Azhar Media

Huelva, Spain, an isolated region lost in time. The grass, the sand and the sky are the same that those foreigners saw in the spring of 1895, when they crossed the sea from a distant country to mark the unspoiled terrain and extract its wealth, when the tower was new, when people could climb to the top of the highest dune and imagine that the city of Tartessos was still there, in the distance, almost invisible in the morning brume.

After his death, Fernando Ruiz Vergara left dozens of film sketches that he was never able to make. The Andalusian filmmaker had only directed one documentary, Rocío, heartbreaking and fascinating, cursed after its judicial censorship in the early years of democracy in Spain. Since then, his projects have remained latent in imagination and desire.

The film delves into the universe of thoughts and memories of Camilo, a teenager with a muscular disorder, as he transitions into adulthood. The film's dialectic, crystallized in an extensive 16-year film record, navigates between the writing of philosophical texts and conversations he has with his friend Luis, with a critical eye toward social systems, his own relationships, and himself. His way of feeling propels the temporal leaps in one direction or another, with their drifts and reveries, similar to the ways in which memory operates. Time becomes both theme and vehicle.