account of basketball in the Philippines, or an explanation of how this extraordinary community came to exist within a cemetery. Those subjects would require a very different kind of film. What I wanted was to create a portrait of the mythology of this place: the sensation of being there, and of participating in the interwoven rituals that give it its unique identity.”

At the heart of the film are two extraordinary settings: the Tenement, a place of worship in its own right and one of the most evocative playgrounds in global basketball culture, and one of the many cemeteries in Manila. What was it like to immerse yourself in these environments? And, in your eyes, what does the dialogue between them reveal?

Alex Tiernan: “That’s a great question, because I actually wasn’t familiar with the Tenement before making the film. As I was saying earlier, the process of shooting ‘Ang Ritwal’ was very organic. I wasn’t working according to a script, and I was quite careful not to impose a mythology on these places, but rather to draw one out of them. As much as possible, I wanted the encounters themselves, and my interactions with the people you see in the film, to take the lead. The decision to film at the Tenement, however, was very conscious and deliberate. I wanted a location that could somehow represent a coliseum. But once I arrived there, I realised that it was more than a coliseum. It felt almost like a cathedral: a cathedral of basketball. I wanted to create that visual contrast between the cemetery and the Tenement. The Tenement has this extraordinary physical presence. I imagine that playing there against the local players must be incredibly intimidating. You have storeys of parapets rising above you, with people looking vertically down onto the court. When there is a game and everyone comes out to watch, surrounding the space from above, it almost feels as though you are standing at the bottom of a well. 

The coliseum is a place of spectacle; the cathedral is a place of gathering and communal ritual. I needed a space that could embody both of those qualities and enter into dialogue with what I was already exploring within the cemetery as a place of memorialisation. But there is another connection between the two environments that became important to me. The Tenement was originally a multistorey parking structure. Like the cemetery, it wasn’t designed to support a community. It wasn’t designed to support life in the way it does today. And yet, in both places, people have created something extraordinarily alive. There is something about the transformation of the Tenement that speaks to the resourcefulness and resilience of Filipino culture: an entire basketball community, with its own history, has grown around a space that was never designed for that purpose. So for me, the dialogue between the Tenement and the cemetery ultimately exists there as well. They are very different places, but both reveal the ability of a community to appropriate a space, transform its original function and make life and collective ritual emerge within it.”

Your ‘Ang Ritwal’ will be screened on San Servolo before the ONA audience. What feelings arise when you imagine your work taking shape in such a singular setting, surrounded by the Venetian Lagoon? And what would you ultimately like the ONA audience to carry with them after experiencing the film?

Alex Tiernan: “Venice is one of the most iconic cities in the world, if not the most iconic. So, obviously, screening a film outdoors on an island in Venice is going to be very, very cool. But there is another connection that I find quite fascinating. If you contrast Venice with the locations you see in ‘Ang Ritwal,’ they could hardly appear more different. Venice possesses this extraordinary refinement and architectural beauty, whereas the environments in the film are far grittier and, frankly, largely unknown. They almost feel like opposite sides of the same coin. And yet, in both cases, we are talking about thriving communities that emerged in places which, on the face of it, were never really designed to support life. Venice itself is extraordinarily unlikely when you think about it: a city built on the sea, with very little land, which at one point became the centre of an empire. Somehow, something incredibly rich and vibrant emerged from those conditions.

That was precisely what struck me in the Philippines. The Tenement was not designed to house a community. The cemetery was designed for the dead, not the living. And yet, within the cracks, human resourcefulness and imagination take root. Sport, mythology and identity become almost like forces of nature: they begin to grow like vines around whatever structures are already there. So I really enjoy both the contrast and the parallel between these places. And if anyone in the audience happens to pick up on that while watching the film on San Servolo, I would find that quite amusing. As for what I would like the audience to take away from the film, in all honesty, I don’t want to impose any particular message on them. But if ‘Ang Ritwal’ prompts someone to reflect on sport beyond the physical act itself—beyond competition, pushing human limits or entertainment—and to think about it instead as a shared language, as an extension of all those other things that bind us together as communities, then I think the film will have done what I wanted it to do.”

The great Ingmar Bergman once observed: “No art passes our conscience in the way film does, and goes directly to our feelings, deep down into the dark rooms of our souls.” His words continue to resonate today, carried by the evocative waters of the Venetian Lagoon towards the island of San Servolo, where, from September 10 to 12, the ONA Short Film Festival once again takes shape.  At its core lies a belief in cinema as the ideal medium through which to convey messages that originate in sporting culture before transcending sport itself and reaching towards something deeper. Something capable, indeed, of touching the conscience, stirring emotion and reaching those hidden chambers of the soul. Of teaching us to open our perspectives towards other corners of the world, other communities and other individuals.

As has now become a tradition, we accompany this meaningful gathering with a dedicated editorial series. At the heart of this focus are filmmaker Jean-Marc Joseph aka Superjeanmarc and his short film, ‘Altinha’.

As always, we like to begin with something we consider fundamental to every person we interview, just as it is to every filmmaker taking part in the ONA Short Film Festival: from childhood to the present day, what kind of relationship have you developed with the imagery and imagination of sport? In what ways has sport been, and does it continue to be, a source of inspiration in the way you see the world?

Jean-Marc Joseph: “The first person who comes to mind is my father. He was a physical education teacher, but he always taught me something that I think was quite uncommon at the time: he was very much against competition. He taught young children, at primary-school level, and would always try to make them understand that sport was about pleasure rather than competition. That idea stayed with me and, I think, gradually became part of the way I approached sport myself. I remember that when I was a kid, I didn’t actually like football. But there was a certain pressure at school because everyone knew the players and followed the game, and you almost felt like a fool if you didn’t. So you pretended to like it even when you didn’t. At one point, I even asked my parents if I could join a football team, but my father said no. He was also very much against the attitude of parents who seemed to train their children as though they were already preparing them to become professional athletes. He really disagreed with that mentality.

That stayed with me, particularly when I was younger and much more active than I am today. I practised quite a lot of sport, but always within that same perspective. It’s also how I eventually became interested in bikepacking. It is a physical activity, of course, but it has nothing to do with competition. It’s about travelling, and for me it might actually be the best way of travelling that exists. So when I think about my relationship with sport, it has always been much more about enjoyment, and about feeling good in both body and mind, than about performance or competition. And, strangely enough, I had never really connected this idea with my father until you asked me this question. But as I’m talking about it now, I realise that it is exactly what ‘Altinha’ is about. There is no winner and no loser. Within the community itself, there is even a question of whether you can actually call it a sport. Does a sport necessarily need to have a winner? That question is somehow at the heart of it.”

How, on the other hand, did visual storytelling enter your life? What does it represent to you today?

