No Sleep Till (Alexandra Simpson, 2024).
According to its website, Omnes Films wants to “fill a void” in modern cinema. A collective of filmmakers based for the most part in and around Los Angeles, its productions “favor atmosphere over plot” in an attempt to shed light on “the many forms of cultural decay in the twenty-first century.” Two of those, Carson Lund’s Eephus and Tyler Taormina’s Christmas Eve in Miller’s Point, among the finest titles to premiere at Cannes earlier this year, understand that as an erosion of certain ways of being among others. Crucially, both also tether that decline to the loss of physical, brick-and-mortar places. In Eephus, a gang of middle-aged amateur baseball players meet at the local field for one final match before the site will be cleared for a new middle school; in Christmas Eve, an Italian-American family gathers at Grandma’s Long Island house for one last reunion before the place will be put on the market.
No Sleep Till, Alexandra Simpson’s spellbinding feature debut, also presents decay as a kind of atomization. Set in Atlantic Beach, a town on the eastern coast of Florida, the film kicks off with news of an impending hurricane, which meteorologists predict will be a devastating event. No Sleep Till is concerned with the ways in which people respond to this catastrophe: how a crisis changes your perceptions of yourself and your place among others. Written, directed, and edited by Simpson, the film shares the same choral scope of its Omnes Films cousins, but it also sponges their atmospheres of loneliness. For all the many people it follows, this is never truly a portrait of a group, but a story of solitary wanderers who try—and fail—to connect.
Fittingly, Simpson’s script doesn’t deal with “complete” storylines so much as vignettes, parceling out information about characters through clues and intimations. There’s a brokenhearted teen, June (Brynne Hofbauer), grieving over a breakup while her family prepares to flee the hurricane; a couple of friends and standup comedians, Will and Mike (Xavier Brown-Sanders and Jordan Coley), who view the storm as a chance to take off and start afresh in Philadelphia; a storm chaser (Taylor Benton) gearing up to document the event while everyone else seeks shelter. But as soon as Simpson starts to shed some light on someone’s inner life, No Sleep Till switches to another character and point of view; it’s as if the film is afraid to reveal anything about these drifters beyond what’s strictly necessary, leaving us to fill in the gaps and intuit any connections between them.
Which is to say that No Sleep Till complies with the Omnes Films mantra of favoring atmosphere over plot. The operative mood here is nostalgic; half-French, half-American, Simpson grew up between Paris and the beachside town where most of her debut was shot, which may account for the ineffable longing it radiates. Shot by Sylvain Froidevaux, No Sleep Till reins in its apocalyptic premise with a neon-soaked palette that turns diners, motels, and swimming pools into fairy-tale settings. As Simpson returns to these increasingly empty liminal spaces, the film grows more melancholic, more elliptical—even as people make plans to leave, her editing locks them all in a kind of limbo, leaving you to wonder if they’ll ever really manage. The lasting impression is a series of dreamlike sights: a giant cardboard cutout of Elvis Presley trembling in the wind, a lone BMX rider doing tricks in a deserted parking lot, the reflection of a motel sign in the undulating chlorine of a swimming pool. Where another filmmaker might treat those images as digressions, Simpson makes no such hierarchical distinctions; as she tracks a handful of strangers bracing for a cataclysm, she also immortalizes their world in all its surreal flourishes. At its most entrancing, No Sleep Till displaces these unassuming corners of US suburbia into a realm that’s difficult to define, perched between the quotidian and the surreal.
At the Venice Film Festival, where No Sleep Till premiered in the Critics Week and left with a Special Jury Mention, I sat with Simpson to discuss the film’s literary influences, her approach to writing, and the difficulties of crafting a story about one’s childhood haunts.
No Sleep Till (Alexandra Simpson, 2024).
NOTEBOOK: When and how did No Sleep Till begin?
SIMPSON: I’d say it started six or seven years ago, while I was still in school, and I began to feel a lot of nostalgia for Florida. My father's from Florida, and I used to spend so much time down there, only I hadn't been in a long while. It’s a place that always felt like a world of creativity and imagination, and I was really missing it. There was something very fantasy-like about the idea of going back and facing a storm. Only later—much, much later—did I realize that I wanted to do something that wasn't linear so much as circular, because I wanted to show different layers of the area as well as different ways in which one can be vulnerable to a place, in a sense. And I started writing—seriously writing—maybe two years ago. But it was on and off. It was hard to be extremely disciplined with the whole process. I felt like I was writing in a dispatched, dismembered way. Until eventually I started telling people, “I’m gonna make this film.” And at that point I tried to imagine how all these characters could relate to each other. I guess that came from different inspirations. Raymond Carver, Bruce Springsteen… It was a big melting pot.
