Tótem

Eine Geburtstagsfeier für einen Mann, der zum Sterben verdammt ist: daher ein Familienfest nicht nur mit allem was dazugehört – hektisch herumwerkeln, Gäste empfangen, einander pflanzen und umarmen, bauchpinseln und streiten, die Kinder im Griff behalten etc. –, sondern eine Feier des scheinbar Banalen im Angesicht sich abzeichnender Tragik. Alle wissen, was passieren wird, nur eine beginnt mit der Trauerarbeit: Sol, die kleine Tochter des Todgeweihten (allein schon sehenswert: Naíma Sentíes). Avilés erzählt das in bestechender Unmittelbarkeit, und, wie der Titel andeutet, in kosmisch-mythisch-geisterhafter Verwandtschaft einer Familie mit der Natur. (Roman Scheiber)

We enter TÓTEM like guests arriving too early to a big gathering— in the way of its hosts, standing awkwardly amidst the bustle, yet not unwelcome.

The film accordingly depicts a birthday party—its hectic preparations and cathartic progression. As the members of a Mexican middle-class family and their friends come together at the family home, we discover their ties and dynamics by intuition and gradual gap-filling. Cooking, icing a cake, putting up decorations, hiring a spiritual cleanser, quarrelling and making up: all the many small rituals a big family undertakes prior to what slowly reveals itself to be no normal birthday. Tona is turning 40 and is mostly absent, hiding in his room because of his terminal illness, whose prognosis is not good. His siblings share their resignation by way of one last, ecstatic celebration. Yet in this crowded, restless film, there is also a pervading sense of loneliness and quiet, as experienced by Sol, Tona’s seven-year-old girl, who roams the house with an inquisitive stare, melancholic awe guiding her every gesture. Something of Ozu and his family dramas lies in this bittersweet mood, for the film itself seems to be asking “Isn’t life disappointing?” as it displays a warm, accepting grin. (Salvador Amores)

Lila Avilés: LA CAMARISTA (2018)