Jean-Marc Joseph: “Like almost everyone, I drew when I was a child. The difference, perhaps, is that most people eventually stop, whereas I never did. I loved comics, and visual narrative was something I was genuinely interested in from a very early age. That eventually led me to graphic design. I studied it without really knowing whether it was what I was meant to do. In a way, it was simply the most rational solution I had found for turning my artistic interests into something that could become a profession: something that allowed me to tell my parents, ‘Look, there are actually people who do this for a living.’ Drawing was already part of my life, so graphic design seemed close enough. But I don’t think I was ever a particularly good graphic designer, at least not as a designer per se. 

I was fortunate, though, to end up working for Base Design, an international design company from Belgium. Through them, I had the opportunity to work on the rebranding of a television channel. Suddenly, I was moving beyond two-dimensional graphic design. There was motion, there was a timeline, there was sound. We were creating all those elements that exist around television programming—the animations before advertising, the weather and so on—and working with After Effects artists to produce them. It was my first real encounter with the audiovisual world, and once that happened, there was no way back. All these other possibilities for storytelling appeared. 

At the same time, I had always documented things quite naturally. In my twenties, when the first MiniDV cameras appeared, I bought a little Sony PC101. It was still tape-based, but small enough to fit inside your jacket pocket. I would carry it around and record things in the street, or take it to a bar and film my friends. Today everybody does that with a phone, but this was before smartphones, even before YouTube, when filming an ordinary moment was much less common. Cameras usually came out for holidays, birthdays or special occasions. I was doing something closer to street photography, but with moving images. Those everyday moments felt much more precious because capturing them was still unusual.

That was really how I fell into filmmaking. Over the years at Base Design, the audiovisual side of what we were doing gradually developed. The television project led to other opportunities; at one point I had the chance to make a music video, and we began thinking that perhaps audiovisual work could become a real part of the company. But it always remained a side activity within a graphic design studio. We couldn’t really compete with production companies whose entire structure was built around filmmaking. Then the 2008 financial crisis arrived and the company decided to concentrate again on graphic design, its core business. 

That was the moment when I realised that if I genuinely wanted to pursue this passion and move towards documentary filmmaking, I couldn’t remain there. I had spent fourteen years with the company, so leaving became a kind of classic midlife crisis. I travelled through South America by bicycle and eventually found myself in Brazil. In fact, that journey is directly connected to how ‘Altinha’ began. I wanted to become a filmmaker, but I didn’t have a filmmaking portfolio. I needed to make something of my own. I had a friend living there who could host me, which meant I had somewhere to stay for free. And that is really where the story of the film begins.”

‘Altinha’ tells the story of a distinctly Carioca tradition. What led you towards a subject capable of bringing together two elements so deeply woven into the Brazilian soul: football and the beach? And through making the film, what did you come to understand about such a singular discipline?

Jean-Marc Joseph: “I live in Barcelona and have many Brazilian friends here. One of them, André, had lived in Rio, and I remember telling him that I wanted to shoot something there, but that I didn’t want to make another documentary about the favelas. It seemed as though so many people who went to Rio with a camera ended up telling that same kind of story. I wanted to look somewhere else. André was actually the one who told me about Altinha. He had played it as a teenager and explained that there was this very particular practice and community on the beach that had received relatively little attention. 

I was immediately fascinated by the paradox of it. In one sense, the gesture is almost universal: people standing in a circle and keeping a football in the air is something children all over the world have probably done at some point. And yet Altinha, as a culture, is extraordinarily specific. You can go to São Paulo and find people who barely know the word, while in Rio there is this particular stretch of Ipanema where the players gather and an entire community has formed around it. That tension was interesting: something extremely local built around football, probably one of the most universal sports in the world. The other thing that immediately struck me was that nobody wins and nobody loses. When you pass the ball to someone, the point is not to make it easy, because there has to be a challenge, but neither do you want to make it impossible, because if the ball touches the ground, everyone loses. There is a kind of shared responsibility in keeping the game alive. 

At the time, I was still inexperienced as a documentary filmmaker, but I already understood that I needed some kind of story. My original idea came from a man my friend knew on Ipanema Beach, a local figure within the Altinha community who wanted to bring it into the Rio Olympics. Not as a competitive sport, but as part of the opening ceremony, as an expression of local culture. I thought it was perfect: this man from the beach was going to bring Altinha into the Olympic Games. I was already imagining the end of the film. Then I arrived in Rio and very quickly realised that although he spent his life on the beach, playing Altinha and talking about the idea, I didn’t think he would actually make it happen. Suddenly, I no longer had the story I thought I was going there to tell.

What I did have, though, was the place itself. There was something almost village-like about the social fabric of that stretch of beach. You would return each day and encounter the same people, the same characters, each occupying their own place within this small ecosystem. There were unwritten rules and ways of behaving that you had to understand before you could really enter it. They told me something very important when I first arrived: ‘Don’t film yet. Just stand here and watch. Understand how it works.’ I was staying for two weeks, and gradually that presence allowed me to understand the place differently. Language was one of the biggest challenges. I had taken a few Portuguese classes before travelling, but it was nowhere near enough, and most of the people I met didn’t speak English. 

More than anything, I became fascinated by the aesthetic of the game itself. The point is to challenge the person receiving the ball while also making the exchange as beautiful and impressive as possible. The ball should travel high; there are tricks, gestures. And the level of skill is extraordinary. Sometimes they can keep the ball alive for minutes without it touching the sand, and it feels incredibly long when you are actually watching it happen. Then you see these fourteen-year-old kids on the beach and it almost feels as if the ball has become part of their body. You find yourself wondering where that level of skill could possibly come from. It barely seems human.”

Throughout the short film, the narrative moves between almost ecstatic moments—in which the ball seems to defy gravity, tracing shapes across the sky—and personal testimonies that explore the deeper meaning of the practice, both individually and socially. Why did you choose to bring the more artistic dimension of Altinha into dialogue with its anthropological one?

Jean-Marc Joseph: “I feel that this dialogue emerged very intuitively. I’m generally someone who overthinks everything, but I don’t think I approached the film in that way. There are two things that were fundamental to what ‘Altinha’ eventually became. The first is that it was essentially a training ground for me, almost a boot camp for learning how to make documentaries. The second, which is closely connected to that, is that it was entirely self-produced. There was no client and there were no constraints. That can sometimes be problematic, because I actually think creativity often arises from constraints: when you have too many possibilities, you can end up doing nothing. But in this case, it also gave me an extraordinary sense of freedom. 

My own idea of what makes a good documentary has always involved two things. First, you have to enter into people’s lives. Ultimately, the film is about people. It isn’t really about the sport. Sport is the doorway that allows you to reach something else. At the same time, if you are telling a story through film, you want to make it visually compelling. It is a visual medium, after all. Of course, ‘Altinha’ still contains talking heads and observational material, but I wanted the more dreamlike and poetic sequences to translate something of what people were telling me: how they felt about Altinha, but also how the practice itself felt to me when I encountered it. 

