There’s a stillness before a storm, a quiet so profound it feels as though the world itself is holding its breath. This eerie silence—at once calming and unsettling—is not just a meteorological phenomenon, but an emotional and psychological one. It’s within this hushed interlude that debut director Alexandra Simpson situates her stunning first feature, No Sleep Till, a film that floats like a lullaby and hits like a lament.
Set in a small Floridian town on the verge of an oncoming tropical cyclone, No Sleep Till isn’t your typical disaster movie. Instead of adrenaline-fueled chases or catastrophic special effects, Simpson presents us with a tender, observant, and deeply human portrait of ordinary lives pausing in uncertainty. With mandatory evacuation orders sweeping across the area, some residents choose to leave. Others stay, not out of recklessness but out of a strange, quiet need—to witness, to reflect, to stay grounded amidst chaos.
What Simpson crafts here is not an action spectacle, but a meditation—a tone poem disguised as cinema. The story unfolds slowly, gently, almost imperceptibly at times, as if mimicking the barely perceptible winds before the storm finally breaks. There is no rush, no forced sense of urgency, and certainly no clear-cut resolution. And yet, the emotional impact of No Sleep Till sneaks up on you, much like the storm itself.
A Painterly Vision of a Dying World
One of the film’s most striking attributes is its breathtaking visual language. Shot by Sylvain Marco Froidevaux, the cinematography is nothing short of sublime. Nearly every frame could stand alone as a piece of fine art, bearing resemblance to the carefully constructed photographic worlds of Gregory Crewdson—where everyday life is elevated into the surreal through composition, color, and shadow. There’s a luminous, impressionistic quality to the lighting, as though every object has been gently touched by a brushstroke of humidity or sunset.
This painterly lens doesn’t merely exist for beauty’s sake. It plays a crucial role in building tension through contrast. The mundanity of ordinary routines—washing dishes, combing hair, walking the dog—are made to look ethereal, even magical. And it’s this very beauty that underscores the horror of what’s coming. There’s something profoundly unsettling in the juxtaposition: these lovely, composed tableaus exist on the brink of destruction. The storm is always coming, even if it remains off-screen.
Simpson knows this dichotomy well. Her style is lyrical and immersive, and she relies on mood rather than exposition. Her film is elegiac, not melodramatic; poetic, not preachy. No Sleep Till has a documentary spirit, but a fiction writer’s intuition for emotional detail. It doesn’t just tell us what climate change looks like—it shows us how it feels.
A Narrative That Refuses to Rush
If you come into No Sleep Till expecting high-stakes suspense or an urgent ticking clock, you may need to recalibrate. Simpson’s film defies traditional narrative arcs, leaning instead into the ethos of her collaborators at Omnes Films—the same collective behind the reflective Eephus and the intimate Christmas Eve in Miller’s Point. Like those, No Sleep Till is a “hangout movie” in the best sense: a film more interested in atmosphere than action, in observing people rather than pushing them through a plot.
This is cinema that lingers. It meanders. It breathes.
The early moments of the film ask the audience to surrender expectations. We drift through scenes of everyday life, getting glimpses of characters who might or might not return later. There’s June, swimming slow laps in a backyard pool even as evacuation orders crackle through outdoor speakers. There’s a woman organizing her kitchen cabinets. A man gives his dog a bath. The storm looms off-screen, but life goes on—stubbornly, beautifully, absurdly.
Over time, Simpson starts to guide us toward a more focused set of characters, though even this is done with a certain looseness. Their stories overlap and diverge, and the film remains committed to showing how they live, not just how they respond to the crisis.
Four Lives, Four Echoes of the Storm
At the heart of No Sleep Till are four central figures, each offering a different lens through which to experience the calm before chaos.
First is June, a teenager played with quiet emotional clarity by Brynne Hofbauer. June is not concerned with the hurricane. Her storm is personal: a young man she’s fallen for has left town without saying goodbye, leaving behind only a cryptic letter. Her pain is specific, but universal. In a time when natural disasters are ever more frequent, Simpson reminds us that sometimes, emotional heartbreak can feel like the end of the world. June floats through her days with a melancholy grace, the way young people often do when overwhelmed by love and loss.
