La Strada — which translates to “The Road,” though the English-speaking world usually just calls it by its Italian name — is Federico Fellini’s third solo-directed film and his first great achievement. Its roaming-loser melodrama is unremarkable on the surface, yet it accumulates power as the runtime progresses. Its narrative is understated, even ambivalent, as it shirks away from the obvious narrative beats towards unfulfilling anticlimax and tragedy. Its tearjerking twists are all the more gutting because they’re not clearly projected by the plot.

The film has a fabulistic bent to it, as the three main characters each have archetypal properties: Gelsomina, the simple, tender, and loyal woman. Zampano (Anthony Quinn), the inarticulate and brutish but persevering strongman. And Basehart’s unnamed “Il Matto,” the quick-witted and peevish prankster. But Fellini resists the urge to heighten the story. La Strada is much less arch and ornate in style than his later masterpieces. The low-key style fits the bleak subject matter well.

Even though it rarely calls attention to itself, Fellini’s filmmaking here is terrific. It’s an unadorned launching pad for the rich invention of his showy mid-career peaks like 8 1/2, but has plenty of lovely touches nonetheless. In particular, Fellini makes clever use of the relationship between two people in frame and the way this evokes their evolving relationship, whether it’s Zampano lurking, hunched behind Gelsomina during a circus performance, his imposing presence drowning out her whimsy; or, a beautiful shot when Zampano works on a car engine, Gelsomina framed by the hood of the car in the distance, her heart distant and dreamy though she’s still linked to the down-to-earth strongman.

With a few noteworthy exceptions, the on-location shooting takes place in dusty, dreary settings, which makes the few moments of natural grandeur (e.g. a stop at a beach late in the film) even more stirring. The settings add up to a sad postwar Italy sprinkled with beauty and hope if you know where to look.

As with all of his films, Fellini takes time to ponder the spiritual elements of the world surrounding his characters. The film is drowning in Christian themes and imagery. One of the film’s best episodes takes place at a nuns’ convent, which brings out the best and the worst of the film’s characters. When Gelsomina and Zampano are forced to stay in the barn because there’s no spare beds, it echoes the Nativity. But rather than birthing salvation, the evening instead reveals a petty cruelty by Zampano who has no use for the sacred. It’s a pivotal moment in the story, as it dispels the idea that a benevolent narrative force from above will guide these characters to happy endings.

The film is scored by Nino Rota, Fellini’s frequent collaborator. It’s a lovely score built around a recurring theme that starts non-diegetic but gradually seeps into the world, in particular a reveal near the middle of the film’s runtime showing “Il Matto” playing it on a fiddle. The motif becomes symbolic of Gelsomina’s spark for a better life; and the further that dream of happiness falls out of reach, the more tragic weight the tune carries.

The acting is great all around, but my favorite performance comes from Masina, who is becoming one of my favorite actresses. She has one of the best faces in all of cinema, wide and round and expressive. (There’s an amusing runner where characters compare her appearance to bland vegetables, which couldn’t be further than the truth.) Her mannerisms and costuming here pull heavily from Charlie Chaplin’s Tramp. This fits her character, which is naive and tragicomic, the constant victim of bad luck.

La Strada is an inflection point for Italian film. While still heavily rooted in the realistic, political, slightly dreary style of postwar neorealism, it eschews obvious social commentary in favor of a story that’s more introspective and ambiguous. It won the Venice Film Festival’s Silver Lion, beating out the more pure piece of neorealism, Senso by Luchino Visconti. The ceremony broke into a brawl between the two films’ crews and supporters, symbolic of diverging voices in European film.

As with every Fellini film in different degrees, La Strada sprinkles in so much cynicism and cruelty towards its characters that I find parts of it exhausting and beautiful in equal measure. Zampano in particular is an unpleasant brute to spend so much time with. But there’s so much life and heart in the film, its characters and stories so beguiling and compelling despite the humble exteriors, that La Strada is an enduring triumph.

A new married couple honeymoons in Rome, where the groom Fernando’s prestigious family has a busy social calendar planned for the couple. Meanwhile, the meek bride Wanda is excited to be near the filming spot of her favorite racy soap opera, starring the dreamy White Sheik to whom she’s written numerous letters.

The story splits into two parallel threads: Wanda inadvertently sucked into the filming of the soap opera, falling deeper into literalized escapist fantasy; and Fernando, trying to keep his relatives at bay as he searches for his bride.

It all plays a goofy series of misunderstandings that would be hard to take seriously if not for a few redeeming factors: First is the two-pronged satire of romance as a public, performative act. Fellini is equally hard on both of his protagonists, but also the institutions that surround them. He gets some good Truman Show-esque mass entertainment barbs in too.

Fellini also adds some signature visual texture and depth to the movie, with some excellent visual flourishes and a great sense of enveloping Roman spaces.

By casting Alberto Sordi and Brunella Bovo in the leads, Fellini also gets some outstanding facial acting to carry some of the emotion of the film that isn’t always there in the script and scenario.

The White Sheik probably suffers a bit in my estimation because I watched it right after the brilliant Nights of Cabiria — and, curiously, Cabiria has a small cameo in The White Sheik.

I had a decent time with The White Sheik but I look forward to watching some of Fellini’s more serious material.

Cabiria is a prostitute, though the mechanics of her professional life are less important to the film than its thematic implications: Cabiria is constantly facing the clash of romance as a cold transaction versus romance as a gateway to transcendence.

The film’s secondary theme is Cabiria’s attempt at spiritual enlightenment. She finds herself repeatedly drawn to the church and its sacraments, further highlighting the ironies and contradictions in her day-to-day life.

Fellini centers the camera on Cabiria’s face, highlighting her emotional reaction to each encounter. The camera’s luscious, glittering black-and-white photography captures Cabiria’s nighttime wandering of the streets of Rome with grace and beauty. These are truly striking visuals.

I had an absolute blast watching Nights of Cabiria. It’s a delight to look at, and Cabiria and her various foils generate incidents that are tremendously entertaining and symbolically rich.

The biggest problem with Nights of Cabiria for me is that it is so episodic, built not around a cohesive narrative arc but a persistent theme. On the other hand, the movie’s final scene and shot are such a perfect cappers that it ultimately holds the movie together into one glorious whole.