That probably goes back to your earlier question about my first impression of the game. Those low-angle shots looking upwards, with the ball suspended in slow motion against the sky, came from that sensation. They weren’t conceived through some theoretical, top-down approach. It was almost the opposite: the visual language emerged from what I was seeing and feeling there. I obviously couldn’t know exactly what it felt like physically to play at their level, but those images became my way of trying to translate that sensation. 

There is also something else that makes this conversation particularly meaningful to me. I was genuinely surprised when ONA reached out about a film I made ten years ago. I remember thinking, ‘I wish this had happened ten years ago.’ Then I looked into your magazine, and one of the first things I read was this idea that what you publish should still be capable of conveying the same emotions ten years later. I really appreciated that. I thought it was amazing, because somehow that is exactly what is happening to ‘Altinha’ now.”

Your ‘Altinha’ will be screened on San Servolo before the ONA audience. What feelings arise when you imagine your work taking shape in such a singular setting, surrounded by the Venetian Lagoon? And what would you ultimately like the ONA audience to carry with them after experiencing the film?

Jean-Marc Joseph: “Of course, I’m incredibly excited and honoured to have the film at ONA. I didn’t know the festival before they contacted me, and today, with the proliferation of festivals everywhere, you encounter both good and bad. So I was genuinely happy to discover the level of care behind ONA: the curation, the taste, everything surrounding the festival. Even when they told me that your magazine would contact me, I didn’t know Athleta Mag. But what I perhaps appreciate most is the willingness to say, ‘I like this film. I don’t care whether it was made in 2017; it still has something to say.’ 

I think our contemporary culture has developed an almost obsessive relationship with novelty. Something appears and, almost before it has properly arrived, it already belongs to the past. Everything becomes disposable, regardless of its value or how much time someone invested in making it. You can spend seven years creating something and then, three months after its release, somehow it is already over. So choosing to screen a film almost ten years later feels like a statement to me. It is a small but meaningful act of resistance. 

As for what I would like the audience to carry with them, I think I would go all the way back to my father. Sport doesn’t need a winner in order to have value. It doesn’t necessarily need a time, a result or a performance. I think the practice of Altinha itself carries something increasingly meaningful within a society obsessed with performance, monetary value and measurable results. There is a French astro-physicist, philosopher and poet (Aurélien Barrau) whose thinking I admire, that approaches these questions in his lectures. When he speaks about ecology, the environment and the direction humanity is taking, he often returns to a very simple question: where do our values lie? What do we really want? What does it actually mean to be rich? That is exactly what the Altinha player ‘PXE’ says towards the end of the film: he has no money, but he is very rich. 

There are forms of richness that have nothing to do with what can be bought, produced or monetised. Perhaps that is what I would ultimately like people to take from the film. I hope it helps people reflect on how to build a new society that allows everyone to do something simply because it feels good: not because it will make you money, bring you fame or produce some measurable result. Sometimes that can be enough.”

The great Ingmar Bergman once observed: “No art passes our conscience in the way film does, and goes directly to our feelings, deep down into the dark rooms of our souls.” His words continue to resonate today, carried by the evocative waters of the Venetian Lagoon towards the island of San Servolo, where, from September 10 to 12, the ONA Short Film Festival once again takes shape. At its core lies a belief in cinema as the ideal medium through which to convey messages that originate in sporting culture before transcending sport itself and reaching towards something deeper. Something capable, indeed, of touching the conscience, stirring emotion and reaching those hidden chambers of the soul. Of teaching us to open our perspectives towards other corners of the world, other communities and other individuals.

As has now become a tradition, we accompany this meaningful gathering with a dedicated editorial series. At the heart of this focus are director Smriti Keshari and his short film, ‘The Selfish Gene’, scored by British producer Adam Freeland, shot by Byron Shah, edited by Isabel Freeman and titles by Constantin ‘Coco’ Demner.

As always, we like to begin with something we consider fundamental to every person we interview, just as it is to every filmmaker taking part in the ONA Short Film Festival: from childhood to the present day, what kind of relationship have you developed with the imagery and imagination of sport? In what ways has sport been, and does it continue to be, a source of inspiration in the way you see the world?

Smriti Keshari: “For me it begins with the body: I was always moving, running, swimming, dancing, climbing, falling, playing. As a child, I was fascinated by the physical fact of a body doing something completely. There is a moment in sport, especially as a child, when you’re not thinking about the effort. The body seems to know what to do before the mind has time to interfere. That becomes more difficult as you grow older. As a surfer and a runner, you train consciously, over and over again, try to do better the next time than you did the time before but eventually you kinda reach a point where you have to stop consciously controlling it. You just run. Or you’re in the water.  There’s a kind of inner peace in that. 

Professionally, sport has given me another perspective. I’ve had the privilege of working as both a director and an executive producer on sports stories around the world. As an executive, I learned about the scale of the business and the enormous machinery that exists around sport, and the millions of people who care about it. As a filmmaker, I am so interested in stories behind those grand sports moments and where the tensions lie: you have a single athlete completely alone in a frame, and somehow the entire world is on their shoulder. Two recent Italian films do this. Futura, by Rohrwacher, Marcello and Munzi, in which teenagers are asked what they think is coming and one of them speaks about boxing. And Yuri Ancarani’s San Siro, which watches a stadium prepare for a match it never shows you.

Sport is one of the few things I know that can move across language, geography and generations without asking permission. A swimmer in one country, a boxer in another, a surfer somewhere else, we may know nothing about each other, but we understand the body and we connect to it. I have an unreasonable faith in culture–music, art, sport, these are some of the things that give me faith. That’s probably why I keep coming back to simple acts of movement: swimming, running, moving, getting lost. Before the competition, before the audience, before the story, there is just a body moving through space. That is such a fun place to begin.”

How, on the other hand, did visual storytelling enter your life? What does it represent to you today? And how do you interpret the relationship between the seventh art—extended here to include documentary filmmaking—and the world of sport?

Smriti Keshari: “My first visual memories are from growing up in Varanasi: the university where my mother did her PhD, the courtyard we lived in, running up and down the stairs with my brother and the neighborhood kids, the wild monkeys moving through the streets. I remember those things less as narratives than as fragments of images. I tend to create jump cuts in my head: something I see in one place suddenly connects to something I saw somewhere completely different. Having moved across the world as much as I have, I’m always drawing those connections. A gesture, a posture, a face, a landscape can suddenly belong to another time or another place. Often the image arrives before I understand why it belongs there. Cinema feels natural to me because editing is the physical manifestation of those mental jump cuts. You put two images next to each other and something happens between them. Neither image has changed, but the meaning has. 

My work in sports storytelling has made me increasingly interested in the space between the individual and the collective. As a director, I’m looking for the tiny things: a breath, a hand, a moment of hesitation, the solitude of an athlete. I’ve seen how that tiny moment can become part of a story experienced by millions of people. I think about George Gervin and David Thompson, ‘Ice’ and ‘Skywalker’ as they were nicknamed; they brought a creativity and verticality to the guard and wing positions that changed what those positions could look like and gave birth to the new style of NBA, as we know it. Steph Curry belongs to that lineage. Each of them invented a gesture that everyone else then copied. And then there’s a girl on a playground pulling up from thirty feet.

