reality and the world of the imagination is blurred.

S a m u e l s : Mr. Bergman, I'd like to start with a rather general question: If I were asked to cite a single reason for

your pre-eminence among film directors, I would point to your creation of a special world. You are, in fact, very much

like a writer. Why didn't you become one?

B e r g m a n : When I was a child, I suffered from an almost complete lack of words. My education was very rigid; my

father was a priest. As a result, I lived in a private world of my own dreams. I played with my puppet theatre.

S.: And —

B.: Excuse me. I had very few contacts with reality or channels to it. I was afraid of my father, my mother, my elder

brother — everything. Playing with this puppet theatre and a projection device I had was my only form of self-expression. I

had great difficulty with fiction and reality; as a small child I mixed them up so much that my family always said I was a liar.

S.: I want to interrupt you for just a moment. This description of your childhood resembles one classic description of the genesis

of a writer. Was it only the acqident of the puppet theatre that sent you the way of theatre rather than of books?

B.: No. When I began writing I liked it very much. But I never felt that writing was my cup of tea. And I always lacked words; it

has always been very difficult for me to find the word I want. I have always felt suspicious both of what I say and what others say to

me. I always feel something has been left out. When I read a book, I read very slowly. It takes me a lot of time to read a play.

S.: Do you direct it in your head?

B.: In a way. I have to translate the words into speeches, flesh and blood. I have an enormous need for contact with an audience,

with other people. For me, words are not satisfying.

S.: With a book, the reader is elsewhere.

B.: When you read, words have to pass through your conscious mind to reach your emotions and your soul. In film and theatre,

things go directly to the emotions. What I need is to come in contact with others.

S.: I see that, but it raises a problem I'm sure you've often discussed. Your films have emotional impact, but since they are also the

most intellectually difficult of contemporary films, isn't there sometimes a contradiction between the two effects? How do you react

when I say that while I watched "The Rite", my feelings were interfered with by my baffled effort at comprehension?

B.: Your approach is wrong. I never asked you to understand, I ask only that you feel.

S.: And the film asks me to understand. The film continuously makes us wonder what the spectacle means.

B.: But that's you.

S.: It's not the film?

B.: No. "The Rite" merely expresses my resentment against the critics, audience, and government, with which I was in constant

battle while I ran the theatre. A year after my resignation from the post, I sat down and wrote the script in five days. The picture is

just a game.

S.: To puzzle the audience?

B.: Exactly. I liked writing it very much and even more making it. We had a lot of f u n while we were shooting. My purpose was