There is nothing like a woman with a trumpet. I first realised this as a child when I saw the jolly, polite 1953 movie Genevieve take a swerve into swagger. The glorious Kay Kendall gets blotto at a nightclub, makes everyone cringe when she insists on seizing a “plumpet” from a band member – and then plays with brio and skill.
There is a similar moment for the battered character summoned up with unforgettable sweetness by Audrey Brisson in La Strada. The girl puzzlingly described as having an “artichoke face” (does that mean layers?) is tiny and wise and magical: she can foretell the weather. She is also deeply sad. She cannot see the point in living. She has been sold by her impoverished mother to a strongman in the circus (there is a slightly heavy metaphor about breaking chains), who gives her a job banging the drum (literally ) for him. She meets a kind clown who thrills her and the audience by playing the accordion as he spins around on a unicycle, and who gives her a trumpet. It is her ticket to freedom, though not to happiness.
Sally Cookson’s adaptation of Federico Fellini’s movie was first seen at Bristol Old Vic. It swings across the stage with complete freedom, while managing to map some episodes directly from the movie: it is peculiarly desolating to have the news of our heroine’s death delivered by a woman who is pegging out her washing. With bare boards, smoky light and a cast that whips into multiple roles, poverty and making do are ingrained throughout. But so is the idea, finely realised by a cast – which also functions as a band – of rich improvisation. And therefore of possibility.
