Fifteen-year-old Toni (Antonio “Toni” Fernández Gabarre) lives with his large Roma family of scrap dealers in Cañada Real, a shanty town in the outskirts of Madrid, often described the largest shanty town of the continent. Roughly 8,000 people inhabit a linear succession of precarious housing. Dirt roads are surrounded by mounds, wastelands, and abundant garbage. A landfill provides the children with entertainment and the adults with subsistence. Violence is rife, and poverty is extreme (at least for European standards).
While not as densely populated as the slums of developing countries (think Sabra and Shatila of Lebanon, or City of God of Brazil), the sentiment of hopelessness is still palpable here. The streets of Cañada Real are not as narrow, and the building are not crammed on top of one another. On the other hand, five children have to share two small beds, forcing them into cuddling one another. An environment anathema to privacy.
Grandfather Chule (Jesús “Chule” Fernández Silva) is the family’s patriarch, and Toni’s de facto guardian (there is nary a sight of his parents). His loud aunts encourage him to find a beautiful wife and get married, but the adolescent is more interested in living each day at a time, and playing games with his Moroccan friend Bilal (Bilal Sedraoui), of around his age, or racing with the family dog Atomica, a charming white greyhound. One day, his buddy moves abroad, and his grandpa sells the pooch in order to buy a small piece of land. Soon, Toni’s family too are about to move, but the prospect of change is a rather daunting one. Toni has never used an elevator or a shower, and he feels justifiably intimidated by the world outside.
Local authorities constantly threaten to dismantle Toni’s abode, leaving his family uncertain of their future abode. This affects Toni’s relation with the community where he grew up. Nobody would want to create roots one they find out they are about to be transplanted. A forced displacement could mean moving into a flat in a high-rise building. Does that represent ascension or confinement? That’s for viewers to device.
The actors are non-professionals and the dialogues unscripted, almost turning the film into a piece of autofiction. Still, the scenes and the interactions were written by the director, alongside Victor Alonso-Berbel. These practices, combined with the emphasis on the most marginalised people of Europe, bring Sleepless City close to the Neorealism of Roberto Rossellini. The outcome is partly convincing. While the acting is spontaneous enough, the interactions lack chemistry, and the unimaginative cinematography fails the capture the spirit of the community.
The technical wizardry consists of abruptly changing colour and saturation, as the two teenagers play with a mobile telephone. A camera rotating around one single axis seeks to emphasise the dimensions of the slum, however the chosen locations are rather uninspiring. Viewers never get the impression that they have been absorbed into this brand new world, a loud, hustling and bustling slum.
Sleepless City lacks vigour and vim. This is a quiet, almost sleepy film. The developments are so subtle at times they are barely discernible. The external threats do not have a major impact on Toni, and the prospect of moving – while daunting – isn’t quite a life-defining experience. These micro-conflicts are too far and few between, preventing the narrative arc from developing and the story from taking off.
Sleepless City premiered in the Critics’ Week section of the 78th Cannes International Film Festival, when this piece was originally written. Also showing in San Sebastian.