A single body can be completely alone in a frame, and yet it carries with it a weight. Sport makes that especially visible. A swimmer, a runner, a surfer or a basketball player performs in a way that someone on the other side of the world understands immediately. The culture surrounding the gesture may be completely different, but the body speaks first. Cinema gives us the opportunity to notice that. I don’t necessarily want to tell the audience what the connection is. Isn’t it more fun to put the images next to one another and allow them to discover new things?”

‘The Selfish Gene’ is an aesthetic ode to the athletic gesture of diving. Starting with the title itself, can you explain what you wanted to explore and express through this short film? And what drew you to compose such an evocative sequence of athletic forms?

Smriti Keshari: “The film came from a time when I was trying to understand humanity’s pursuit of immortality in stories. I began with a question I found universal across cultures and throughout history: in what ways might human beings achieve immortality? That question led me to evolutionary biology, and eventually to Richard Dawkins’s ‘The Selfish Gene.’ I became fascinated by his proposition that genes, not individuals, are evolution’s enduring protagonists, replicating themselves across millennia while bodies serve as temporary vessels. It’s a seductive idea, really, how Dawkins describes the human body as a survival machine, engineered by genes whose only imperative is continuity. We inherit sequences that have persisted for hundreds of thousands of years, so if the body is merely an instrument for genetic survival, where does consciousness reside? Where does will or freedom begin? 

Around this time, I had become a dedicated runner. Long distances altered my understanding of the body. Running is a paradox: the more deliberate the training, the less deliberate the movement becomes. There comes a point when thought recedes and the body performs, no narration, no story. More recently, while reading Cat Bohannon’s remarkable book Eve, I came across the idea of Mitochondrial Eve, the common maternal ancestor whose mitochondrial DNA survives in every living human. She is not the biblical Eve, but the trace of an ancient continuity passing from body to body. It was another way of imagining immortality, not as an escape from the body, but as something that moves through it, kind of like reincarnation.

The other night, while watching The Seasons in Quincy: Four Portraits of John Berger at Anthology Film Archives, I was struck by Berger’s words on how the body is never merely an object but the place from which we encounter the world, as another way of seeing. While running, you experience something similar: a body stripped of excess, reduced to rhythm, breath, and repetition. Diving has a similar paradox, but compressed into a few seconds. Years of discipline produce a movement that, at the moment it happens, can look completely effortless. The athlete has controlled every detail, and then has to surrender to gravity.”

The sky, used as the backdrop throughout the entire short film, and the soundtrack both play a defining role in the work, accompanying a mosaic of dives performed by athletes of different genders and generations. How did these elements come together and interact within your creative process? And more broadly, how does your creative process unfold?

Smriti Keshari: “Right before making ‘The Selfish Gene,’ I was living in London and would often sit inside St. Paul’s Cathedral and stare up at the mosaics and paintings of people. I could get lost there for hours and imagined them and their stories as a kaleidoscope of one another. Then I moved to Los Angeles and lived near the Rose Bowl Aquatic Center, and somehow I began seeing the divers in a similar way. The bodies were moving through the sky, but I was looking at them almost as I had been looking at those figures in the cathedral; compositions, gestures, bodies suspended against something much larger than themselves. So the sky was partly a practical decision, and then it became a conceptual one. 

Once you remove architecture and landscape, you remove many of the things that tell us where we are. What remains is the body. A diver enters the frame and, for a few seconds, there is no obvious scale. They could be falling, flying, disappearing, returning; there’s something almost trance-like about it. The music came from a similar instinct. Ads (Adam Freeland) and I have collaborated for many years, so our conversations tend to be less about explaining what something should be and more about talking about what is driving our curiosity at the moment. We were interested in repetition and rhythm, and in that strange point where repetition begins to alter your sense of time. As a runner, I’ve experienced that feeling physically. You become aware of breath, pulse, rhythm; thought becomes less useful. Sound can do something similar to a person, it can change the speed at which time is experienced. That’s why I’m always in such awe of musicians. 

I’m currently working on a new project about the history of sound, recording technology and jazz, and I’ve been struck by how often musicians describe losing themselves in the studio. My process usually starts with a question rather than an answer. I collect images, gestures, fragments and sounds, and allow them to sit beside each other until they begin to tell us the story. Editing is a kind of thinking, and luckily it doesn’t always need to be verbal. Sometimes you simply put one image next to another and wait. If you’re lucky, they tell you something you didn’t know when you started.”

Your ‘The Selfish Gene’ will be screened on San Servolo before the ONA audience. What feelings arise when you imagine your work taking shape in such a singular setting, surrounded by the Venetian Lagoon? And what would you ultimately like the ONA audience to carry with them after experiencing the film?

Smriti Keshari: “I have never been to Venice so it’ll be my first time during the festival. I have, however, seen a great deal of it: films, photographs, paintings, and all the writing that surrounds the place. It seems to be perpetually metamorphosing. Arriving in person will presumably be a useful correction on how little an image can actually prepare you for a place. Over the last few years I’ve been going back to Italy more often, tracing my husband’s family’s origins and reconnecting with his relatives. I’m particularly curious about coming to San Servolo, surrounded by the lagoon, where the water and sky sit so close together, as they do in ‘The Selfish Gene.’

As for what I’d like the audience to carry away, I’d rather not decide that for them. I hope the Venetian audience tells me what the film is about. They’ve been looking at the sky and water for a very long time there, and I suspect they may have a few things to teach me. I’m excited to get notes.”

The great Ingmar Bergman once observed: “No art passes our conscience in the way film does, and goes directly to our feelings, deep down into the dark rooms of our souls.” His words continue to resonate today, carried by the evocative waters of the Venetian Lagoon towards the island of San Servolo, where, from September 10 to 12, the ONA Short Film Festival will once again take shape. At its core lies a belief in cinema as the ideal medium through which to convey messages that originate in sporting culture before transcending sport itself and reaching towards something deeper. Something capable, indeed, of touching the conscience, stirring emotion and reaching those hidden chambers of the soul. Of teaching us to open our perspectives towards other corners of the world, other communities and other individuals.

As has now become a tradition, we accompany this meaningful gathering with a dedicated editorial series. The first protagonists of this year’s journey are Joaquín and Tomás Gomez, the two Argentine-born, Venetian-by-adoption brothers who created ONA and continue to shape its evolution over time. That progression has also been made possible through partners such as Diadora, which, for the Festival’s 2026 edition, has given the Gomez brothers the opportunity to express their cinematic vision through ‘Itatí’ and ‘Potreros:’ two films developed in collaboration with the brand and devoted to the sporting imaginary of northern Argentina.

