‘Vanilla’ Venice Review: Mayra Hermosillo’s tender ode to unusual families

A tale of gentle survival and chaotic resilience, VANILLA is an autobiographical journey back to the 1980s in Torreón, a city in northern Mexico, where we follow an unusual family whose way of living and organizing themselves stands apart from the conservative norms of the region. Told through the eyes of Roberta (Aurora Dávila), an eight-year-old girl, Mayra Hermosillo’s debut feature unfolds as a coming-of-age story, with a protagonist who witnesses both her own transformations and those happening around her.

There are seven of them in the house. Seven women. Four belong—or seem to belong—to different generations of the same family: little Roberta, her mother, her grandmother, and her great-grandmother (María Castellá, Paloma Petra, Rosy Rojas). Then there’s a cousin (Fernanda Baca), an aunt (Natalia Plascencia), and Tachita (Lola Ochoa), a woman who has worked with them for years and is considered part of the family. No men are in sight. Roberta longs to see her father, but little is known about him. There are suitors, neighbors, and street vendors hovering around the edges of this women’s household, yet none play a central role.

As is often the case, the story begins with a debt. There’s no money to pay the rent, and unless something changes, the family will be evicted from their home. That looming threat hangs over the narrative from beginning to end. But through Roberta’s eyes, life plays out in the everyday: learning a song, dreaming of appearing on a TV show, helping sell the grape leaves her aunt prepares, talking to her parrot (named Jitler), helping her cousin, or clashing with her great-grandmother.

The others live out their own stories in the background. There’s the one who works as a flight attendant, the one who binds her chest with cloth, and the one who drinks a little too much. Tachita longs to see her own family, one has a kind suitor, another begs for the debt to be forgiven. Together they form a lively, colorful chaos that somehow feels perfectly organized. The real challenge comes from the outside world, where Roberta begins to realize her classmates mock her for her unusual family setup.

VANILLA—named after the girl’s favorite ice cream—plays as an impressionistic portrait of childhood, more interested in small anecdotes and everyday details than in major plot twists. There are key moments, of course: glimpses of machismo and gender violence, as well as family quarrels and irritations. Yet the impression it leaves is one of vitality, a household brimming with voices, colors, kindness, and above all, shared experience.

That is what Hermosillo, best known until now as an actress, seeks in her first outing as a filmmaker. Her vision is generous, warm, and far removed from the severity and cruelty often found in Mexican films that reach the international festival circuit. Quite the opposite, in fact. VANILLA recalls certain strains of American indie cinema—if it has a “flaw,” it might be a resemblance to Sundance-style aesthetics, or even lighter dramedies with a more commercial flavor.

Even when the characters face dramatic situations, the film never loses the lightness, warmth, and playfulness that define its protagonists. In that sense, VANILLA becomes a celebration of the solidarity and humanism that sustain this family. Whether dancing to Gloria Trevi on a TV show, cooking together, or waiting for a father who will never come, Hermosillo’s women do what they can to keep going through hardship. And if things don’t quite work out, a scoop of vanilla ice cream at the right moment may be enough to soothe the heartache.