When did you first realize that someday, your parents are going to die? That you will also die? When we are children, the future remains impossibly open. The days stretch on, the skies burn with blue and birds sing a song that never seems to end. But eventually, it does, and we realize that icy death is everywhere, forever in wait, ready to reclaim everything that has been born. In Tótem, Lila Avilés’ tender new drama, young Sol (Naíma Sentíes) is getting ready to attend a birthday party for her father. She is seven years old, and when her mother asks her what she wished for after she holds her breath going under a bridge, Sol responds that she wishes her father doesn’t have to die.
Set over the course of one day and evening, Avilés could have easily filmed the entire story from Sol’s perspective. But instead, Tótem is a languid look at a family on the precipice of new grief while still reeling from loss. However, we still see things from a child’s point of view: small details like the place on the wall where the paper is peeling, ants crawling over; an unexpected visit from a wild parrot; the terror of seeing a young father who is wasting away from cancer.
Before he became ill, Tona (Mateo García Elizondo) was a painter. We learn that he is now spending his final months in his parents’ home, under the care of a nurse named Cruz (Teresita Sánchez). It appears that Sol has not seen her father much since he has taken ill, so she is anticipating this visit. Sadness hangs over the house. Tona’s mother—Sol’s grandmother—has died from cancer, and his father, Roberto (Alberto Amador), who speaks with an electrolarynx, appears to be a cancer survivor. Meanwhile, Tona’s sisters are fighting through their grief, while worrying about paying for his healthcare.
Avilés introduces us to Sol and her family in media res as they prepare for the party. It takes time to determine how everyone is connected, and as Avilés’ camera moves over the hallways and rooms where the family dwells, the house itself becomes a member. Grief has stopped this family in its tracks. Sol openly wonders if her father still loves her since he spends much of his time suffering in seclusion. Her aunt Nuria (Montserrat Marañón) is certainly hurting. She struggles to make the perfect cake for Tona but breaks down in tears while her preschool age daughter, Ester (Saori Gurza), comforts her. By distancing himself from Sol, maybe this is the sort of dynamic Tona wants to avoid—one where the child must become the source of solace.
There is no grand plot in Tótem but rather a series of vignettes that connect into a mosaic of life for Sol’s family. One of her aunts hires a woman to come in and cleanse the house of malicious spirits before the party, much to the chagrin of Sol’s grandfather. Her cousins bicker over chores. Nuria burns the cake and collapses into tears. Roberto trims bonsai trees to find peace. Each of these threads tell a deeper story than a simple plot ever could.
Tótem culminates with Tona’s party where his friends come both to wish him a happy birthday and, without saying as much, bid him farewell. It is a touching and tender scene where we see Tona interact with his loved ones. But what of Sol? She sits alone on the roof, observing everything, still removed from her father. Perhaps it is here that she truly understands that futures come to an end, that death will someday take everyone she loves, until eventually, herself, as well.
But Tótem is also life-affirming. Via all the mini dramas and humorous moments that take place throughout the day, Avilés shows us what makes life worth living. Being surrounded by family and friends gives purpose to the days, and then when we’re gone, our spirit and our laughter still live on in memories and photographs. Most of all, though, they are absorbed into the very walls of the places that shelter us, that keep us safe from the outside world.
Photo courtesy of Sideshow / Janus Films
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