Before entering the conversation, a reminder that registration for the ONA evenings is available at this link (onafilmfestival.com).

How has growing up in Argentina shaped the way you see the world, influenced your artistic journey, and ultimately the stories you choose to tell?

Tomás Gómez: “What I do today is deeply connected to the way I’ve learned to look at the world. I think that perspective comes from my childhood and everything my family taught me. We travelled constantly, spending time in nature, discovering new places and new cultures, always trying to step away from the typical tourist path. Rather than following the obvious route, my parents would take us to a tiny roadside food stand or a small local place where we could meet people and simply talk to them. That connection with local communities sparked something in me. It awakened a sense of curiosity, a desire to ask questions, and a fascination with discovering realities that felt incredibly distant from my own. I think that’s where my urge to see the world really began, along with the desire to come back home and tell my friends what I had experienced.

Today, filmmaking has become my way of doing exactly that. I carry a camera with me, searching for situations, meeting people, visiting places, always trying to look beyond the obvious and find what feels genuinely meaningful. Instead of telling those stories to a few friends, I now make documentaries, films, or visual pieces that allow others to experience what I lived and, above all, to see it through my own eyes. Looking back, that’s probably the clearest way to describe how I arrived here: finding a way to see the world as I’ve always wanted to see it, and sharing that perspective through film.”

Joaquín Gómez: “I’d like to begin with our grandfather, Gerry Gómez. We never had the chance to meet him, but he was a film director and part of the first generation of Argentine filmmakers in the 1950s. He devoted much of his work to sport. He directed ‘Su Última Pelea,’ a boxing film, along with ‘Sacachispas’ and ‘Pelota de Trapo,’ two football films centred on the story of a young boy who rises from nothing to become a champion, much like the myth that would later surround Maradona. Even though we never knew him personally, I think he represents the core of where everything began for our family. He travelled extensively, eventually settled in the United States, where he learned from people connected to Sergei Eisenstein and worked alongside the assistant of Frank Capra, another filmmaker of Italian heritage who became one of the great figures of American cinema. He later founded a film distribution company, buying and selling film rights, and through that world he also developed as a photographer. Eventually he became a war correspondent, documenting the Pacific theatre during the Second World War. Our father grew up in that environment. He also became a documentary filmmaker, although his work has always been more deeply connected to the cultural and mythological dimensions of Latin America. So I think that sensibility has always been part of who we are. 

Like Tommy said, we were both raised in Buenos Aires, but we spent much of our childhood travelling, especially throughout Argentina. After the economic crisis of 2001, most of our journeys happened within the country, which allowed us to discover Argentina and Chile in a very profound way. Those experiences became an essential part of our upbringing. I’ve also always loved the imagination of Jules Verne: the idea of travelling around the world, of discovering distant places through movement and curiosity. In many ways, that spirit still guides me today. Every film feels like a small journey across different corners of the world. As for art itself, what fascinates me most is its ability to create a space—whether real or imagined—that allows you to fly for a while, to step outside reality and experience something beyond it.”

Music has played a particularly important role in your creative evolution: especially for you, Joaquín. Could you tell us more about that relationship, and how it eventually found its way into your filmmaking?

Joaquín Gómez: “Music has always been a fundamental part of my life. I studied classical music at the conservatory, focusing on composition and conducting. My dream was always to become a film director, but I realised early on that my relationship with music was much more developed. I’d been playing the piano since I was a child, so I thought: why not begin with film scores and bring those two worlds together? That’s how it all started. I first worked in sound design, creating sound effects for animation and video games, then gradually moved into television and commercial work. Eventually I had the opportunity to compose the score for a documentary by Ben Sturgulewski, and that project became my first real encounter with the artistic side of documentary filmmaking.

From there, everything developed naturally. I later moved to Canada, where I worked in Banff, and continued growing within that world. Meanwhile, Thomas was following a different path. He studied communication and gradually picked up a camera. Since we’d already worked together as producers alongside Ben, we’d learned a great deal simply by observing how a film set functioned: how productions were built, how stories came together behind the scenes. At a certain point, we realised that combining our different backgrounds felt completely natural. That’s really where everything began for us: from a shared curiosity and the desire to tell stories together.”

What are the foundations of your creative vision? Which personal influences, cultural references, and individual sensibilities have shaped each of you—and how have those distinct perspectives come together to form a shared way of seeing and telling stories?

Tomás Gómez: “I think everything I mentioned before—the travelling, constantly being on the move—also meant that we spent an enormous amount of time together. We explored the world in very similar ways because we inherited that outlook from our parents and grandparents. That was simply the way we were taught to experience life. Since we’re relatively close in age, and much younger than our older sisters, we naturally became inseparable. We did everything together: playing, exploring, inventing stories. Looking back, I think that’s really where it all began. As children, we were constantly creating imaginary worlds together, and then those stories gradually expanded as we travelled more, first with our family and later on our own.

People often think that working with family must be difficult, or even something to avoid. But I actually believe it has a very positive side. We may approach things differently or have different opinions in the moment, but in the end we always share the same destination. Each of us brings a different perspective, yet those perspectives ultimately move in the same direction. What I find most fascinating is that, after growing up together, we can still recognise so many traces of our childhood in the way we work today.”

Joaquín Gómez: “I remember someone recently said something that has stayed with me: “You both think completely differently.” To me, that’s actually a compliment. I think it’s a strength because it brings variety, different points of view, and even different generational perspectives. I was born in 1989 and Thomas in 1995, and you can feel that difference. I think it’s something valuable. What I really appreciate is knowing that the person beside you knows you completely. We’ve shared our entire lives. We’ve grown up together and experienced so much side by side. That creates a very particular kind of trust.

Over time, we’ve also learned what each of us brings to the partnership: what our respective strengths and weaknesses are, and where each of us can contribute the most. We’re very critical of one another, but in the best possible sense. We’re demanding because we’re almost never fully satisfied. We’re always trying to push things a little further, always looking for the next step. I think that’s one of the qualities that defines the way we work together.”

What role has sport—both as a lived experience and as a cultural world—played in shaping your identities? And how does it continue to influence the way you see the world and tell stories today?

Tomás Gómez: “In our family, our parents always encouraged us to try everything. The idea wasn’t to become great at every sport, but simply to experience them all and then decide what truly resonated with us. So I tried golf, taekwondo, skiing, snowboarding, tennis, football, basketball, rugby… pretty much everything. The important thing was not only learning the sport itself, but discovering the community that formed around it. Looking back, I think that’s one of the greatest lessons sport gave us. You don’t just practise a discipline: you become part of a group, a circle of friends, a shared culture. Every sporting community has its own identity, its own way of seeing the world. Eventually you stay with the ones that feel most like home, but moving through all of them is almost like travelling across different countries. Each one introduces you to a completely new world. 

