Moroccan director Maryam Touzani broke onto the scene in 2019 with her debut fiction feature, the Casablanca-set Adam [+lire aussi :
critique
bande-annonce
fiche film], which played in Cannes’ Un Certain Regard and was selected as Morocco’s Oscars entry. She continued her streak with the Salé-set The Blue Caftan [+lire aussi :
critique
bande-annonce
fiche film], which collected the FIPRESCI Prize in the same section in 2022, and co-wrote Everybody Loves Touda [+lire aussi :
critique
bande-annonce
fiche film] with her husband, Nabil Ayouch, who also produced her newest film.

Now, Touzani turns her gaze homewards, to where she grew up: Tangier. In her Spanish-language debut, Calle Málaga [+lire aussi :
critique
interview : Maryam Touzani
fiche film], she follows a local septuagenarian who rebukes her daughter’s attempts to sell her storied home, instead finding new life in the city. On the advent of the film’s premiere in Venezia Spotlight at Venice, we spoke to her about depicting the city’s historic Spanish quarter, among other topics.

Cineuropa: Your film focuses on the Spanish diasporic neighbourhood in Tangier, and you begin with a text that explains the deep history of this community. What were the elements of this group of people that came to the forefront of the creative process?
Maryam Touzani: It was important to show the visceral attachment that this community has to Tangier. My grandmother was Spanish and grew up speaking Spanish as well as Arabic. I was very close to the Spanish community there and have always been very touched by it because I saw this group getting smaller as time passed. The elderly were dying, and most of the children were leaving to Spain for their studies. But, for instance, my grandmother’s friends never wanted to leave Morocco. The cemetery that is in the film is where my grandmother herself is buried. It’s a witness to a whole generation that has disappeared. I wanted to highlight the way that they were completely a part of the Moroccan community around them, but they kept their own culture as well. My grandmother was deeply Spanish – she cooked Spanish food, she was Christian and had her faith – but at the same time, she was profoundly Moroccan. There was a richness that I felt growing up, and I wanted to pay tribute to this community.

The protagonist, Maria Angeles, has a unique relationship with a cloistered nun, Sister Josefa, who is her childhood friend. They play out a sort of therapist-patient dynamic, but we also gain so much from these quiet interactions.
I wanted to express how Sister Josefa is also living a lot of things in her life through Maria Angeles. It’s a beautiful, strong friendship. Sister Josefa was not born out of the blue. I grew up with my grandmother visiting her nun friends. There was this place we used to go where there were nuns who took a vow of silence. As a child, I was really intrigued by them and how they managed to express how they felt. As I was writing, Sister Josefa naturally emerged. As you were saying, their relationship is a bit like one of a therapist and patient, because I think sometimes, we just need somebody to listen to us and be there for us – not necessarily because they’re going to tell us what to do or give us advice, but just to help us not feel alone.

You depict not only a strong emotional intimacy, but also a sexual intimacy between Maria Angeles and Abslam. For you, what was the significance of portraying all sides of this relationship?
I really think that old age is something beautiful. It’s a privilege to age. Unfortunately, in the society that we live in today, we’re so afraid of growing old. I wanted to be able to sublimate ageing and beautify these wrinkles – to have her become even stronger in the beauty of her old age. In cinema, we tend to hide ageing bodies and want to show what we consider to be perfect, beautiful bodies. What I consider to be a beautiful body is one that has lived, one that has a life shown by its wrinkles and marks. It was really important to be able to somehow celebrate old age, which is also celebrating sexuality and a body that allows itself to continue experiencing pleasure.

We are privy to the many sides of the city, from the home to the markets. How did you balance the natural energy of the city with your own gaze on Tangier?
Maria Angeles’ street is one where you have part of the past, through the facades of the building, mixing with the life underneath – the youth, the vendors, everything. I love how these two worlds, past and present, cohabit. In big cities, it’s true that we’re losing more and more of this act of going to the market. We don’t necessarily have relationships with people who sell us bread or vegetables. In Tangier, there is still that. There’s something authentic about the relationships that are still there, and I find that beautiful and inspiring.