If Franz Kafka had done a speedball and wandered into 1980s Manhattan, Sleepwalk might be the fever dream he came back with. Directed by Sara Driver, this nocturnal oddity doesn’t just exist—it seeps, like an oil slick spreading through the back alleys of your subconscious.
Nicole (Suzanne Fletcher, with an unsettling calmness that borders on hypnotic) is a copy-shop drone who gets pulled into a bizarre side hustle: translating an ancient Chinese manuscript. That sounds innocuous enough, but don’t be fooled—this document doesn’t belong in the real world. As Nicole unravels its secrets, it starts to unravel her. Reality shifts. Shadows grow teeth. And New York City, already chaotic and otherworldly, begins to warp into a waking nightmare.
Minimalist but hallucinatory mundane urban grit with surreal undercurrents
Driver’s direction is minimalist but hallucinatory, pairing mundane urban grit with surreal undercurrents. The city is a character here, a neon-soaked labyrinth where nothing feels quite right. It’s a place where strangers (like a young Steve Buscemi) drift in and out, and where the line between dreams and reality is so thin it practically begs to be torn.
The cinematography by Jim Jarmusch and Frank Prinzi is stark, gritty, and drenched in the kind of late-night haze you’d expect from a film shot under flickering streetlights. The soundtrack by Phil Kline is a spectral hum, a quiet, insidious presence that creeps under your skin.
Sleepwalk isn’t interested in coherence or comfort—it’s an experience, one that feels like falling into a deep, unsettling sleep where the rules no longer apply. It’s about the strange allure of the unknown, the creeping dread of losing control, and the unnerving realization that maybe you were never in control to begin with.
Nominated for the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance (1987), this is one of those films that defies easy explanation or categorization. It’s haunting, perplexing, and oddly beautiful—like finding a crumpled Polaroid of a nightmare you don’t quite remember having. Watch it late at night, but be warned: Sleepwalk doesn’t end when the credits roll. It lingers, like smoke in your lungs.
