I still live in the same house in Venice where I was born, a palazzo near the Rialto Bridge, dating from the Renaissance. It was bought in 1911 by my grandfather. I didn’t have to move all my life. I even met my wife, Jane, in the studio. I had the happiest childhood. My father was a TV journalist. My mother worked on books. On one side of the house lived my parents, my older brother, and me; on the other were my grandmother, uncle, aunt and cousin.

My family dates back to the fifth century in Venice. They were wine-makers. Our house was like a museum. Glass from Murano, pottery from Tuscany, antiques from Sicily. Frescoes from the 17th and 18th centuries. All things a boy can break. We had big living rooms — I learnt to ride a bicycle in one — but the bedroom I shared with my brother was so small we made borderlines with tape on the floor.

Venice is always sinking, and vaporettos constantly pass, destroying the foundations of the houses. Owning such a place, we say, is like having a bottomless well. But to us Venice is the centre of the world. It is not a dangerous place, so from a young age I could go to school by myself. I was soon known as the black sheep of the family; everything I did was wrong. The nuns at school were always angry with me; they sent me out of the class and I never understood why. Nuns are strange. But I didn’t care.

There was always a delicious smell coming from our kitchen. My father loves researching Venetian dishes, and I was his willing guinea pig. Sometimes he and the cook would be making lunch: pasta, a second dish, then fruit. There would be melanzane [aubergine], vegetables from the Rialto market, the colours changing with the seasons; and fish — scorpion fish, goby, and schie [small shrimps] for broeto [fish soup].

A lot of wonderful films were shot in our house. Visconti’s Senso in 1954; Eva, with Jeanne Moreau. We had Matt Damon, Gwyneth Paltrow and Jude Law in The Talented Mr Ripley. Nearly all had tragic endings. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s to do with the atmosphere in the house. The light enters like sharp knives.

In Venice there are no cars, you must walk everywhere; it is a city on a human scale. But you are always on a stage. If you’re in a bad mood, it’s in front of everybody, and you must explain why.

The first thing a Venetian must do is learn to swim. I learnt at three. I never fell in, but I was pushed once. I was in a boat, going fast, and my friend pulled the rudder across to stop us crashing — and he pushed me out. It was February.

I went in, but it was not terrible. You can drink a bit of the water and not die.

Anyway, I have this eternal love for the water. For a time I lived in Paris and Rome, making films, and I missed the water badly. I love it that I can see it from my house. It is calming, with its slower rhythm. Maybe it’s the memory of being in our mother’s womb — the movement of the liquid, the freedom. But it can be an enemy too. There was a bad flood in Venice in the 1960s. The water came into our house and covered the ground floor. We had no electricity, but I thought it was marvellous. The flood lasted for 48 hours — people were terrified.

Like my father, I have this title of count, but no real power is attached to it. When the Austrians conquered the city, they gave all the Venetian patrician families the title of count. With a title you gain nothing except rules — behave yourself, be a good example to the public — and duties. The duty is to remember history.

But I hated history. It only came alive for me when I saw it as stories about real people. I did my thesis on our house, and I found documents about it in the state archive, of which my grandfather was the director. I discovered one owner of our house was rolling wine barrels along the road, making a lot of noise, and this landed him in court. It was the black sheep in my family who showed me history. One ancestor in the 15th century had an eye taken out, another was sent into exile for 15 years.

In winter there was a lot of fog in Venice. As a boy I found it charming, but when I was studying architecture there was a time it drove me crazy. I’d been in my studio, working for my exams, and the fog had been hanging around for days. I was sick of it. I decided to make a pact with myself. I had suspected there was a fireplace hidden in the studio, and I said: “If I find it, I’ll finish my exams. If I don’t, I’ll give up architecture and escape to South America — even though my parents will think I am crazy.”

I started at 8am, making a hole in the wall, removing stones one by one. By evening I had uncovered the fireplace.

It had been closed for 200 years, but it was well preserved. It was a wonderful discovery. And so my fate was sealed.

A new series, Francesco’s Mediterranean Voyage, is now showing on BBC2, accompanied by a book and a DVD

Interview: Beverley D’Silva.

Portraits: Isabella Balena

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