We all have different mechanisms for coping with death or its imminent arrival. In the case of seven-year-old Sol’s family in Tótem, Mexican filmmaker Lila Avilés’ delicate second feature, that mechanism is the preparation for and celebration of a final birthday party for Tona, her father, who is dying from cancer and to which all his friends have been invited.
The film opens inside a ladies’ room where Sol (Naíma Sentíes) and her mother Lucía (Iazua Larios) are taking care of their basic needs. The dialogue is scatological, irreverent, delivered with childish glee; it’s the kind of playful conversation we could expect from a free-spirited mother and her daughter. Later, on the way to the family home where Sol will be dropped off while Lucía attends a play rehearsal, mother and daughter make a wish as they drive underneath a bridge while holding their breath. Sol’s wish: that her father never dies. Those words bring mother and daughter back down to earth.
On arriving, Sol, dressed in a clown wig and nose, is almost hit by an egg her younger cousin Esther (Saori Gurza) violently throws at her. She hates her cousin’s clown costume. Sol thus enters a familiar maelstrom of cake baking and hair dying, garden pruning and spiritists cleansing the house of all evil spirits, of sisters arguing and an uncle trying to distract Sol with the gift of a goldfish while holding a different “cleansing” with quantum energy. Sol observes all, from underneath tables and chairs and standing next to door frames, Diego Tenorio’s camera always standing next to her, taking the world in from her vantage point. She is oftentimes ignored, even forgotten, the calm in the middle of this controlled chaos. Cruz, her father’s caretaker (an empathetic performance from Teresita Sánchez who previously worked with Avilés in The Chambermaid and delivered one of the best performances of 2022 as the owner of a tequila factory in Dos estaciones), is the only member of this household who truly pays attention to her, even as she is trying to keep Sol from seeing her father as he rests before the party. When her relatives notice Sol eavesdropping in their conversation about her father’s health and final wishes, they switch to a secret, ridiculously childish language to keep the truth from her. But there’s no disguising that she knows and fears the worst.
Cancer runs deep in this family; Tona’s mother died from it and his father Roberto (Alberto Amador) lost his voice because of it (he now communicates through an electrolarynx). His sister Nuri (Montserrat Marañón) shaved her hair in solidarity. The illness has not only ravaged this family emotionally but also financially. Even the house’s interiors seem to be ravaged by the disease: most of the rooms are dimly lit, some are full of clutter. Only Roberto’s office and garden seem immune to the chaos. Animals slowly begin to invade these spaces: a couple of snails are brought indoors by Sol and placed on top of the old paintings that have replaced Tona’s original artwork; a parrot lands on top of a car’s windshield; the house kitten who tries to escape from Esther’s grasp; ants crawl a wall, seeking the shaft of sunlight falling on it.
It’s a space that feels lived in, one that we can immediately call our own. For as the inevitable looms, family life, with its petty arguments and quarrels, loving conversations and eccentricities, continues. The film’s square aspect ratio increases that sense of intimacy without ever imprisoning the characters within its confines: it draws us closer to them, it allows us to feel their sorrow, to understand the different ways one copes with the inevitable. We relate with these characters because their conversations are not that different from the ones we have with our own families. Avilés possesses a fine ear and eye for that tiny detail, for that tiny inflection. There is no room for histrionics here. Most of the action takes place in one full day but we never feel time is passing us by (each minute of this 95 minute film is precious). And, if as in The Chambermaid, the action takes place in the confines of one building (a hotel there, the house and its exterior here), the canvas is far bigger: from focusing on one individual, Tótem offers us a vast, colorful mosaic of life experiences.
This world opens up when the party finally starts in the film’s last third and we meet Tona’s friends and Tona himself finally leaves the room, a literal skeleton of his former self. The dialogue is mostly improvised in this sequence adding to that sense of a world fully lived-in. For this is both a celebration of a life well-lived and a farewell, festooned with happy memories of what Tona did, how he was, who he was.
Life and death. Joy, sorrow and grief. Tótem may feel small but its heart is gigantic. Tótem is a compassionate film, one that solidifies Avilés as one of the most humane filmmakers working today; it’s also the best Latin American film of 2023. Better it’s arrival to our theaters be late than never at all.
Tótem opens exclusively at the Gene Siskel Film Center on Friday, February 9.
Did you enjoy this post? Please consider supporting Third Coast Review’s arts and culture coverage by making a donation. Choose the amount that works best for you, and know how much we appreciate your support!