When people talk about Cinecittà, for some reason they often associate it with me, as they associate circuses with me. And when I think about it in the right way, these things are identical. Sometimes people identify me with Cinecittà and circus life to the point where I am assigned direct responsibility, as if I had invented them both, as if I had raised the tents and built the studios.

For example, I have not infrequently been called upon to act as the host when a celebrity visitor has been expected at Cinecittà.

One visitor was Ingmar Bergman, who was discussing plans to shoot a film at Cinecittà. Pasqualone Lancia, then the head of the studio, phoned me up, full of worry and anxiety, and asked me to participate during the round of visits.

It was drizzling. Pasqualone had a mini-umbrella and was wearing a raincoat reaching down to his ankles that made him look like a priest, a fat rural dean. Bergman had on a miserable short raincoat; like in the military, his hair was clipped short far up the sides and on his neck. With his hands on his back, he walked with long steps like an inspector à la Kierkegaard or Beckett; he walked ahead without listening to what Pasqualone was mumbling under his umbrella.

It was a vision reminiscent of a poorhouse, a hospital, a prison. At the front of our party marched a large dog, occasionally turning around and looking at us sadly. Outside the canteen, the usual group of electricians and extras hung around waiting for jobs.

It felt difficult to explain to Bergman–whose penetrating and feverish look made him resemble a medium in a trance–the presence of this crowd of people, who stood there dressed in rain gear like deep-sea fishermen, frantically talking and smoking.

Otherwise, Ingmar had immediately shaken his head when he was asked if he wanted to go in and have a cup of coffee.

So we continued, and looked around while avoiding giant puddles, the gloomy studio buildings marching past us.

Until Bergman, completely unexpectedly, asked to see the lavatories.

Pasqualone looked at me, eyes glowing with desperation. The reason is that in Italy, the lavatories in any public building hardly inspire people to favourable comments, but the lavatories at Cinecittà were really indefensible.

It was raining there too: in this dreary space with worn-down corridors and maltreated doors, we could also hear the wine-patined bellowing of someone singing "birimbo, birambo" from one of the closed booths, accompanied by streaming water and groaning like a locomotive.

To save the situation, which was already so compromised, I came up with the idea of suggesting to Pasqualone a visit to the pool.

Soon we were all in front of this cement ruin, this panorama of ruins that had passed as scenery in La chute de la maison d'Usher. In the drizzle, which had become more and more persistent, Bergman suddenly pointed with a long finger toward an area of still water at a corner of the pool, where beneath the rain-rippled surface one could see myriads of small creatures resembling a Sumerian alphabet whirling around each other with the speed of bacteria.

Bergman had crouched down, and with a beautiful smile he talked about tadpoles. Pasqualone Lancia discreetly withdrew, so as not to disturb this secret dialogue between two film directors.

Nowadays Cinecittà is a production unit with ultra-modern equipment, up to international standards. But it has the same function now as when Bergman visited it: to be a place where dreams are created, a zone for the subconscious. A Mystery.