Growing up in Guadalajara, Mexico, my world was a small, often unforgiving landscape. Our neighborhood was poor, and a little dangerous, with cracked pavements, graffiti-scrawled walls, and the constant background noise of sirens or shouting. There wasn’t much in the way of beauty, except maybe the occasional sunset when the sky would flare orange over the rooftops. With my fair hair, light skin, and a bit of extra chubbiness, I stuck out like a sore thumb—an easy target in a place where difference was often met with mockery or worse. Social life wasn’t really an option for me; I was a quiet, watchful, and lonely kid. I didn’t blend in, and I didn’t have anywhere to go that felt safe. And going to the movies? That was something that existed in another universe, a luxury I couldn’t even imagine, like owning a sports car or taking a trip to the moon.
The day that changed my life
Then came seventh grade, and with it, a day that changed everything. It was a summer afternoon, thick with heat, when restlessness pushed me into a small rebellion. I skipped school—my first real act of defiance—and with my heart pounding, I slipped a few bills from my mother’s purse. My hands trembled as I walked to the bus stop, the stolen money burning in my pocket. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to do with it, only that I needed to be somewhere else for a while. Eventually, I found myself outside a movie theater. The marquee letters spelled out E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial.
I’d never set foot in a cinema before. The smell of popcorn hit me first—warm, salty, and strangely comforting. The cool darkness inside was like stepping into another dimension. When the lights dimmed and the first notes of John Williams’ score filled the room, I was gone. Utterly gone. The screen came alive with Elliot, this lonely boy who found a friend in the most unlikely of places: a gentle alien, stranded and misunderstood. It was as if Spielberg had reached into my chest and pulled out my own longing for connection, for someone to see me, to understand me.
For those two hours, the harshness of my neighborhood disappeared. I wasn’t a scared, out-of-place kid anymore; I was pedalling a BMX through moonlit skies, laughing in the face of danger, feeling my heart race as E.T.’s glowing finger promised that “I’ll be right here.” The emotions were so raw, so pure, that I didn’t want them to end. And when the credits rolled, I stumbled out into the afternoon light blinking, almost dizzy. The world outside felt smaller now, as if it could never quite compete with the one I’d just seen.
I couldn’t get it out of my head.
Over the next two weeks, I went back again and again, scraping together coins, skipping more school, finding any excuse to return to that darkened room. In total, I saw E.T. eight times. Each viewing revealed something new: a glance I’d missed, a piece of music that suddenly struck deeper, a moment of silence that carried more weight than words ever could. Somewhere during those repeated pilgrimages, a quiet conviction took root in me: I wanted to tell stories like this. Not just stories to entertain, but stories that could reach into someone’s chest and touch that fragile place where hope and longing live.
Years later…
That conviction is no longer quiet—it’s the foundation of my life. I run a Film School, I organise a festival affiliated with the Raindance Film Festival, and I produce independent films here in Mexico. Every time I walk onto a set, the smell of cables warming under the lights, the rhythmic clatter of the camera rolling, the murmur of crew members in mid-prep—it all sends me back to that first day in the cinema. That first shock of magic.
Why I do what I do
It reminds me why I do what I do. Because somewhere out there, in a small, overlooked neighborhood, there’s another kid who feels invisible.
And maybe, just maybe, one of our films will give them what E.T. gave me: a doorway into another world, a spark of belonging, and the reminder that even in the loneliest of places, connection is possible.
And yes, I’m still trying—always trying—to pass on that same gift.
Because you never know when one story might change the entire trajectory of a life.
Read about the movie Greg Hauptner saw that changed his life:
With 15 years of experience, Andrés Díaz Orozco is a screenwriter, producer, and director with a well-established cinematic vision in Mexico. His most recent work, the short film *Does Anyone Want Coffee?* (2024), reaffirms his role as a comprehensive creator. Previously, his fiction feature film *Páramo* (2018) was recognized at international festivals in Italy, the United States, and England, highlighting his ability to transcend borders.
