THE STORY – Explores the spiritual pain of bullfighting, the tormented torero in a ring, one of the most excessive and graphic examples of the origin of Southern European civilization.
THE CAST – Andrés Roca Rey, Roberto Domínguez, Francisco Manuel Durán & Antonio Gutiérrez
THE TEAM – Albert Serra (Director/Writer)
THE RUNNING TIME – 126 Minutes
It is telling that the first three minutes of Albert Serra’s unflinching new documentary are not devoted to its ostensible subject, Peruvian bullfighter Andrés Roca Rey, but rather to his adversary. In a terrifying close-up, a black bull, expelling steam from his nose on a chilly night, confronts the camera lens and, by extension, us. In this wordless shot, Serra has managed to capture an animal that engenders fear, exudes power, and demands the utmost respect. When “Afternoons of Solitude” finally reaches the bullring, and the bull faces the matador, that power is what we remember.
In some ways, Serra’s first nonfiction film breaks new ground for the Spanish director, whose most recent narrative film, 2022’s “Pacifiction,” won him new fans on the film festival circuit, though not everyone was among them. That film’s long takes and languid pacing were designed to induce a kind of dreamlike quality in the viewer, but here, Serra’s penchant for lengthy shots and repetitive settings, though once again key, are put to much more artistically effective use.
Though only in his late 20s, Roca Rey is a superstar in the bullfighting world, largely thanks to his showmanship and charismatic good looks. Among ring aficionados, in particular, he is also considered one of the best toreros working today for his accomplished skills in the bullring, which are put on full display here. But “Afternoons of Solitude” is not a celebrity biography. Instead, the film takes a sobering look at an ancient ritual that today inflames the passions of fans and foes alike and often has a profound effect on its participants.
Of course, depictions of bullfighting are nothing new in movies, from the glossy Hollywood spectacle (1956’s “The Sun Also Rises”), the artistic meditation (Francesco Rosi’s 1965 classic “The Moment of Truth”), and even the homoerotic angle in Almodóvar’s 1986 “Matador.” Serra, however, approaches bullfighting with an entirely different viewpoint, as something between a religious ritual and a life of combat without end. To achieve that goal, he utilizes his familiar technique of repetition, centering the world of the film to just three main arenas: the hotel room, where Roca Rey gets suited up for battle; inside an SUV that takes him to and from the battle; and finally, the arena itself where combat takes place.
The ritual of getting into the matador’s bejeweled uniform, the “suit of lights,” has a process all its own, not unlike dressing a fairy-tale princess for a royal ball. First, Roca Ray selects his outfit du jour, then pulls his thigh-high pink stockings onto his feet, which will then slip into his highly polished pumps. With the muscular help of his valet, he is hoisted into his taleguilla, the decorative pants that fit as tightly as a corset, and only then, when he is fully costumed, he begins his religious rituals: placing ivory-colored rosary beads around his neck, a kiss on the image of the Virgin Mary, and then a final prayer before heading out to combat.
But this is not before a session of massive ego fluffing in the back seat of Roca Rey’s SUV en route to the arena. Surrounded by his posse, or cuadrilla, he is pumped by his team, whose job includes marveling at the torero’s courage by reminding him just how gigantic his balls are for stepping into the ring with the beast. Certainly, Serra sees the hype men as a source of amusement: whenever there’s an awkward lull in the conversation, someone will chime in with “humongous balls,” and the chatter will start right up on cue. But these scenes serve a pair of important purposes: the hype is used to instill Roca Rey with that extra bit of bravado he’ll need for his first few moments in the ring, and its presence offers an insight into just how central the notion of hypermasculinity has become in Spanish-style bullfighting.
But it’s in the ring where Roca Rey thrives and where Serra’s film comes into its own. In many bullfighting films, the audience is often such a part of the filmmaker’s vision that it becomes a character unto itself. Not so here. Instead, Serra includes very few wide shots of the crowds in the arenas, keeping his camera tight, largely because the filmmaker knows precisely where his drama is: between the matador and the bull (The expert editing is by both Serra and Artur Tort Pujol). In city after city, arena after arena, bull after bull, the tension level remains the same — high — and, after the first time we are shown Roca Rey being gored in the ring, all bets are off. Now, anything could happen on camera.
Though Roca Rey maintains a taciturn game face throughout the film, rarely seen laughing or even smiling, he is a transfixing presence once he steps into the ring. His eyes lock on his bovine adversary, often bulging to get the bull’s attention. When the animal charges, Boca Rey leads him masterfully with his cape work, leading the bull exactly to where he wants it to go, setting the animal up for the final coup de grâce.
In “Afternoons of Solitude,” Serra takes a documentarian’s fly-on-the-wall approach to his story. There are no great character arcs, shots of Roca Rey’s outside life, or talking heads to provide commentary or background. What you see in “Afternoons of Solitude” is what happened on the day, whether it’s pretty or not. How Serra depicts the deaths of the bulls is anything but pretty. Roca Rey’s cuadrilla weakens the bull in advance by stabbing him repeatedly. This paves the way for Roca Rey to perform his artistry, culminating in the use of his sword to kill the bull. Serra’s camera never looks away from the animal’s final moments of life as the bull tries to maintain his balance, eventually falling on his front knees and then toppling over (If a quick death is not achieved, the matador then returns to deliver a final death blow to the fallen animal). Once dead, the bull’s legs are tied, and the animal is ignominiously dragged across the arena floor. As the bull disappears behind the wooden gates, he is forgotten, as Roca Rey rewards the cheering crowds by holding up his trophies: the severed ears of the vanquished beast. It is brutal to watch.
This seeming paradox makes “Afternoons of Solitude” such a potent piece of nonfiction filmmaking. Sierra seems to have two minds regarding his subjects. He clearly admires the enormous skills and sheer showmanship that this young matador brings to the sport, yet he is unsparing in his respect for the dignity of the bull and the undignified manner with which the animal’s bloody body is disposed of after meeting his end at the matador’s hand. Serra seems to suggest that both positions can be taken within one piece of art, as he creates an undeniable link between the torero and his prey. In most films, repetition is seen as a narrative flaw; in “Afternoons of Solitude,” it’s the ultimate point. As Roca Rey repeats his rituals in three locales day after day, he is as trapped in them as any animal waiting in the pen.
Serra’s indecisiveness about his subjects has extended to this reviewer as well. Watching “Afternoons of Solitude” is a thrilling and challenging theater experience, and it’s not one you’ll wish to repeat soon.