Bergman and Antonioni in Purgatory

Antonioni: Christo, karma is truly a bitch, much like yourself, Herr Bergman. We appear well-suited to drive each other insane forever and ever. How terribly rich (yawns).

Bergman: (stage whisper) God, must you torture me again with doubt?! Do you prove your existence by shackling me for all eternity with this...this...fashion photographer, or is it merely a heedless universe's cruel impartiality? No, that's not it...is it...something worse?

Antonioni: Que cacarella, listen to you. Tell God I have nothing to say.

Bergman: I see you've finally been listening to your critics, Signor. Now, if only you'd listened to them before you made Zabriskie Point...

Antonioni: Tut. Just because I dropped acid with the Panthers and got blown by the Plaster Casters is no reason to be a spoil sport. It is, you might say, a film of its time, rife with the era's...inertia. Whereas you spent the late sixties in some kind of Fruedian tailspin, wolfen passions and shames and what have you. I showed the uselessness of it all. You were merely useless...

Bergman: Useless, was I? That was a Jungian tailspin, thank you, unleashing an archetypal unconscious in Hour of the Wolf, along with cinema verite real-politics providing different archetypes of modern war in Shame. There's only one use for hippie porn and exploding the most vapid Technicolor commodities imaginable to the accompaniment of Pink Floyd isn't what I mean...acid with the Panthers. You wish.

And so on in this imagined sketch by James Keepnews