That mindset has stayed with us. Today we’re interested not only in sport as competition or entertainment, but in the communities that grow around it. Especially at the amateur level, where sport often becomes an excuse to spend time together: to play, then have a drink, share a meal, and continue the day together. In many ways, that’s also the spirit of Ona. Of course, we’re fascinated by the very best athletes in the world and by elite performance. But we’re equally drawn to everything that happens around it: to the neighbourhood, the local court, the moments before the game begins and after it’s over. That’s why we try to tell both sides of sport: the highest professional level and the most grassroots one. They’re different worlds, but they’re equally powerful and equally meaningful.

Joaquín Gómez: “When I was a child, my father always used to tell me that a healthy mind begins with a healthy body. That’s how we were raised. Like Tommy said, we tried every sport imaginable: skiing, football, rugby, taekwondo, martial arts, a little bit of everything. Socially, sport opened countless doors for me. It introduced me to friends, communities, and ways of connecting with people that have stayed with me ever since. At one point I became quite a good tennis player. I say that humbly, but I really loved it. I was playing four days a week, every week, until I was about seventeen. Then I gradually moved away from it. Later, discovering sports like surfing and climbing made me realise that every discipline carries an entire universe behind it: not only technically, but philosophically. Very often, it also becomes a reason to travel and meet people you would never have encountered otherwise.

For my personality, sport has always been a place of balance. It’s where I release everything, where I genuinely feel at peace. Whether I’m training, running, or simply skipping rope, I need that physical dimension. It gives me something I can’t find anywhere else. Then, when we realised there was a place where cinema and sport could come together, it felt like an entirely new world had opened up. It brought together two of my greatest passions, while also creating space to explore the cultural dimensions that sport can reveal. To me, sport is medicine for the soul. It strengthens your body, clears your mind, helps you build relationships, and allows you to feel better about yourself. It’s something deeply rooted in human history, and that’s why I believe it will always remain such an essential part of who we are.”

If you had to introduce the Ona Short Film Festival to someone discovering it for the very first time, how would you describe it? What is Ona, and what inspired you to bring it to life?

Joaquín Gómez: “If I had to explain Ona to someone who had never heard of it before, I’d say it was born the moment we discovered the incredible world of films dedicated to sport. Through our work, we met so many talented filmmakers who eventually became friends. We collaborated with them in different ways—sometimes through production, sometimes technical support, sometimes music—and gradually became part of that creative community. Around the same time, after spending time in Canada and experiencing that festival scene firsthand, the two of us began travelling across Europe, presenting our own projects at different film festivals. That’s when we first started talking about the idea of creating a festival of our own in Venice. At first it felt almost like a dream: something beautiful, but distant.

Then the pandemic arrived. I came to Venice for what was supposed to be a three-month artistic residency connected to an exhibition at the European Cultural Centre, and instead I ended up staying for nine months. Everything was closed. Life had slowed down completely. During that period, Tommy and I returned to the idea. Since we were already collaborating with the European Cultural Centre, we had access to a space. We thought, why not ask our filmmaker friends to send us their films and organise three evenings of screenings? That’s really how it all began. Step by step, what had started as a simple idea slowly began to take shape.”

Tomás Gómez: “We’re now preparing the seventh edition, and honestly, it still feels surreal to say that out loud. It all began as a very innocent conversation: Why don’t we try? Let’s see if we can make it happen. Joaquín was definitely the one who pushed the idea the hardest. Because we’d both spent so much time travelling to festivals, we were always discussing them afterwards. Not in a negative way, but we’d constantly say, “We would have done this differently…” or “This could be more interesting for a younger audience…” Those conversations slowly evolved into a shared vision. From the very beginning, we wanted to create a place where we ourselves would genuinely enjoy spending time. We believed that if it felt authentic to us, other people would feel the same. We wanted to build a new kind of community: one that was looking for something different. 

So seeing how much the festival has grown is honestly incredible. In the middle of a pandemic, when almost everyone was putting their plans on hold, we decided to start a film festival. Looking back, it’s still hard to believe that it has become something that returns every year, and I truly hope it continues to grow for many years to come. But I also think neither of us ever started this thinking, Let’s make money. That was never the point. We simply wanted to create something we could be proud of, to showcase the work of filmmakers we admired, and to give people a place where they could have a genuinely meaningful experience. In the end, that’s what stays with us. Whether the festival did well financially or not: that’s a conversation that lasts an afternoon. What we keep talking about throughout the rest of the year is whether people enjoyed themselves. Did they have a great weekend? Did the films move them? Did they leave feeling inspired? That’s what gives us the greatest satisfaction. Hearing someone say, That was incredible. I had such a great time. I’ll never forget this weekend. That’s the feeling we hope people continue to leave with for many years to come.”

Today, Ona has reached its seventh edition. How does it feel to look back at everything you’ve built and see how the festival has grown? What does it mean to witness an idea that once seemed so distant become such an established reality?

Tomás Gómez: “I think the festival has grown in the same way we have. Every edition has taught us something: not only through the process of organising it, but also through the filmmakers and guests we’ve had the privilege of welcoming. In many ways, the values that define Ona today have been shaped year after year through those encounters. From the very beginning, though, some principles have remained constant. We’ve always wanted to promote sport, encourage a healthy way of living, and foster a more responsible relationship with nature. But beyond simply celebrating the outdoors, we’ve always wanted to give people the tools to understand how we should relate to it. For us, the best way to achieve that is through knowledge. The more we understand nature, the more we listen to the people who have spent their lives immersed in it, the more conscious our relationship with it becomes. That’s why we always try to invite people with meaningful experiences and fresh perspectives, and why we’re so interested in cultures that existed long before us: cultures that, in many cases, have developed a far deeper relationship with nature than we have today. The festival has taught us a great deal in that respect. We certainly don’t claim to have all the answers. Instead, we try to create a platform for the people we believe have something genuinely valuable to share, so that others can learn from them as well. 

Everything always comes back to the same foundations: practising sport, living well, and building a relationship with nature that is respectful enough to preserve it for generations to come. Another principle that’s always mattered to us is the way we relate to people. We never wanted red carpets, VIP areas, or barriers between guests and audiences. Everyone shares the same space. You can stand next to us, next to a filmmaker, next to an athlete: there are no privileged areas or exclusive conversations. We want people to feel relaxed, to feel they can approach anyone, ask questions, start conversations. That openness has been part of Ona since the very first edition. We like to think of it as a festival without barriers: a deeply human festival. And then there’s Venice. We’ve been incredibly fortunate to build Ona here, in a place that welcomed us from the very beginning. Over the years we’ve learned not only to understand this city, but to truly live it. We’re deeply grateful to be able to host the festival on an island as extraordinary as San Servolo. Arriving here at sunset, surrounded by this almost dreamlike atmosphere, becomes part of the experience itself. It helps tell our story. In many ways, the place is what makes Ona… Ona.”