NOTEBOOK: Raymond Carver? Could you speak more about that influence?
SIMPSON: Well, first of all, there’s the Americana dimension of his books, which brought me back to my own fantasies of Florida. I’m half American, yet I often feel like I share the same approach to the US as many Europeans, an idea of the country that’s partly shaped by the media you consume. And this nostalgic Americana I felt in Carver’s books was something I was looking for to feel like I could long for this place, too. I’m not saying his world and this film’s are in any way similar in terms of space, but I think there’s something quite common between them in terms of boredom and alienation. The characters in Carver’s books are often unaware that they’re in need of connection, and that was extremely inspiring to me. It kind of got me in the mood; I knew this would be the start.
NOTEBOOK: How did the writing unfold then? No Sleep Till is such a polyphonic film; I’d love to hear how you went about crafting so many characters and fleshing them out so vividly. No matter how short their screen time, they all feel three-dimensional.
SIMPSON: That was very scary at first—to have all these different ideas and different characters and not know exactly how it would all work. Scary because, while I didn't want to do something linear, I was also afraid of abstraction. I had to find the right balance. And I think as the story of the two friends, Will and Mike, gradually gained a firmer shape, it allowed me to open up space for the more abstract aspects of the film, especially with regards to June's character and the storm chaser. In the end, all characters fed off each other. I can’t say that I consciously set out to make a collective film. It was just that anytime I started showing a progression in one character’s trajectory, I realized that didn't interest me anymore. I kept wanting to surprise myself, not because I wanted to be provocative, but because that’s what I love most about cinema—being surprised, having to figure things out.
NOTEBOOK: That restraint is possibly the most powerful thing about your film. No Sleep Till doesn’t traffic in traditional, well-rounded storylines, but small shards of personal histories, and it’s all the more evocative for the things it leaves unsaid. But when do you know when to stop? How do you decide what to reveal, and what to keep hidden?
SIMPSON: That's a good question. I think a lot of these decisions happened in the edit room. With June, for example, I knew we would leave her at night, but I didn't want to close her chapter. Same for all the other characters: I wanted to leave them in a way that would suggest no clear conclusions. As if they were going to go back to this cyclical, never-ending loop. Which I think gives them a very ghostlike feeling. It's like their paths will always unfurl in circles. And you choose when to stop tracking this or that character based on all the others you’re following, because in the end they relatey. But these are all choices made in the edit room. Not that the final cut was that different from the script, but it’s such a thin narration and a thin film that these decisions became extremely fragile and important. I edited the film myself, alone, so I had time to try out many ways to leave these characters. But I love this idea of taking off and never, never knowing what will happen next.
No Sleep Till (Alexandra Simpson, 2024).
NOTEBOOK: No Sleep Till was produced, among others, by Tyler Taormina, and I must confess there were moments when your film brought me back to his own portraits of small-town America, not least because you both seem to be concerned with folks who struggle—and often fail—to connect. Which parallels, if any, do you see between your work?
SIMPSON: I’ll start off by saying that I met Tyler through his films. I was in Paris at the time, and I saw the poster for Ham on Rye [2019], and was completely allured by it. The film screened for a week, and when I finally watched it I immediately wanted to hear him talk about it. It was so mysterious and personal. I could feel so close to it that I went online to read about it and found some interviews that he’d given and I instantly wrote to him. It was as if the film had given me the validation I needed—like it showed me I could do this, too. It was extremely exciting. I wrote to him and we met up once he came to Paris for a film festival, where I saw Happer's Comet [2022]. I told him he should watch this short of mine, which was very similar to that film. The way that he plays with atmosphere to translate these emotions that are very hard to pin down within a traditional context really inspired me. And I think there's a resemblance not only between my film and his, but also between mine and [fellow Omnes Films directors] Carson Lund's and Lorena Alvarado’s. There is a common and subtle thread that all of us deal with in very personal ways. But I love [Taormina’s] use of tradition, how he uses some of the codes of American culture and diverts them in a way that feels very existential. We always talk of our films as kindred spirits, he and I. It's a perfect match.
