With her feature debut, “The Chambermaid,” Mexican writer-director Lila Avilés materialized a graceful character study of a hardworking mother. Though enriched via the meaningful interjections of its supporting players, the narrative had a singular focus. For her follow-up, “Tótem,” Avilés has now confected an intimate ensemble piece from a family’s acts of tenderness as experienced through the sorrowful gaze of a young girl. A luminous and soul-nourishing microcosm built on profound love in the face of impending grief, the film reveals itself in the charged interactions between its multiple characters.
Vivacious seven-year-old Sol (Naíma Sentíes) and her mother, Lucia (Lazua Larios), share a laugh inside a public restroom. Their moment of blissful playfulness is only the preamble to the cascade of emotions that awaits them. Over the course of the few hours leading up to a birthday party for her terminally ill father, Tona (short for the Indigenous name Tonatiuh), played by Mateo Garcia, Sol undergoes a painful but perhaps liberating realization.
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Through Sentíes’ inquisitive eyes and her portrayal of Sol’s fluctuating emotional state, Avilés explores the inner world of children whose comprehension of the afflictions of existence is far more nuanced than adults give them credit for in their aim to protect them. “Tótem” makes visible the moment a young person becomes self-aware about the aspects of our time here that we can’t change nor explain, particularly mortality.
Inside the clan’s old and ample middle-class home, Sol’s Aunt Nuria (Montserrat Marañon) has tasked herself with baking a cake from scratch and then hand-painting it. As the implications of making this treat for her dying brother overwhelm Nuria, her young daughter, Ester (Saori Gurza), repeatedly reassures her with lucid nuggets of wisdom.
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Meanwhile, Alejandra (Marisol Gasé), Nuria’s older sister, dyes her hair before welcoming a healer for a spiritual ritual she hopes may help Tona’s health, much to the anger of her psychologist father (Alberto Amador), who needs an electrolarynx to communicate.
The familial dynamics, conveyed in the constant bickering between the adult siblings and their efforts to guard Sol against sadness, play out in a choreographed chaos with dialogue that rings organically colloquial and precisely apt for these characters. Not only are they recognizable and relatable, but most importantly their lived-in bonds are believable. Avilés also cast the great Teresa Sánchez, whose range can be best appreciated in “The Chambermaid” and in last year’s “Dos Estaciones,” to play Cruz, Tona’s caregiver.
Atmospherically warm, the cinematography of Diego Tenorio gives one the impression of having entered a space trapped in time—like neither the sun nor fresh air has been welcomed there for a while. Even if we know we found ourselves in the present day, the images carry the hazy quality of memory. It’s as if this party has awakened everyone from an extended slumber, and they must confront feelings they had been hiding under the rug.
The illness facing Tona, a totem of their unity despite their incompatible coping mechanisms, brings the family together. Each of his siblings and their father manifests their affection in distinctly concrete efforts—a bonsai tree or meditation session—to try to ease his suffering or at least make him conscious of how deeply appreciated he is.
In turn, Sol is also a totem of innocence, around whom they all rally to spare her as much devastation as possible. Her uncle Napo (Juan Francisco Maldonado) brings her a pet fish to distract her and when discussing Tona’s worsening condition, the adults speak using the F-Language (adding fs to words in between syllables) to prevent her from understanding.  But Sol’s process to attain a certain maturity happens despite their efforts, slowly her anger at fate’s cruelty and her lack of power against it, begins to give in to acceptance.
Without the need to explicate the lives the people on screen lead beyond the limits of her story, Avilés convinces us that these relationships have been hard-fought and because of that they are all the more valuable. But there are also flourishes of levity that steer the film away from being a downhearted affair and sprinkle it with a measured dose of whimsy.
Directing a fine cast, with Marañon and Gasé being especially endearing in their imperfect humanity, into a moving choral effort; Avilés demonstrates once more why she is one of the most artfully idiosyncratic voices in modern Mexican and Latin American cinema.
The eventual gathering turns into a bohemian celebration of a life, and a fundraiser, enlivened by Tona’s sincere reciprocity towards all those in attendance. The very effort to look presentable and energetic in front of others, most importantly Sol, is his gift to them. As his friends discuss the Indigenous origin of Tona’s name and other ancient metaphysical precepts about the hereafter, perhaps to soothe his fears, “Tótem” dives into even more transcendent territory, forcing us to ponder the ways in which we honor those we love for making this uncertain journey we call life more bearable with their presence.
It’s during this joyful final chapter that Avilés delivers one more stroke of introspection, turning the image of blowing the candles on a cake into an otherworldly statement about the power one might gain from not wishing for things to change and lovingly embracing what is.  As remarkable as “The Chambermaid” was, “Tótem” feels richer in its sublimely compassionate, cinematic observations on subjects for which words alone wouldn’t suffice. [A+]
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