Joaquín Gómez: “What has always driven me most is cultural inclusion. I like to think of Ona as a platform where people can share perspectives that are different from our own. To me, that’s essential. If you only surround yourself with people who think exactly as you do, you inevitably limit your understanding of the world. I’ve always been curious to listen to people whose experiences and ways of thinking are very different from mine. That curiosity has guided much of our curatorial work. We’ve tried to give visibility to cultures that, from our perspective, often feel distant, and to embrace that diversity rather than simplify it. Over time I’ve realised that one of cinema’s greatest strengths is its ability to leave something lasting within you. Not every film does that, of course, but when a film truly succeeds, it can stay with you for the rest of your life. It communicates something that words alone often cannot, because you’ve lived that journey with your own senses: you’ve seen it, heard it, emotionally travelled through it. That’s why I believe cinema has a unique kind of magic.

Then you add Venice: San Servolo beneath the stars, people from different cultures gathering together for three days, all sharing the same experience. That’s something I love deeply about Ona. I’m also incredibly proud of the relationships we’ve built over the years. Our collaboration with Athleta Mag is one of them: we’ve genuinely grown together. The same is true of the people at San Servolo, who have welcomed us and supported the festival from the beginning. And, of course, our partners. Without them none of this would be possible. Diadora, in particular, has become much more than a sponsor. We’ve built a genuinely human relationship with them. That’s something we’re truly grateful for.”

This year’s edition also features two films created in collaboration with Diadora: a brand whose roots lie just a short distance from San Servolo. Could you tell us about this partnership, and how it has grown into a creative dialogue that extends well beyond a traditional sponsorship?

Joaquín Gómez: “What I’ve appreciated most is the sense of freedom that defines our relationship. You can genuinely feel it. They believe in what we’ve created: a project that feels rooted in its territory, fresh, and spontaneous. We’re a very small team. There aren’t many of us, and we’ve built this festival from absolutely nothing. So having the support of a brand like Diadora is extraordinary. Festivals like this are built year after year, stone by stone, and when you find a partner who believes in your vision, it gives you confidence that you’re moving in the right direction. It’s a powerful sign of trust.

That’s also why I keep coming back to the idea of freedom. From our very first conversations—whether about the festival itself or other productions—we immediately felt there was a genuine human connection. There’s a wonderful atmosphere around the people who work there. What I see in Diadora is a brand that feels open, innovative, and genuinely willing to grow. They’re interested in culture, in sport, in connecting with different countries and different communities. It all feels incredibly natural. It’s a privilege to work with a brand that already shares so many of the values we believe in.”

Tomás Gómez: “I completely agree. What stands out to me most is how authentic they are and how consistent they are with what they communicate. We’ve worked with many brands throughout our career, but with Diadora I immediately felt they were genuine. What they say is truly reflected in what they do. They think about their community. They think carefully about how they communicate, why they communicate in a certain way, and whether what they’re doing actually makes sense. Every conversation we have with them is incredibly enriching because they’re willing to pause the marketing side of things and ask more human questions. That’s surprisingly rare in the world of brands.

We’ve been genuinely impressed and grateful to work with a company that gives so much importance to those values while remaining committed to staying contemporary and authentic. That’s essential for us because we also see Ona as a modern festival. From our aesthetic sensibility to our values and the way we communicate, I think we’re very much aligned. And, of course, their support is fundamental. They’re a vital part of what allows Ona to continue existing and growing year after year.”

‘Itatí’ and ‘Potreros’ are two deeply different films, yet both are rooted in northern Argentina and its communities. Beginning with ‘Itatí,’ could you tell us about the vision behind these two documentaries, and what drew you to explore that particular region of the country through these stories?

Tomás Gómez: “For us, these two films belong together. Northern Argentina is a place that almost every Argentine knows. We’ve grown up connected to it, familiar with its landscapes and its culture, even though it’s a region that always reveals something new every time you return. Because of that, we felt a great responsibility in portraying such a unique and essential part of our country. With both films, what we wanted above all was to represent life in northern Argentina as truthfully as possible. What does it actually mean to grow up there? How do people live? What challenges shape their everyday lives? In many ways, we wanted to normalise a way of life that feels familiar to us as Argentines, but may seem completely different to audiences elsewhere in the world.

I see these two films almost as a single portrait told through two different stories: two chapters of the same biography of northern Argentine culture. When we met Itatí, we found an extraordinary young athlete, supported by an equally extraordinary family. Northern Argentina has always been an incredibly demanding environment for sport. The altitude, the temperatures, the heat… everything makes training more difficult. To find athletes competing at that level, especially at such a young age and often training above 2,500 metres, is truly remarkable. For us, the film became an opportunity to meet an exceptional person and to share a small glimpse of her life.”

Joaquín Gómez: “Northern Argentina has always been deeply connected to the broader Andean world: a vast cultural landscape made up of many different peoples and traditions. Long before the Incas, these lands were already inhabited. In provinces such as Catamarca, archaeological evidence points to human presence dating back nearly 37,000 years. Historically, though, the region has endured enormous hardship. Its people were invaded, marginalised, and often forgotten. Even within Argentina itself, the country’s attention has traditionally been centred on Buenos Aires, while the north has remained one of its poorest and most neglected regions. Life there is difficult. Yet it’s also home to extraordinarily hardworking, humble people, with values that feel deeply rooted. Like anywhere, there are challenges—including serious problems with alcoholism—but that’s also why sport can become so important. It gives young people another path.

That’s what struck us so deeply about Itatí. She has an incredibly pure spirit. Everything about her feels natural and instinctive. She didn’t start running because she dreamed of becoming an athlete. She started running simply to reach her grandparents’ house more quickly. When we entered that world, we did so with immense respect. You quickly realise that many families survive through subsistence farming and face real economic hardship. But you also discover communities with an extraordinary sense of resilience. These were warrior peoples long before modern Argentina existed. When the Spanish arrived, they were among those who resisted the longest. That strength is still there. Argentina itself is the result of many different cultures coming together: Indigenous peoples, Italians, Spaniards, Arabs, Lebanese communities, Jewish communities, Afro-descendant communities. It’s a country built through diversity. Entering northern Argentina means entering one of the deepest roots of that identity. What has always stayed with me is the image of people carrying enormous sacks of potatoes across the mountains with incredible naturalness. There’s a quiet strength in that everyday life that never leaves you.”

Tomás Gómez: “One of the things that fascinated us most about Itatí was how honest she was. In sport, we often hear people say that winning doesn’t matter, that competing is what’s important. But Itatí never said that. She genuinely hates losing. It wasn’t something she was trying to perform for the camera: that’s simply who she is. She wants to win, and she’ll do everything she can to win. We found that incredibly refreshing because it felt completely authentic. There was no cliché, no rehearsed answer. Her relationship with running is equally beautiful. She grew up in a place where everything is far apart. Her grandparents lived at a distance, so she was constantly walking—or more often, running—to visit them. That’s how running entered her life. Little by little she realised she had a gift for it, that she loved it, and that it gave her a space that belonged entirely to her.

