LA STRADA. Federico Fellini’s Tender Masterpiece

These “pathetically petty” matters, which in other cultures might be considered insignificant, are exaggerated and presented with utmost reverence in Fellini’s works. This reverence is evident in La Strada (1954) – Italian for The Road – where the value of a love that is not fully understood but surprisingly tender and warm plays a central role throughout the film. It can be felt in a hundred ways, named a thousand times, but remains constant for all – never indifferent.

I have always believed in the magical power of intertwining literature and film, even the least likely, forcefully created ones. I’ll try to stick to my belief because while watching this small masterpiece by Federico Fellini, two books came to mind due to the similarities in emotional reflection and the rich, albeit unfortunate, Roman world they portray. Why rich? Because despite the post-war poverty and the attempts to rid the remnants of fascism, the “small spiritual worlds” of Italians were rich in all kinds of emotional experiences. The director shows Italy through the eyes of its native inhabitants in a humble, painfully honest light, while the circus absurdity is portrayed with the acquired toughness of the locals.

The first association that comes to mind when looking at the passion connecting the Zampanò-Gelsomina duo is with the novel Under the Volcano by British author Malcolm Lowry. His opus magnum tells a story completely unrelated to that of La Strada, not even thematically similar, but both stories could be connected through the kind of love they depict. In Fellini’s film, we witness the adventures of circus performers, whose somewhat conflicting characters create “attractive divergences.” The characters often separate during their journey but always find each other again. Anthony Quinn plays a relentless strongman, a frustrated drunkard seeking the meaning of existence, sensitive inside, outwardly wearing the mask of Buster Keaton. Meanwhile, Giulietta Masina tries to radiate joy, existing in the film like a doe, quickly gaining the viewer’s sympathy, who develops a “rooting” syndrome for the helpless heroine. What then connects their tireless, colorful souls? Empty, gut-wrenching loneliness.

A similar situation occurs in the writer’s work; in Under the Volcano, we observe the last day in the life of an English consul who – constantly drowning his sorrows after his wife’s departure in hectoliters of Mexican alcohol, mezcal – witnesses her imminent, unexpected return. As we read, we begin to understand that they too are connected by an “invisible bond of destiny,” and like the peculiar pair in La Strada, they cannot love, respect, or feel properly. At the very beginning, Zampanò buys Gelsomina’s help for ten thousand liras. From the first moments, he treats her like an object; after all, he is a strongman, a symbol of masculinity and strength. Beating a woman appears to him as a mechanical reflex, and his rudeness seems almost ordinary. She – defenseless, aware of the situation—begins to love him with a mother’s love, seeing his clumsiness in life, his need for a capable companion. These two pairs – despite the elaborate and inhuman animosities between them – truly understand each other without words. Hence the power of this love. And calling it unclear. It is hard to watch the fate of the cruelly treated Gelsomina, so it will be even harder to ask ourselves whether it was meant to be this way.

The second book that may somehow resemble the fairy-tale, sunny ambiance of La Strada is Tales of Galicia by Andrzej Stasiuk. You might think that the author of this text has gone mad, comparing such diverse cultural works, but let me explain. They are connected by the surprisingly subtle depiction of the world; both Fellini and Stasiuk portray the environment of lower-class people, in such poor neighborhoods and places of residence that one might think there is no hope for any of these numerous individuals. However, these hermetic environments are happy in their caste, yet “mentally elite” places. In La Strada, these are poor circus performers, barely making ends meet, yet deriving real joy from practicing their disciplines. The powerful Zampanò shows his strength by freeing himself from chains, which becomes a metaphor for freeing oneself from oppression, in turn: poverty, isolation, and a surge of anger. Similarly, Gelsomina feels such a huge lack of understanding that only her love for singing and—however pathetic it sounds—her oppressor saves her from committing suicide. With such knowledge of psychological portraits, the last ten minutes of the film become simply understandable… and inhumanly sincere.

In Stasiuk’s work, this world is similar—just as Fellini’s Italy, here the meager topography of the Low Beskids is described according to tradition and with understanding for the inhabitants. These areas acquire, like in La Strada, an idyllic quality, not at all offensive, but rather fascinating in their beauty and simplicity. Both works come close to what is known as magical realism, with the fairy-tale quality introducing a peculiar oneirism. Although Tales of Galicia contains mythic-magic elements, Fellini’s film can create such an effect. At some point, the journey presented feels like an idyllic dream, irrational like the mentioned master-slave relationship. The depicted road leads nowhere, but it continually attracts wanderers. It is an escape from ordinary, boring life. Or a trap, becoming a closed, suffocating journey with no return. Your perspective depends only on you, on your interpretation of the eccentric couple’s fate.

La Strada begins with the depiction of sea waves and ends with it; moreover, Fellini will return to this aquatic motif six years later in La Dolce Vita (1960), although in the sixties, he touches on different, more social themes (or perhaps grapples with creative impotence—subjectively, his best attempt is 8½ (1963) with the outstanding Marcello Mastroianni in the lead). Here, however, the waves and the depicted beach become symbols of the beginning and end of the journey—otherwise, adult life, where there is no place for the warmth of the hearth, but visible bitterness and a journey meant to teach survival in a double world: both dazzling and mockingly deadly. A similar motif of the “road of life,” starting with the sound of velvet waves, was used by Virginia Woolf in her novel aptly titled The Waves. The protagonists experience similar dilemmas as those in Fellini’s film, and the suggestive endings in both works leave a profound numbness deep in the soul.

The grotesque and sorrow in La Strada are based on a simple directorial premise that only true, gentle love can cure a person of existential stagnation. The director adds another, terribly intelligent supposition, which he then manages to film and clearly show—what if people do not want to try to love but prefer to remain in their unfeeling comfort zone?