Why is it that in the nation of Spain, a nation whose siestas evince a clear cultural supremacy over their efficiency-imprisoned neighbors, regularly invites very shiny men to pierce and kill bulls in front of a cheering audience? The Iberians have long defended the corrida de toros, or bullfight, against accusations of barbarism from Enlightenment intellectuals and of animal cruelty from liberalized nations who believe they’ve rid themselves of bloodsport, but the attitude these days is one of reactionary pride. Of course, so this logic goes, bullfighting isn’t a product of “European civilization,” but its refusal to compromise with a polite pan-European ethic is exactly what gives it meaning. On the other hand, most folks outside Iberia misunderstand the appeal of the corrida. Within it is a secret history of Europe: its Mediterranean bull-cults, its religious theater-spectacle, and its militaristic displays with and against its southern neighbors. Nobody who respects the corrida calls it a sport; it is, as Hemingway once put it, “the only art in which the artist is in danger of death.”
Catalan Albert Serra has no interest in defending his passion for the corrida against the outsiders’ centuries-old accusations. Instead, his first nonfiction film, Afternoons of Solitude, documents this practice without commentary or context, so that, no matter their reading of the events themselves, the audience must admit that this is neither Bugs Bunny’s performance in Bully for Bugs (1953) nor an act of wanton bloodlust.
Serra’s film catalogs the rituals, dress, and performance of Peruvian matador Andrés Roca Rey as he, yes, dresses as a shiny man and kills bulls. These displays are as violent as protestors promise: over half the film’s running time features bleeding bulls that will die onscreen. But, in lieu of sport’s competitive need to cause as much violence as possible, the wounds inflicted here are highly ritualized. First, the picador on horseback goads the bull to attack his steed’s protective clothing, allowing him to lance the bull’s neck muscles, forcing it into a straight charge. Then, the banderilleros barb the bull with sticks to enrage him; his face-off with the matador will thus be predictable, uncoordinated, but fierce. Finally, the matador (literally Latin for “killer”) dances with the bull with the aid of his muleta, or cape, only to place himself in the center of the bull’s charging path to strike him with a fake sword. Almost as an afterthought, a real sword is used to pierce through the bull’s spine, killing it. In Afternoons of Solitude, there are no singular grand moments in the ring, no drunken cheers of victory or vulgar taunts that one finds in a football match. Even the momentary cheers of “olé!” after each withdrawal of the crimson muleta sound closest to the “amen” of religious affirmation. There are no points and no incentive to cause further violence than what the ritual demands. Any competition among matadors is akin to that of directors at a film festival where skill may matter, but beauty matters more.
Protestors against the corrida likely won’t find arguments for a meaningful, ritualized violence more appealing than those for bloodsport. Child sacrifice also has a rich, meaningful history. But, while I would love to affirm my fellow non-Iberians’ feelings about even beautiful violence having no place in our world, Rey’s performance in this death ritual is among the best acting committed to screen this decade. Out of the ring, Serra captures him in moments between anticipation and meditation: bright balls of sweat dot his face while his eyes venture into middle-distance. He silently dons his traja de luces (”suit of lights”) with a clear reverence for the dressing ritual that’s instantly undermined by his squire’s wrestling his taleguilla all the way up his body like a parent stretching a onesie over their baby. In the ring, he plays a kabuki imitation of a mad rooster, his chest lifted up and exerted out with his back bent as if modeling a concave lens. Before he delivers his final blow, he purses his lips into a silent and cartoonish mid-shout and fixes that stare from his habitual middle-distance to the small of a charging bull’s back. There’s a bizarre grace to his dance, pantomime, and occasional call-and-response that feels preternatural, sharing blood with Oedipus Rex or the rituals of the Eleusinian Mysteries. This is a nonfiction film, yes, but to quibble about his performance here would be pedantic and wrong — like any rockstar, Rey constantly plays the role expected of him.
That said, it’s also easy to forget that Afternoons of Solitude really is a nonfiction film. Serra-veteran cinematographer Artur Tort uses three camera operators to shoot full coverage of each corrida, but, where a typical crew might constantly shoot verité versions of master-, medium-, and reverse-shots, this production opts for cowboy shots and close-ups. The result is a jarringly clear portrait of Rey’s pliant face, which may suddenly cut to an impressionistic bolt of blood-red and bull-black. With Rey’s silent movie face-based storytelling and Serra’s editing, there’s no need for a master shot. In fact, there’s very little need to cut at all. Most shots only end when a subject has completely left the frame or when a sudden change of perspective might emphasize moment; and, even then, Serra will deliberately hold for two beats longer than expected just to create further tension. Similarly, Ferran Font and Marc Verdaguer’s ominous score creeps in to serve as counterpoint for the few moments of relaxation and a harmony for Rey’s measured anticipation; in the ring, no music plays, but occasionally some isolated commentary referencing his cajones comes through.
The movie is simply this: Rey dresses, he convenes with his fellow toreros in his limo, he waits to fight the bull, he fights the bull. Then, it repeats. Serra strips bullfighting down to its aesthetic and ritualistic components — a fan’s excited knock on the limo is the only indication of an outside world — but doesn’t shy away from what’s obviously made it one of the most controversial European events. This allows us to ask a more interesting question than the one that led this piece: what is bullfighting? The famous female matadora Conchita Cintrón likened it to a morality play, stating that “within its small circle one finds life, death, ambition, despair, success, failure, faith, desperation, valor, cowardliness, generosity, and meanness — all condensed into the actions of a single afternoon or even a single moment.” In the film’s bloodiest moments, it reminds of the work of Actionist artist Hermann Nitsch, who staged recreations of Catholic processions by replacing the relics and sacraments with desiccated animal parts and blood. If bullfighting is an art, it’s one that’s inseparable from its religious roots, where sacrifice and death accompanied public spectacles in an ancient Theatre of Cruelty. Afternoons of Solitude asks us to reconnect with that uncomfortable history, one that perhaps all art shares.
Published as part of NYFF 2024 — Dispatch 4.