The film also tells the story of her grandparents, who were the first to recognise that talent and encourage it. They became the first people to believe in her. As Joaquín said, in a place like northern Argentina, finding a sport that gives you purpose can genuinely change your life. Sometimes it literally saves lives, because the alternatives aren’t always positive. That’s why her story goes far beyond athletics. And we’re very happy that she’ll be able to keep running. We’ll do everything we can to help make sure she continues following that path.”

Joaquín Gómez: “In fact, we’ve decided to cover her future race entry fees. That became part of our relationship with her. Many times she told us she simply couldn’t compete because her family couldn’t afford the registration costs. It’s an incredibly poor community, and we saw how much she was sacrificing. So we made a commitment: we’ll help make sure she can keep racing. Another thing that moved us deeply was her twin sister. They’re complete opposites. While Itatí is always at the centre of the action, her sister is quietly beside her, supporting her in everything she does. She’s almost invisible, but she’s an essential part of Itatí’s journey. Watching that relationship unfold was incredibly beautiful.

Spending around ten days with the family allowed us to witness something very special. At first, it felt surreal for them that we had travelled all the way there to make a film about their lives. They kept asking themselves, Why us? But as we interviewed them and spent time together, something gradually began to open up within the family itself. There were moments of emotion, moments when they heard one another say things they’d never said before. It felt as though the filmmaking process created a space where they could see each other differently. For us, it was a privilege to step into such a beautiful world: one that was also undeniably hard. The difficult part is always leaving. During a shoot you build very intense relationships, and then suddenly you have to say goodbye. We always try to stay in touch afterwards because they’re extraordinary people, and they continue to mean a great deal to us.”

Then there’s Potreros: a film centred on the rural football fields that embody the very essence of Argentine football culture. In these places, what does football come to represent? What role does it play within these communities, beyond the game itself?

Tomás Gómez: “Argentina is an enormous country, with vast open landscapes and an incredible amount of natural space. Outside Buenos Aires, though, infrastructure is often very limited. Yet the desire to play football exists everywhere, regardless of those conditions. And that’s exactly where the potrero comes from. Originally, a potrero is simply a field where horses, cows, or sheep graze: an empty piece of land that can be used for almost anything. But when there are no animals, it becomes a football pitch. That’s what a potrero really is: a place where people gather to play, where the goals are marked by two stones or two sticks, and where so many football journeys begin. Maradona started on a potrero, just as countless other players who would eventually reach the highest level of the game. What began as a necessity has gradually become something with immense cultural value. 

During our time in northern Argentina, we only visited a handful of the potreros that exist in that region: a tiny fraction of the thousands scattered across the country. But what struck us was seeing how these places can become something much bigger than a football field. Around them, entire communities emerge. A small local club is born, sustained by people who dedicate their lives to it because it’s their place to gather and play. It was incredibly moving to hear older generations talk about the first players who came there—sometimes arriving on horseback, sometimes riding donkeys—simply because they wanted to play football. And that same spirit is still alive today. The young people we met would do anything for their teammates, for their friends, for that small patch of ground they call their pitch. It doesn’t matter whether they have an official kit or a fake one, brand-new boots or worn-out trainers. They’ll always find a reason to play. In the end, the potrero is about exactly that: the need to play football, wherever you are, regardless of the conditions. For a little while, it allows you to feel like a footballer.”

Joaquín Gómez: “I think the potrero also shapes the character of the people who grow up playing there. You can recognise a player who learned football on a potrero almost immediately. There’s a particular way of playing that’s born in those fields: physical, instinctive, resilient. You use your body constantly. You protect the ball, you fight for every challenge. There are very few whistles, very few fouls. You simply keep playing. More than anything, there’s a mentality of giving absolutely everything. Someone who grows up on a potrero leaves everything on the field. They throw themselves into every challenge. They put their body on the line. And that idea becomes almost a philosophy for life. I still remember one of the local teams we met before a match. As they gathered together, they kept shouting the same words: “Con todo, muchachos!” — “Give everything, boys!” Then they added: “Even against everything. Together. Together.” Every time I heard it, I got goosebumps. They were just kids, but the intensity with which they believed those words was extraordinary. For me, that’s where so much of Argentine football is born. The potrero is where ingenuity, dribbling, improvisation and picardía—that uniquely Argentine football intelligence—first emerge. It’s a football culture that’s very different from the more structured traditions inherited from England.

Some people even like to say that football, in spirit, belongs as much to the Guaraní peoples as it does to England: that before it became an organised sport, there was already another way of playing with the feet, another relationship with the game. Whether that’s historically true or not isn’t really the point. What matters is that, in Argentina, football has never been understood only through rules or etiquette. It has always been something more instinctive, more popular, more deeply rooted in everyday life. When we entered these potreros, we realised we were standing inside the very essence of Argentine football. At the same time, we also understood that many of these places are slowly disappearing. Land gets sold, buildings replace open fields, artificial pitches take over. Some of these historic potreros are fading away. But what moved us was discovering that many of them eventually became much more than football pitches. They grew into social clubs: places that offered children a sense of belonging, support, and community. In the end, that may be the greatest legacy of the potrero: not simply producing footballers, but building people.”

Through your own films, as well as the wider selection featured at this year’s festival, what do you hope audiences will experience? What do you hope they’ll carry with them once they leave Ona?

Tomás Gómez: “Personally, I hope that everyone who has already experienced Ona leaves feeling surprised once again, and that those attending for the first time discover an entirely new world. Every year we try to refine our selection a little more: to curate films that we’re increasingly proud of, and that reflect more closely what we want the festival to stand for. I hope people connect with those stories, but I also hope they simply enjoy being together. One of the things that makes us happiest is the community that gathers around the festival. If people leave having discovered great films and having shared meaningful moments with others, then I think we’ve achieved what we set out to do. 

I also hope people allow themselves to let go of their preconceptions. The best way to experience these films is to appreciate them for what they are: to remain curious, to be open to discovering cultures and worlds that may be completely unfamiliar. So my invitation is simple: leave your mental barriers outside the theatre, and let yourself be surprised. I also hope people allow themselves to let go of their preconceptions. The best way to experience these films is to appreciate them for what they are: to remain curious, to be open to discovering cultures and worlds that may be completely unfamiliar. So my invitation is simple: leave your mental barriers outside the theatre, and let yourself be surprised.”

Joaquín Gómez: “When I think about the world we’re living in today, I feel there’s so much noise, so much negativity surrounding us all the time. In that context, I believe Ona offers something different. It gives people the opportunity to step into other realities, to leave behind, even for a few hours, everything that constantly demands our attention. If a film can genuinely move you, if it can stay with you after the screening and leave you carrying a new thought or a new feeling, then that’s already a victory. That’s what I hope people take home with them.”