Based on a true story

It all began when I was six, with a borrowed VHS of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca (1940). I was drawn to it because my mum had told me I was meant to be named Rebeca—until the day I was born, when my dad decided instead to honour my Italian grandmother, Irene (pronounced ee-reh-neh). For years, I was convinced I looked more like a Becky, and that destiny had been diverted by a last-minute burst of ancestral pride. But names aside, what really stayed with me was the film itself. I became obsessed, watching it over and over. Luckily, I was still too young to have friends to inflict it on—unlike later years, when I repeatedly subjected my poor friends to Who Framed Roger Rabbit, The Shining, and Dancer in the Dark. Sorry, chicas!

Fast forward a few years, and I graduated with a B.A. in Film Studies at the Università di Bologna. Bewitched by the fragility of a medium already slipping into obsolescence, I took up a placement at the Cineteca di Bologna, where I learned the delicate craft of archiving, restoring, and conserving celluloid at the famed L’Immagine Ritrovata labs.

On the consequences of playing the 90s video-game Steven Spielberg’s Director’s Chair

I returned to Spain to earn an M.A. in Film Directing, directed a handful of shorts we don’t talk about, and began working in film production—mainly as an assistant director. I loved the painstaking magic of making dreams tangible on screen, and the strange, unbreakable family that forms when you spend fourteen-hour days, six days a week, in unfamiliar places with total strangers. Places you know intimately during production, but that would feel utterly alien if a UFO dropped you there years later.

The stress and physical demands of the job started taking a toll on my health from my very first professional shoot. I was a production assistant, all 153 cm of me, tasked with blocking off roads at night for the second unit of a Hollywood action movie involving car stunts and explosions.

At 3 a.m., an irate neighbour—furious that I was preventing him from making a spontaneous exit—decided to take revenge. First, he nearly ran me down with his car, then retreated to his window, from which he hurled a barrage of insults accompanied by a rain of bare CD-ROMs. Not even good CDs, mind you—those flimsy demo discs that used to come free with magazines. The insult stung twice: once in the moment, and again when I realised the story wasn’t even glamorous enough to make a proper memoir anecdote.

If this was my dream come true, why was it making me unwell?

I needed a role that gave me breathing space: the chance to step away from the screech of the walkie-talkie pressed against my ear; to use the makeshift WC when my body—not the production schedule—decided it was time; and to conserve energy by not having to be my most socially adept self for fourteen hours straight.

The answer came in the form of a revelation: training as a continuity supervisor at the London Film School. On paper, it suited me perfectly. I’m highly organised and have meticulous attention to detail—at least when something captures my interest. In practice, I also have an appalling attention span and tend to drift off into daydreams the moment silence falls (in film terms: right after the call of “rolling!”).

As I later realised, that organisation I prided myself on was really a coping mechanism—something I developed early in life to mask and “pass” under the neurotypical radar. Even so, I found myself much more at ease in continuity: it allowed me independence, a defined role, and a socially acceptable excuse for being the introverted fly on the wall I’d always been.

Before the Eruption: Roberto’s Legacy

Ever my champion, my dear friend and mentor, the late filmmaker Roberto Pérez Toledo - was the first to place his trust in me as a script supervisor, on his debut feature Seis Puntos Sobre Emma. He was, and still is, an inspirational figure in my life - the person I would choose to have dinner with again if granted that wish.

Roberto doesn’t receive nearly enough recognition for the tracks he left behind. He was a pioneer of LGBTQI+ and integrated disability representation in Spanish cinema, years before it became part of the wider conversation. If you’re reading this, either I’m not as terrible a storyteller as I once convinced myself I was (following an unfortunate run-in with a scriptwriting tutor), or you’ve given me a little of your time. If it’s the latter, I invite you to watch Roberto’s final short film, Antes de la Erupción. Few legacies feel more powerful than its central metaphor: the quiet volcanic landscape of our native Lanzarote, and the eruption of self-acceptance as a force of nature.

I didn’t fully realise how deeply working with Roberto had shaped my awareness of accessibility in film production until a decade later, after discovering my own disabilities. Looking back, I realised my struggles in the industry might have been eased if long-held assumptions about “standard practice” had been questioned. Roberto had been quietly modelling that kind of questioning all along.

Plot twist!

In 2010, I landed a job coordinating the Lanzarote International Film Festival, and that’s when I truly fell in love with connecting with audiences.

From there, I began programming for several festivals, such as Cork International Film Festival, Underwire, Raindance and later joined the very first Film Studies Programming and Curation MA cohort at the National Film and Television School. During my studies, I had the privilege of working with the British Film Institute Southbank programming team and curating seasons in collaboration with institutions such as the Japan Foundation and the Korean Cultural Centre.

Somewhere along the way, my passion for Japanese cinema grew into a specialism, and East and Southeast Asian cinema became my area of curatorial expertise.

Today, I continue working on curatorial projects and I am also an honoured CICAE member, and, quite possibly, the proudest BIFA voter to ever exist.

Cut to: Inclusion

Over time, my career in film gave me not only incredible experiences but also a deeper understanding of its barriers. My own diagnoses and later chronic illnesses forced me to confront how inhospitable the screen sector can be for disabled professionals—and by extension, for disabled audiences. That realisation marked a turning point: I didn’t want to just adapt to a system that wasn’t built for people like me, I wanted to help change it.

That’s when I moved into access and inclusion work—bringing together my background in film programming with my lived experience. What began as a personal need became a professional mission: to help cinemas, festivals, and cultural spaces create environments where access is not an afterthought, but an integral part of the experience.

In 2022, I qualified as an Equality, Diversity and Inclusion trainer with the Creative Diversity Network. Since then, I’ve been delivering online training sessions on reasonable adjustments, accessible productions, and disability inclusion, helping organisations create environments where everyone can thrive.

I continue to develop my skills and learning through training, research, and collaboration with others in the field. Today, I carry this work forward through consultancy, workshops, and curatorial projects, always with the aim of building a screen sector where access and belonging are the norm, not the exception.