The Loneliness of the Bullfighter
The most frequently used word in the new film by director Albert Serra is “balls,” but almost as frequently used is “truth.” Following the killing of a bull in which the subject of the film, the young Peruvian bullfighter Andrés Roca Rey, took near-insane risks with his own life, a member of his team approaches to embrace him. As the crowd roars in the background, we hear the teammate shout with emotion to Roca Rey, “La vida no vale nada! La vida no vale nada! Nada! Que cojones tienes!”
I found this moment a perfect encapsulation of the world of bullfighting as I have come to understand it: unique masculine intimacy; admiration for suicidal risk and disregard for life itself; and a preoccupation with balls. I, myself, have heard men in the stands at bullfights point to bullfighters in the ring and remark approvingly, “This guy wants to die!” to express their satisfaction many times–but not as many times as I’ve heard them talk about cojones.
Later, in the van which transports the bullfighter and his team–his cuadrilla–to their respective hotels, the cuadrilla continually repeats to Roca Rey that he showed “truth” in the ring and killed the bull “truly.” It’s a word we will hear again and again–but not as many times as we will hear cojones.
The film in question is Afternoons of Solitude, a documentary directed by Catalan director Albert Serra. Having previously won prizes at Locarno and Cannes for his fictional films, Serra has now won the Golden Shell, the top award at the San Sebastián film festival for his first documentary. Afternoons of Solitude profiles Andrés Roca Rey, who in recent years has become the most-admired bullfighter in Spain. The film had its North American premiere last week at New York Film Festival. The film is intensely intimate, with the unobtrusive camera capturing every facial expression of the quiet, serious bullfighter as he prepares for bullfights, returns from them, stands on the sidelines, and fights the bulls. The lush shots show the beauty of the bullfight and the pain and suffering of both man and bull. Lavaliere microphones capture every whispered word between Roca Rey and his cuadrilla as they strategize and recover in the ring and out of it. Most of all, the film captures the contrast between the immense emotion and risk in the ring and its repetition, afternoon after afternoon, in towns across Spain.
Roca Rey is a fascinating subject. In fact, the director explained after the screening that he had originally filmed two different bullfighters but had decided to focus on Roca Rey, whom he described as “photogenic in a spiritual sense.” Roca Rey barely speaks in the film, and when he does it is only about bulls. Rather, we see serious, almost pained reactions on his face as everyone around him showers him with praise. It is significant that the praise is deserved–at 27, he is the best bullfighter working today, and his style unites elegance and stoicism with a truly astonishing capacity for risking his life in dangerous suertes few other bullfighters would attempt. Born and raised in Peru, he is not from one of the famous bullfighting families in Spain which produce lineages of bullfighters generation after generation.
Before going any further, the basics: yes, bullfighting is cruel, but significantly less so than the industrial process by which we raise animals for meat in America. No, bullfighting is not for everyone, and yes, it now attracts some controversy in Spain and Latin America on grounds of animal cruelty. Bulls for the bullfight are raised on vast ranches in Spain, where they grow up surrounded by their family and herd. By law, each bull can be fought only once--the first time it enters the ring is also the last time. Regional authorities set time limits for the period the bull can remain in the ring, around 20 to 30 minutes. At the end of this period, it must be dead or, in the language of bullfighting, indulto, meaning formally pardoned and allowed to return to its ranch to breed.
I attended my first bullfight nearly 15 years ago, when I was an art student studying in Barcelona. I met a Spanish architecture student in a bar and asked him if he knew anything about bullfighting because I wanted to see it. “Look no further,” he replied, “because I am an expert.” This turned out not to be true, but we attended a bullfight together, and then several more. Reader, I married him. Since then, I have attended perhaps two dozen bullfights, in both Spain and Latin America.
One pauses before writing about bullfighting the way one would pause before writing about fishing or big game hunting–Hemingway has gobbled up so much material. And indeed, the most arresting element of the film was the way the men (there were no women) spoke like characters from a Hemingway short story. In the film’s most dramatic scene, Roca Rey is pinned against the barrier of the bull ring by an attacking bull. As his body nearly disappears behind the giant mass of the animal’s body and the swing of its horns, it seems certain he has been gravely gored. However, he emerges moments later from between the bull’s horns. His clothing is torn, and his face and exposed thigh are covered in blood. He is clearly injured and dazed, but he is still upright. Refusing the help of his cuadrilla, he finishes the task of killing the bull before a now-delirious crowd.
