For his first narrative feature, Mexican director Bruno Santamaría Razo — who’s previously made documentaries — chooses a personal memory piece. “Six Months in a Pink and Blue Building” draws from the filmmaker’s own life, and in particular from the time when he turned 11 and his father was diagnosed with HIV. A portrait of a family, a study of burgeoning queer identity and a snapshot of 1990s Mexico, the film manages to be a beautiful homage from the filmmaker to his parents, as well as a fictionalized, emotive account of a turning point in his life. 

In “Six Months in a Pink and Blue Building,” the story of the son mirrors that of his father. At his 11th birthday party, when all guests are asked to dress up as the other gender, Bruno (Jade Reyes) finds himself with strange, tender feelings for his best friend Vladimir (Eduardo Gómez). At the same party his father, Mundo (Lázaro G. Rodríguez), receives word that something came back “abnormal” in his recent blood test. The film follows father and son as they deal with these new realities in their lives. Acting as a lynchpin to the family, and a bridge between her husband and son, is Bruno’s mother Diana (Sofía Espinosa), the most grounded of the trio. As Mundo escapes into his artistic work as an illustrator and Bruno falls in love, Diana pragmatically tries to prepare for a future that may not include her husband. 

Starting with the frivolity and joy of that opening costume party, Razo portrays a family crowded together in love. There is no judgment and sometimes even no boundaries, as we see them sharing the same small bathroom, showing their intimate relationship. Mundo and Diana have an arrangement, so while his diagnosis is devastating, it’s not much of a surprise. Bruno idolizes his father and wants to become an illustrator like him. They are both dreamers, not entirely present in their lived world with the rest of their family and community.

Razo portrays Bruno’s world with more fantasy than reality. While it seems rooted in specific memories he might have from his childhood, there’s a playfulness and technicolor effect that renders it whimsical — as when Bruno and Vladimir wander into a church rehearsal, and out of nowhere, a drag queen in sparkly sequins catches his eye. Or when Vladimir demonstrates how to french kiss on Bruno’s arm. Both instances are portrayed like religious experiences, opening a young person’s eyes to a world he never knew existed.

In contrast, Bruno’s moments with his dad carry melancholic undertones. Bruno requests Mundo’s watercolors, the implication being that he wants to inherit them, and the film’s own palette shifts from scene to scene. As the title implies, Bruno’s world is full of color, signifying the lushness of the emotions he’s feeling as he discovers his sexuality and falls for his friend. Mundo and Diana’s world is more stark, its colors stripped away to show the toll of life’s frailties on the couple. What Razo does best, though, is to fill the frame with indelible images that could stand alone like paintings: Bruno, his mother and a friend from school in a car full of multicolored shopping bags, or Bruno’s face lit up with joy, the colors of his shirt matching a painting on the wall, both acting as frames for his smile.

Razo doesn’t forget his cinema vérité roots, however. “Six Months in a Pink and Blue Building” starts with the filmmaker interviewing his mother. Razo later appears on screen to give his own account of that time in his life. The casting of the actors playing the younger versions of the real people is so spot-on that the fiction scenes gel seamlessly with the interviews, while the film is peppered with fragments of educational documentaries about AIDS from the era.

All of this gives “Six Months in a Pink and Blue Building” a fascinating fluidity, moving between memory, confession and reconstruction without ever feeling like an exercise in playing with form. Rather the film feels like an act of remembrance, instead of just a coming-of-age story. Shot by Fernando Hernández García in Super 16mm, the film has both the cozy feel of old home videos and the grandeur of an opulent golden-age melodrama. 

In trying to bind his memories into a narrative, Razo manages to accomplish something more singular. He captures that strange age when childhood fantasy and adult reality begin to overlap, when joy and sadness suddenly occupy the same room. He pays homage to himself and his family, but also makes a film that’s bound to feel personal to many members of its audience.