Since I was bored in the backyard of my tiny hometown in Tuscany I escaped from it everyday telling myself stories of all types. The problem is that I forgot to draw a line in between reality and imagination and I’ve been living in between the two ever since then.
Movies are the only way that I can involve people in the world that I see.
This is no pink worlds and unicorns, not at all. Already then I used to prefer a secret world where an armless Barbie and a headless Ken worked out twisted stories over black mud Marinara sauce & a squiggly fresh pasta of earthworms topped by crunchy, dead ants.
My whole family would rather "eat the worms" then tell me to stop believing in that reality I created, and for that I will forever grateful. They were just laughing and their laughs rapidly become a dependence, igniting to development of a dark clown inside me that has never left me ever since. The characters in my head couldn’t stop screaming the need of a bigger scenario thus one day, on the edge of a breakdown, I broke into my piggy bank and I bought 293 seats, for me of all of them, to take a plane to San Francisco.
We never stopped since then, from Baker city to China, we followed our stories and we projected them in big screens.
We'll use any media, from stop motion to live action, even a thick Italian accent, to pull you inside our world for a minute.