NOTEBOOK: Another trait you two seem to share is a certain flair for the epic-banal. You both like to carve out space for odd, surreal moments; while other films might treat those as mere detours, in yours they seem to amplify the overall oneiric aura.
SIMPSON: Absolutely. There’s something both dreamlike and banal about those moments. The idea of an impending storm, after all, was really just a pretext I came up with to explore them. I wanted to make a film that was, in large part, about hanging out in the face of a looming threat. But I also felt that I wanted to see people dealing with wait and boredom. Which was extremely liberating because that's also what I search for and admire about the films I love. Shortly before shooting began, I rewatched Gerry [2002], by Gus Van Sant. And there’s this scene in the film where the two characters sit by the fire and talk about a video game. It feels like a ten-minute dialogue. And you’re like, “Why is this here? What are they talking about?” But all these small, somewhat banal exchanges give away a lot about their rapport. And I think the way we react to any given situation—whether or not that’s imminent danger—says plenty about who we are. We can talk about Chantal Akerman and other filmmakers who explore this notion of the banal, which is really what interests me, and I suspect will continue coming back whether I want it or not.
NOTEBOOK: How did you allow for these moments to happen? I’m wondering whether they were all scripted, or if they came about organically. Did you leave much room for improvisation on set?
SIMPSON: Everything was scripted. Absolutely everything. As for the dialogue, I’d written it all out, but the actors never learned it. We would meet up in the morning, and only then did they receive their lines. To their credit, they all had a very good memory, which was quite surprising. But it was never really about sticking to the text. They got the intention, understood the breaks, that there were certain things they had to hit. That much they knew. But the rest was their own words. They were free to improvise and sometimes, if I liked some of the choices they made, we’d go with those. Especially for Will and Mike, because a lot of their screen time together is made up of chats—but it’s a kind of non-talking, a way to fill the air. As for the storm chaser, I had written something that was based off the things I gleaned from him, but I really wanted him to use his own argot as storm chaser. And he went crazy with that. There’s probably a five-minute take somewhere of him just reciting these very specific things about the weather. Which I thought was a bit too much. In the end, I had to strike a balance between what they would give me and what I wanted to hit.
No Sleep Till (Alexandra Simpson, 2024).
NOTEBOOK: Sylvain Froidevaux’s cinematography, with its neon-drenched palette, also contributes to that dreamlike quality you were describing. Can you talk about the conversations you had around the film’s looks?
SIMPSON: I definitely wanted to use the image of “Paradise Florida,” which has a reverse side to it: the Florida nights, their chaos, the neon lights, all that happens in the obscurity... Sylvain comes from a documentary background, so he was extremely attentive to what was going on with the actors. Even though we had a shot list and a very precise idea of the things we wanted to achieve, he would always be very interested in their bodies—like the way they would express something, their gestures. And from there we would reorient the camera. We would get to the set—Sylvain, my AD and I—and would put the camera in different places until we found the right one. The three of us were like one body; we would always make these decisions together. And I think that using very old lenses on this very modern camera was what allowed us to break the sharpness, so to speak, the reality. Filming at night posed all kinds of challenges. I was always like, “This is fine, there's some moonlight!” But Sylvain would often be bummed out, because there wasn’t enough light to work with. We had to find ways to add some, but we had very little equipment for that… It was kind of a mix between not knowing how we would make it work and just shooting for something. We had our ambitions and adjusted to the circumstances.
NOTEBOOK: How long was the shoot?
SIMPSON: Twenty-three days.
NOTEBOOK: And how much footage did you end up using in the end?
SIMPSON: I'd say we used two thirds of all we shot. We didn't go overboard too much. We were very intentional, not least because the place was basically dictating how we wanted to shoot. There was this desire to show parts of Florida that were not your stereotypical postcard-friendly spots—the pool you see in the opening shot and then again later in the film, for example, or the souvenir shop, the skate park. Those are all places of my childhood that we had to show in a way that would allow you to feel the place. I don't think we had too much liberty, in the end. We kind of knew where we were going all the time.
NOTEBOOK: It’s interesting to hear you say this because—much like Taormina and Lund—you strike me as a geographical filmmaker. I don’t mean this in any abstract way: I mean that as I left your film, I felt as though I’d lived inside those places, too. Which is all the more impressive considering how many settings you capture. How did you achieve that?
