After losing his job and the relationship that anchored him, Eduardo, a 43-year-old Brazilian advertising professional, feels adrift in a silence he cannot escape. Guided by his enduring interest in astronomy and in an attempt to distance himself from his own collapse, he travels alone to the Atacama Desert in search of silence, of stars, perhaps of some forgotten version of himself.

​

In his luggage, he carries a quiet anguish: the sensation of falling behind, of having missed the timing of his own life.

​From the very beginning, everything unravels: a missed flight, lost luggage, and a burnt-out phone. Stripped of control, Eduardo stumbles upon an eccentric group of travelers led by Mário, a theatrical Chilean guide with a huge heart, colorful scarves, and a poetic way of seeing the world from his worn-out, overly decorated van.

​

Inside the van, an unlikely group comes together: Bia, an expansive Brazilian with a loud laugh and sharp gaze; Sarah, a neurotic planner whose fears make her both annoying and endearing; Tyler, an affectionate man whose cluelessness amuses everyone; Seung, a reserved young Asian man whose calm presence carries unexpected weight; and Maja, a striking traveler whose enigmatic aura draws Eduardo’s attention. But above all, his eyes always return to Luz and Eduardo Muñoz, a serene Chilean couple whose quiet complicity unsettles him.

​

As the van crosses surreal landscapes - the Valle de la Luna, geysers at dawn, turquoise lagoons shimmering under the thin air - Eduardo drifts between isolation and connection.

​

Nights in San Pedro bring music, cheap bars, clumsy attempts at companionship, and the fragile humor that binds strangers. He feels invisible and exposed at the same time, mocked by the younger travelers as if he were already displaced by age.

​

Yet, little by little, fragments of tenderness emerge: conversations with Tuti, the extravagant owner of the Don Raúl hotel; strange encounters with a mysterious street flutist; a drunken karaoke night where vulnerability surfaces; and intimate, heartfelt dialogues with Bia.

​

Through echoes of local music and culture, and flashes of philosophy and astronomy, the film expands beyond a road trip. It becomes a meditation on how the vast and the intimate coexist in every human experience. 

​

The turning point does not come under the desert sun, but in the intimacy of Luz and Muñoz’s apartment in Santiago. A moment of sushi and wine unfolds with apparent simplicity, until Eduardo notices a subtle gesture that changes everything.

​

The truth emerges with disarming naturalness: Muñoz is blind. Eduardo, who had traveled with them for days without realizing it, now sees reflected in them his own blindness. Not of the eyes, but of the spirit.

​

From that revelation on, the entire journey acquires new meaning. The desert, once a landscape of despair, becomes a stage for acceptance. In Muñoz’s quiet resilience, Eduardo finds a reminder that life is not about control, nor about chasing answers with urgency, but about the courage to ask for help, the humility to soften the ego, and the strange clarity that comes from seeing the world through someone else’s eyes.

​

LUZ is not the story of a man who solves his life in the desert, but of someone who learns to see beyond himself. It is a sensitive meditation on human suffering, the weight of loneliness, the impermanence of life, and the allure of the unknown.

​

Through landscapes that seem to belong to another planet, and a humor as fragile as it is liberating, the film reminds us that what truly matters often lies beyond what the eyes can see.