Strangers.

A family seen at two different periods, some 40 years having passed between the two. A dysfunctional family marked by what used to be called an ugly illness, cancer and death. The characters quarrel, hate each other, and refuse to accept in their predecessors what they will eventually, inevitably repeat in themselves. A family marked by relations of rejection, love and hate of the other, the upstairs neighbors, those strangers from a far-off land, Andalusia in the 1960s, Morocco at present, who will also form part of this repetitive game that is life. To what point is everything a metaphor or symbol of our society? Are we really strangers to ourselves?