It’s not entirely incorrect to say that “Cuerpo Celeste” is a film where “nothing much happens,” but it’s also what makes this delicate Chilean coming-of-age drama so compelling. It’s not in a rush. It’s not about fireworks or revelations. It’s about the long, slow burn of grief, memory, and maturity. Writer-director Nayra Ilic Garcia leans into stillness and subtlety, crafting a film that feels like a sun-drenched beach holiday with languid rhythms and reflections on quiet heartbreak.
Set in the summer of 1990 as Chile was beginning to emerge from the shadow of Pinochet’s dictatorship, the film follows 15-year-old Celeste (Helen Mrugalski) as she drifts through the last moments of her childhood. At first, we’re lulled into a sense of calm: there are friends, beach bonfires, idle flirtations, drugs, and drinks — the usual signposts of adolescent freedom. Then, tragedy strikes. It arrives not as a dramatic crescendo but as a quiet rupture, shifting the film into something far more introspective and emotionally grounded.
Nearly a year later, Celeste returns to the beach town under the pretense of witnessing a solar eclipse but in reality, she’s searching for a way to reclaim (or at least understand) a sense of what was lost. What follows is less a narrative than a moody meditation on how people change, how landscapes are haunted by the past, and how the same place can feel unrecognizable once you’ve been changed by grief.
The mother-daughter relationship between Celeste and Consuelo (Daniela Ramírez) becomes the emotional core of the film, turning it from a straightforward coming-of-age story into something thornier and more intimate. Their strained yet loving bond feels lived-in and refreshingly devoid of melodrama. Ilic Garcia lets this relationship unfold without forcing resolution, trusting the audience to sit with all of its discomfort, silence, and ambiguity.
Visually, the film is dreamlike. Cinematographer Sergio Armstrong captures the Chilean coast with a hazy, golden light that gives everything a sense of impermanence that’s like looking at a memory you’re afraid of forgetting. The use of poetry and archival footage adds texture, connecting Celeste’s personal awakening with the country’s own halting emergence from dictatorship.
A quietly powerful film where the personal and political are seamlessly entwined, “Cuerpo Celeste” is a haunting, tender reflection on grief, memory, and what it means to grow up when everything around you is changing.
By: Louisa Moore
Screen Zealots 