THE film Tótem (Cert. 12A) is about mortality. What amulets do we equip ourselves with to assist this process of realisation and acceptance? The Mexican director Lila Avilés (The Chambermaid) depicts frenetic birthday-party preparations for Tona (Mateo Garcia), the terminally ill father of Sol (Naíma Sentíes). His daughter is seven years old, understandably struggling with what the future brings. Relatives deliberately try to distract her.

Aunt Nuria (Montserrat Marañon) fusses over baking an elaborate birthday cake, possibly the totem of the title; or maybe this is the exorcist’s burning stick employed by her sister, Alejandra (Marisol Gasé), for 3000 pesos (approximately £140) to drive bad karma from the house. Roberto (Alberto Amador), father of Tona, has survived cancer: a psychotherapist who seemingly has no truck with the supernatural. Yet, he gives his son a bonsai tree, a plant symbolically associated with both spiritual and physical well-being. An uncle brings Sol a goldfish. She tells everyone that these tiny creatures are among the first to discern imminent calamity, like an earthquake. This describes Sol herself, precociously cognizant of oncoming tragedy.

We would be mistaken to read Tótem as overloaded symbolism. People fret and argue about things that, in the light of eternity, may not matter that much. In contrast, the calm warmth of Tona provides the still point of their turning world. Avilés says that she is curious to explore that interior life of households not open to external scrutiny; how we deal spiritually with impending loss and grief.

One party guest delivers a heartening speech about the Pre-Columbian Mesoamerican calendar. She reminds them that Tona’s name derives from one of the day signs making up the year. Time was perceived as an upward spiral. Thus Tona (and all of us) are gradually moving nearer the light.

His former teacher quotes Paulo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed, with its links to liberation theology. Despite the conquistadores’ savage massacre of Aztecs in the Great Temple of Toxcatl, they continued to believe in the sun. It doesn’t fear its decline, and nor should we. It shines without sadness into the sunset. Sol’s own name, of course, is Spanish for sun. She carries the hope of this story. Tótem’s spiritual dimensions may be eclectic, but they translate easily into Christian terms.

There is something here about letting go, not clinging on to a passing world. The cinematographer Diego Tenorio’s sustained hand-held close-ups lend visual expression to our hesitancy. There is a lingering shot of the talismanic cake aglow with candles. What do we wish for? What are we thinking just before blowing them out? We are not afforded that final moment in this film. We seem to be celebrating both birth and death. With whatever lucky charms we adorn ourselves, they won’t ward off our end, which heralds a new beginning. The party goes on.