Once upon a time, there was a Catalan activist who took out significant bank loans (of half a million euros), which he never intended to repay. He used the money to fund social projects, or so he claimed, and after a brief incarceration, while still awaiting trial, he fled the country. Now, in her Thessaloniki Documentary Festival-premiered Robin Bank (later to be shown at CPH:DOX), Anna Giralt Gris shows the man behind the local legend, and the truth is more complicated than any Robin Hood-like bedtime story.

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“One should never meet one’s heroes,” is a saying this author has never quite understood. Of course you should meet them, even if they disappoint – also if only to realise that we are all human and there is no point in idealising anyone. That’s what Giralt Gris does here as well, although she has to work for it first. Still a fugitive, Enric Duran is hard to find. Although – in a hilarious turn of events – you can actually contact him through his mum.

It's those kinds of details that make it an interesting watch, even though there was clearly no money for a proper investigation into his actions. Animated sequences illustrate his thinking or methods, but many questions, especially about the money, remain unanswered or vague – also, an odd insistence on “summing things up” makes it feel like a school assignment. But there is something very ordinary about his rebellion, and sad, too. This man, despite clearly having the brains for it, decided to expose the banking system instead of making his fortune. Which is fine, but it only brought him short-lived fame in his country and the kind of life that no one but Jack Reacher seems to successfully lead these days – no mobile phone, no credit cards, no known address. “Enric Duran in hiding and unapologetic,” wrote The Guardian years ago. It’s still the case, but he doesn’t look triumphant here – he looks tired.

Giralt Gris admits that the line between what’s legitimate and what’s illegal fascinates her, also in the context of modern protests. She likes the promise of change, but she doesn’t like the violence (“I go filming when they are over,” she says). This might be why she doesn’t fish for a news story here – she is taking a look at the “before” and “after”, browsing through old photos and recordings, pausing the videos, looking at his face. Figuring out how he went from talking about citizen’s rights on a train to more radical moves.

Many people attempt a similar thing, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when a “normal” person transforms forever. It doesn’t seem possible, but thanks to the groundwork, it feels like she knows him a little when they meet for the first time, even though he is no longer the same boy. There is the desire to “denounce the system”, but also a very human wish to be recognised, as Duran didn’t have to publicly own up to his actions. He wanted to be praised, one could say, also on national TV. And when, instead of glory, legal issues started to mount up, he checked out. “He was more Don Quixote than Robin Hood,” she says, as admiration gives way to something much more complex. She meets her hero; she leaves having got to know an actual, breathing person. An imperfect, exhausted, yet still very determined person.

Robin Bank was produced by Spain’s Gusano Films and Germany’s Indi Film, as well as Jorge Caballero, Arek Gielnik and Sonia Otto. It was co-produced by Televisió de Catalunya.