Hatzín Navarrete, left, and Hernán Mendoza in The Box (MUBI)

In Lorenzo Vigas’s The Box (La Caja), Hatzín (Hatzín Navarrete), a 14-year-old boy, is sent by his grandmother to pick up the remains of a father he never knew. On his return home from the mass grave site in northern Mexico, he notices a man who closely resembles the photo on his father’s driver’s license, the only form of identification the boy has of his parent. Convinced that this stranger is his father, he doggedly insinuates himself into Mario’s (Hernán Mendoza) life.

After some initial resistance, Mario comes to care for Hatzín and attempts to mentor him into adulthood. He also apprentices Hatzín in his job, which is to recruit desperate job seekers for backbreaking sweatshop jobs in massive factories. They are housed and fed, but their contracts are draconian. When employees complain about the contract’s terms, it’s likely they will face repercussions.

Vigas uses a fairly tried and true formula: the need for a young man to have a father figure and how that person can be particularly problematic. He pairs it with a social issue, and the result manages to avoid anything remotely clichéd or polemic. Instead, he delves into the relationship between the pair, slowly and surely, as they size each other up. Mario insists that he is not Hatzín’s father, even to the point where he initially drives to a bus stop in the middle of nowhere and drops off the boy. Yet when he finds Hatzín asleep in his truck the next morning, he gives in and figures he can use an extra hand at his job. Whether he truly wants the teenager’s company or sees him as an asset is ambiguous. As one may have already guessed, Mario isn’t exactly a great guy, or more specifically, he may have been in another circumstance.

Mario’s job, as mentioned earlier, is recruiting people to work in factories. The employees sign contracts, but many of them do not read the fine print. They don’t realize they don’t get paid for their lunch break or that the bus rides to the factories are deducted from their paycheck. Instead, they have to listen to Mario’s pep talk about their main competition being Chinese children who, he claims, do a better job because of their “small hands.”

Vigas (From Afar) meticulously tracks Hatzín evolution from affection to disillusionment to anger. The process is gradual, and his need to win his possible father’s approval brings him to do things that many may consider unforgivable. Even then, Vigas muddies the water. When Hatzín has a change of heart, it may be because he senses the injustice of Mario’s business or it could be a change in the family dynamic or a combination of both. Vigas never gives us a simple answer or solution.

Navarrete, a non-actor, has an uncanny ability to convey emotion while barely moving a muscle in his face. He has a natural affinity for the acting maxim, “It’s all in the eyes.” In Navarrete’s eyes, we see everything. He is easily matched by Mendoza, who imbues Mario with the geniality one needs to essentially con people, coupled with a nonchalance, for the seamier aspects of his job. Yet he develops a real affection and love for Hatzín and imparts advice, reminding him how family, something Mario never had or appreciated, is important.

Vigas does not employ a score, using only dialogue and ambient sound to create his environment. An insistent, repetitive pounding noise is a motif. Sometimes it is provided by the machines in the factory or by Hatzín’s habit of nervously and rhythmically banging his foot on the floor. The gorgeous cinematography by Sergio Armstrong evokes the desolation and the isolation of flat, cold plains of northern Mexico. His compositions are just exquisite, reminiscent of, of all things, early John Carpenter.

Vigas tells his story simply and artfully. It is a heartbreaking, resonant coming-of-age film that will likely linger in your mind for a good, long time.