Then there’s the storm chaser, played by Taylor Benton, who also happens to chase storms in real life and shares his experiences on TikTok and Instagram. His character provides a unique juxtaposition. While others try to escape the hurricane, he moves toward it, documenting its movement and engaging with locals along the way. There’s an eerie fascination in watching someone lean into the chaos while others recoil. But Simpson avoids turning him into a thrill-seeker; instead, his motivations feel thoughtful, almost philosophical. He listens. He observes. He, too, is affected.
Lastly, we meet Will and Mike—two best friends, part-time comedians, and full-time dreamers—played with vibrant charm and real chemistry by Jordan Coley and Xavier Brown-Sanders. Their scenes inject a much-needed jolt of energy and humor into the film’s contemplative pace. They debate whether to leave town, flirt with the idea of heading north, and fantasize about launching their comedy careers somewhere more promising. Their banter is delightful, their camaraderie real. In their modest ambitions and sharp wit, they represent the resilience of youth, and the audacity of dreaming in the face of uncertainty.
When Will and Mike are off-screen, you miss them. Their presence brings a balance to the film’s tone—a glimmer of joy amidst melancholy, a subtle form of resistance against despair. Through them, No Sleep Till articulates an often-overlooked truth: hope and humor are radical acts in a climate-damaged world.
A Story Told in Tones, Not Twists
Simpson’s film does not end with a bang. There are no climactic heroics, no grand declarations, no sweeping resolutions. And that’s the point. No Sleep Till is about existing within an ongoing tragedy, one that doesn’t arrive suddenly, but builds slowly, sometimes invisibly.
Climate change, after all, doesn’t just crash into our lives all at once—it seeps in through the cracks, infiltrating the background until it becomes the new normal. The flooding becomes seasonal. The power outages predictable. The evacuation orders routine.
Simpson captures that terrifying banality with heartbreaking accuracy. Her characters are not outliers or heroes—they’re us. They’re people trying to go on with their lives in a world that keeps shifting beneath their feet. And in that way, No Sleep Till becomes something more than a movie. It becomes a mirror.
A Bold, Haunting Debut
As a debut feature, No Sleep Till is remarkably assured. Simpson wrote, directed, and edited the film herself, and her voice is unmistakable. This is a filmmaker with a deep sense of place and an even deeper respect for her characters. She doesn’t exploit them for drama, nor does she offer false hope. Instead, she honors their complexity—their contradictions, their smallness, their beauty.
The film might test some viewers’ patience. Its pace is languid, its narrative fragmented, and its style sometimes veers so close to realism it might feel like nothing is happening. But stick with it, and you’ll find a cinematic experience that lingers long after the credits roll.
There’s a spell woven into No Sleep Till, a rhythm and texture that you fall into gradually. The film accumulates its power scene by scene, breath by breath, until suddenly, you realize how deeply it has pulled you in. Like the tide rising around your ankles, you barely notice it until you’re soaked.
Simpson’s choice to end the film without a clear-cut conclusion is both brave and thematically appropriate. After all, the climate crisis has no neat ending. It’s ongoing, unpredictable, and deeply personal. What she offers instead is a mosaic of survival—some literal, some emotional. She shows us how people endure, adapt, and sometimes falter. And in doing so, she makes an urgent political statement without ever raising her voice.
Final Thoughts: A Quiet Masterpiece
No Sleep Till is a meditation on the fragility of everyday life in the face of unstoppable change. It’s about youth and grief, connection and solitude, beauty and ruin. Most of all, it’s about being—about existing in the in-between spaces of time, emotion, and climate.
Alexandra Simpson has not only introduced herself as a filmmaker to watch but has also delivered one of the most evocative portraits of contemporary anxiety in recent memory. In her hands, a tropical cyclone becomes more than a storm—it becomes a metaphor for the collective unease of a generation caught between nostalgia and nihilism, routine and catastrophe.
This is cinema as weather: slow-moving, unpredictable, deeply felt. No Sleep Till might not be loud, but it rumbles beneath your skin, leaving behind the kind of silence that speaks volumes.