Back in the van with his cuadrilla, the men speak in the language and style of Hemingway characters–terse and repetitive “Que grande eres,” repeat members of his team, “que cojones tienes, to which he replies, “He tenido suerte.” One dazed man says again and again, near tears, speaking of the moment of the attack, “Qué impotente me sentí…que impotente…” After the van drops Roca Rey at his hotel, the shot continues. In one of the film’s most powerful images, his absence fills the screen–we see only a huge, empty car seat surrounded at the edges of the frame by a few small faces of men in the back seats. “Qué impotente me sentí,” repeats the sad banderillero. More relaxed and direct without the godlike Roca Rey in the car, the men decide to buy some beers to drink in their hotel room.
When speaking after the film, Serra repeatedly used the word “tension,” which is perhaps a way to avoid using the word “fear.” The two most interesting moments of the film are these moments when the immense tension, sustained almost continuously throughout the film, breaks–in the scene in the van, and in an elevator. Dressed in the pristine suit of lights which will soon be covered in blood (his own or the bull’s, depending on his luck), Roca Rey leaves his hotel room at the Ritz in Madrid, accompanied only by one trusted man who has helped him dress. As they wait for the elevator, which takes a long time to come, in the blandly luxurious hotel hallway, the unreality of the scene becomes almost comical–a golden-garbed Quijote from the 17th century and his faithful Panza, dropped into the banality of the 21st century. When the elevator finally arrives and they step inside, we see the blanched, almost frighteningly focused face of Roca Rey, who is clearly thinking of the bulls. “This elevator is really slow,” he finally says, breaking the tension and drawing laughter from the audience.
As the director pointed out, most of the members of cuadrillas are themselves failed bullfighters–they were never able to capture the attention of the public or display the skill, bravery, and technical mastery of the men who become well-known toreros. Therefore, their open admiration for Roca Rey is both hard-won–they have been in his position and know what it means–and creditable–they are not jealous that he has what they wanted.
There is a lot of talk right now about masculinity, especially in politics–is Doug Emhoff a model for masculinity? Is cheating on your wife with a nanny disqualifying? Is slapping a woman? What about JD Vance? Does a real man speak publicly about childless cat ladies or sport such outrageously lush eyelashes? The world of bullfighting, for an outsider and an Anglo-Saxon, provides a model of masculinity that is far more complex than the mid-century Hollywood ideal of the sexy toreador (in his opening remarks, the director called all previous attempts to depict the world of bullfighting in fictional films “bullshit”).
More than a simple display of macho masculinity, bullfighting presents a sort of thesis-antithesis form of manhood. There is a saying in the world of tauromaquia that a man has to dress as a woman to confront death, and it is true that the traje de luces–the suit of lights–that bullfighters wear is self-consciously feminine. Made of silk in colors like royal blue, magenta, and silver, they are covered in golden embroideries of flowers. Beneath the suit of lights, the bullfighter wears pantyhose to hold his genitals close against the body and bright pink embroidered socks. The footwear for professional bullfighters looks like ballet slippers. To see a man in the bullring is to see a presentation of the male body–its beauty, power, and vulnerability–that I have seen nowhere else. Like a dancer, the bullfighter turns and gestures in front of the crowd to show his form. Like an athlete, he exhibits strength and control over his body. Like no one else, he kills and offers himself to death in an act of physical domination and spiritual submission. In the ring and on the sidelines, he embraces, touches, and whispers to other men in a physical intimacy that is unique to men who risk their lives together.
Speaking after the film, Serra referred to the moment in which Roca Rey’s teammate had shouted “La vida no vale nada!”
“Life,” Serra said, “is lived by actions, not only words. As he says in the film, life is worth nothing alone–you have to do something with it. The idea of bullfighting is to sacrifice life for nothing–not for nothing–for a ritual, for a symbolic ritual, the cycle of life, death, and fate. But, of course, it is at the limits of the absurd.”
For followers of bullfighting, this confrontation with one’s own mortality through the avatars of the bullfighter and the bull is the point of the art form. For those who are not fans, but whose minds are open to the experience, Afternoons of Solitude provides a dazzling entry into the strange, spiritual, and, yes, sometimes absurd world of bullfighting.
Jennifer May Reiland is an artist and set designer in New York City whose work focuses on history and religious experiences, drawing inspiration from artists of the middle ages. You can follow her at @jennifermayreiland on Instagram.
