Teenage Roma boy Toni lives in La Cañada Real, the largest illegal slum in Europe, close to Madrid. His family members are scrap dealers, content with what they have – until demolition companies threaten their way of life. Director Guillermo Galoe breaks down his Cannes Critics’ Week entry Sleepless City [+leggi anche:
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Cineuropa: The way you look at Toni’s universe, the way you’re curious about it, brings to mind a documentary. Did you already know this place?
Guillermo Galoe: The film is complete fiction, but the whole process was very documentary-like. Just like in my previous works, it all springs from a relationship I establish with a real place that captures me emotionally, artistically, aesthetically and politically. The actors are playing themselves: these are, or could be, their lives. La Cañada Real is the biggest settlement of this kind in Europe, and it’s only ten minutes from my house. It’s 15 minutes from the centre of Madrid, abandoned by the rest of society.

Only now, after many decades, is the land becoming interesting for developers. Its residents are under threat of eviction. From that very specific – and local – point of view, we can talk about the world we’re living in, our anxiously globalised society. This community has been discriminated against for centuries, and when I was there, I felt a profound wound in people. They are underrepresented or badly represented. Of course, you can find drugs and there’s crime, but I also saw a lot of light.

This light is in the film, too, as is joy. And a desire to be seen.
I thought cinema would be able to capture that. I was also attracted to this idea of something that’s disappearing – an old world, with old ways of living, with myths and legends that suddenly don’t seem to belong. But they do! Without trying to romanticise poverty, for example, I wanted to portray all of this. It was a challenge to film in such a damaged place, but the gaze of a child found magic in it.

Having a child, or rather a teenager, looking at a broken world reminded me of Italian neorealism. Is that something you’re referencing?
I connect a lot with Italian cinematic tradition. It’s part of my identity. When I first got to La Cañada many years ago, by chance, I was shocked by how damaged it was. I wanted to put myself in a kid’s position to look at it without any prejudice. When you are a child, anything can happen. The future is open, and the best way to make society advance, especially in these environments, is to stick to hope and the idea of the future. I thought: “Why shouldn’t I give light to this film?” But the light that interests me stays in the shadow. After all, there’s no electricity in La Cañada.

Were you working with some of the locals? It’s hard to figure that out.
The idea was to make it only with the people who live there, and this is what I did. They are not professionals, but I like to call them “first-time actors”. As we discussed, there is this desire to be seen, to be heard. I don’t like the concept of filmmakers “giving voice” to the people. No – they already have one. Of course, it took time to gain their trust, and to reduce the violence and the hierarchical dynamic that come with putting a camera in front of a place or a human being. For three years, I wouldn’t even bring it. We talked about life; we would get bored together. We also did some field workshops with the kids and the parents, shooting films with phones. I was there, witnessing everything.

Your characters also film themselves. They are not embarrassed.
Sometimes it was their initiative, sometimes it was mine. I think this idea of participation is important, especially when there are questions of how we are seen and how we see ourselves. When we create images, we have a responsibility as filmmakers and as this industry. In a world that’s overpopulated with them, I wanted to give value to the image and to the act of filming.

The older generations used to teach the younger ones how to live. They can’t do so in Sleepless City, because everything’s vanishing in front of their eyes.
Toni’s grandfather is lost: the world that was stable for generations suddenly starts to crack. You can try to stay or leave, but how do you stay, and how do you leave? When evicted, they join communities that always rejected them. They’re living from the things that are left over from the city. And now, where can they put all of this metal? Certainly not in these tiny houses. Toni’s grandfather claims: “We are free. This is our place. This is our home.” But Toni starts doubting that. Freedom is a relative concept, and sometimes, it feels like these kids aren’t free.

A bit like the greyhound they’re playing with, born to run and then hidden away.
This image is already poetic: a greyhound running in a place that’s so closed off. We are always circling around the idea of freedom. Take education – to some, that’s freedom, but they’ve been denied it. There are boundaries here, too, and a lot of pain. At the end, I feel like the film really screams.