SIMPSON: I think repetition played a crucial role. The film keeps bringing you back to the same spots, but it also shows you what it’s like to hang out there for a long time—at the gas station, for example, where Will and Mike say they feel like they’ve spent the whole night, or the pool, which we keep going back to because June is so drawn to this particular remain from the past. It was a big intention to feel like we were spending time in these chosen places.
NOTEBOOK: And how did you feel about returning to your childhood haunts, and build a story around them?
SIMPSON: It was very strange actually, because I’d never felt more disconnected from the people and places down there than I did while making the film. I was making this big thing and they were all participating, which should have felt like a sort of communion, but it didn’t. I think that when you decide to film something, reality immediately becomes a fantasy. I felt as if I was just watching this place, but not living in it. And it was the first time I really felt a rupture between me and this part of Florida—this town, my family, the people there. It was a very, very strange thing, and it kind of hurt me a bit. By the end I was like, “Did I want this to be the outcome?” I don’t mean it in a bad way. I just didn’t expect it would hit me like that.
NOTEBOOK: I wonder if that disconnect contributed to heightening the longing in the film.
SIMPSON: Perhaps. I think there's certainly a longing for connection in the film, and also a sense of longing for a place that's already evanescent and disappearing. I experienced some kind of longing myself when I was there because it felt as though I couldn't even be inside that world anymore. It was as if it was out of reach for me or something. I'm not surprised that feeling transpired, though of course nostalgia was always something we wanted to evoke. But there comes a point when that just escapes your control, like the way it comes out, you know?
No Sleep Till (Alexandra Simpson, 2024).
NOTEBOOK: Can you talk about your work on sound? You mentioned the film’s loopy quality, and I think the soundtrack amplifies that too. There’s a scene halfway through when the sirens announcing the hurricane blend into this undulating synth piece, which heightens this idea of going around in circles…
SIMPSON: Absolutely. As far as the soundtrack is concerned, including the piece you're thinking of, I wanted it to conjure excitement, because there can be plenty of it in the face of a looming disaster, at least from what I know growing up in Florida. You’d often hear about hurricanes, and there was always this strange thrill around them. And all through this chaotic and very long wait, I wanted to feel some moments of excitement. The film’s characters are all filled with desires; whether they pursue them or not, there’s a certain movement toward something. As for the sounds we captured on set, we were extremely attentive to everything that was very specific to Florida. So the cicadas, the thunder—during the summer there you often get one if not two storms a day, massive storms. So those sounds are very present. And then the wind chimes hanging outside people’s homes. That’s something you constantly hear in these streets. I really wanted to work with what I knew, which were these sounds. We had a great sound recordist who then went on to mix the film as well, and it all blended well with the soundtrack, which can sometimes feel like music and other times not, but it gives a tone all the same. In the motel, for example, there's music playing in the background. I didn't want it to be a score moment in which the music would basically [take] over, but it sets a tone, because it's chosen very specifically. It could be something that people in Florida or in the motel actually listen to. It’s not above—it's within.
NOTEBOOK: Most of the film seems to unfold in liminal places. Motels, yes, but also diners, swimming pools—places where people congregate, but only for a short while. What accounts for your fascination with these transient spots?
SIMPSON: I’ve long been inspired by Chantal Akerman’s A Whole Night, which I think speaks to this very peculiar trait of Florida: the absence of nightlife. It’s such a small town; after 10 p.m. it’s as if nobody lived there. People only exist in their homes. And if you walk around at night and watch people in their homes, which I like to do, there’s this desire that awakens; you want to belong to them. It’s something very strange, to be out and about in the dark and watch people in their intimacy. I wanted to imagine what happens when everybody’s eyes are turned away. Who are these people that choose to remain during the storm? Who are these passing souls? I haven’t seen these people out at night, but maybe I wanted to project them into these unpossessed places—spaces that belong to nobody and everybody at once.
NOTEBOOK: I’d actually planned for this to be the first question: where does the title come from?
SIMPSON: Oh, right. So I made an experimental short a few years back, a seven-minute film of archival footage I’d found, mostly stuff from the seventies and eighties. I’d imagined some people in a town that’s suddenly out of electricity and they’re all waiting for it to return, looking out their windows. And at the beginning you hear a radio that says, “If you’re out of power and things to do, tune on to Radio No Sleep Till!” I showed the short to Tyler, and he thought that would make for an amazing title—he said I should use it for my feature, too. I wasn’t too convinced at first, but then it just stuck. It’s not a strong metaphorical title. I guess it fits because there is no sleep, and lots of waiting. It worked out well in the end.