‘The Fishbowl’ Review – A Haunting Elegy Of Life, Loss, And The Quiet Strength Of Surrender

There is a moment in La Pecera (The Fishbowl) where Noelia (Isel Rodríguez) leans her head out of a car window, eyes half-closed, letting the wind trace its fingers across her skin. It is a quiet, fleeting thing—a breath of freedom, a whispered surrender—yet it lingers like a ghost of something once known. In that single frame, the world stills, and you feel everything—the longing, the defiance, the ache of release. This is the heart of Glorimar Marrero Sánchez’s luminous debut, a film that drifts like the tide, forever caught between holding on and letting go.

Noelia knows this. She has carried the weight of sickness before, felt its silent hands pressing against her ribcage, whispering its inevitable return. And now, it is here again. The news comes as expected, yet it still knocks the breath from her lungs. She has seen this road, endured the fluorescent sterility of hospital rooms, the quiet hum of waiting areas filled with stories that always seem to end the same way. But this time, she chooses something else. She chooses home.

Vieques is an island steeped in beauty and ruin, where the land holds memories like scars. The U.S. military left its mark here, its remnants seeping into the earth, the water, and the bones of those who have loved this place for generations. Noelia has always belonged to this island, just as much as it belongs to her. The waves pull her in, whisper her name, and cradle her body as if to say: we remember you. And in return, she offers herself to it, sinking into its embrace.

Her mother, Flora (Magali Carrasquillo), sees the storm gathering in her daughter’s eyes, but she does not try to stop it. She is a woman who knows how to pick up the broken pieces of an abandoned world. She spends her days clearing landmines from the beaches, one by one, as if scrubbing away the ghosts of the past. It is a task as futile as it is necessary, a quiet act of defiance against a history that refuses to be erased. She wears a homemade suit for protection because what other choice does she have? Nobody else wants to do it. But somebody has to.

Noelia’s pain and Flora’s worry are intertwined, inescapable. Flora copes through action, through stubborn resilience, while Noelia does so by capturing what she sees, recording the land and sea as though they might hold answers she has yet to find. Around them, the television hums with warnings of an incoming hurricane. The locals are boarding up, preparing, but Noelia barely acknowledges it. She is contemptuous of the storm. What difference does it make when the destruction has already been done?

Noelia is drawn to the water, where she can breathe freely, away from the stifling presence of her partner, Jorge (Maximiliano Rivas). The ocean becomes her sanctuary, offering a momentary escape from her burdens. In its embrace, she reconnects with the land and sea, finding peace and quiet defiance as she dives—not just to explore, but to reconcile with what is slipping away. Jorge, torn between love and helpless frustration, struggles to understand. He reaches for her with tenderness and fear, trying to hold on to someone who refuses to be held. But Noelia resents being reduced to an object of concern. She is exhausted by love that feels like an anchor.

The cinematography by P.J. López captures this tension with aching beauty. Light filters through cracked windows, the ocean stretches endlessly beyond Noelia’s reach—every frame is imbued with both intimacy and distance. The bioluminescent water glows like a pulse beneath her hand, a ghostly shimmer against the darkness. A horse lies buried in sand, its form haunting yet strangely peaceful. The sea is both a sanctuary and a grave, the air heavy with history and longing. The film moves like a memory, stitched together with moments that feel both fleeting and eternal.

The island does not ask anything of her. It simply exists, breathing and breaking, much like she does. She reunites with an old friend, Juni, and together they paint rebellion onto the walls of an abandoned military bunker, their laughter ringing through the hollow space. She watches as he and his group document the wreckage left behind in the waters, the quiet violence etched into the seabed. And when she dives into the depths, the ocean opening its arms to her once more, it is not just an exploration—it is an elegy. A farewell wrapped in liquid light. The breathtaking dive sequence becomes a swan song for these spaces, too dangerous to explore yet too beautiful to ignore.

And yet, La Pecera is not just about death. It is about the spaces in between—the quiet moments where life clings stubbornly, beautifully. The way old friends greet each other with unfiltered joy, the way a mother cooks a meal for a daughter who barely eats, the way love lingers even when it is unwanted. There is no crescendo, no grand parting speech. There is only the steady rhythm of waves meeting the shore, the hush of wind through trees, the last drag of a cigarette held between steady fingers.

Noelia does not beg for more time. She does not plead for a different fate. She simply is—a woman standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable, letting it wash over her. And in that moment, as the wind brushes against her skin, she feels infinite. But La Pecera lingers beyond its final moments. It leaves us with the echoes of a place and a people who refuse to be forgotten. It reminds us that even in ruin, there is resistance. Even in sorrow, there is beauty. And even in loss, something remains.

La Pecera (The Fishbowl) is currently playing in select theaters courtesy of Monument Releasing.