Albert Serra’s “Afternoons of Solitude” is a committed, unflinching chronicle of poetic brutality. Or, is it brutal poetry? It’s the most violent and ruthless film I’ve ever seen, unapologetically depicting the guts and glory of an ancient, iconic sport and the fanatic culture that enables it. But while squirming for relief in the theater—convincing myself to leave, then stay—I eventually settled into the repulsion and discomfort of watching real-life bullfighting footage, calculating that the sum total of all the sequences would be greater than each stomach-turning frame. Admittedly, “Afternoons” was an experience to be endured, rather than enjoyed, especially in those excruciating bullfighting scenes. Personal squeamishness aside, Serra’s nonfiction debut is an astonishing achievement in documenting and staying out of the way. It’s a singular provocation that could only exist—and adequately serve its subjects and all associated stakeholders—in this gory, grueling gonzo-journalistic symphonic form.
Acknowledging my own limitations and threshold for blood and slaughter, I still can’t quite decide who Serra is making this film for, and for what purpose. In profiling the legendary twenty-nine year old torero Andrés Roca Rey, Serra makes a meal of his subjects—including, but not limited to, Roca Rey, his colleagues, the fans and of course, the bulls—without the slightest hint of editorializing. Presenting each afternoon as just another day at the office, Serra and his Cinematographer Artur Tort (Serra and Tort also co-edited the film), observe yet rarely tip their hand towards a greater purpose or thesis statement. After all, filmmaking is their job, not moralizing, and sticking to what they know means they can leave room for Roca Rey and his people to do what pays their bills.
Of ‘Glory’ and Solitude
Peacocking around the bullfighting ring, Roca Rey resembles less a vision of Hemingway-ian masculinity than a humorless, regimented Sally Bowles. Jutting his hips out and pursing his lips, Roca Rey evokes a decadent rodeo clown, but the uninitiated bullfighting viewer is cued to his brilliance by both the pandemonium of the cheering fans and his complimentary sidekicks, who reliably pad his ego, declaring Roca Rey “one of the greats!” with “big balls.” Any vulnerability is explained away or ignored (“That bull wasn’t right!”), at least until Roca Rey is out of earshot, and the same men who told him “fuck the critics” become Monday-morning quarterbacks about their courageous boss’s every move.
Still, for all the pageantry and team spirit surrounding this daily spectacle, it’s worth considering the second half—solitude—of the film’s title, and to whom it applies. Pondering this, I can’t shake a heartbreaking image of a doomed bull in center stage, entering the ring, as the entrance door slams shut behind it. This isn’t the first fighting scene, but it’s the only one that shows the lonely bull trapped, unwittingly galloping towards a painful, thankless death. And since it’s not the first fighting scene, it’s all the more devastating knowing what lies ahead for this confused creature who’s there to serve, entertain, and then bleed out until its last breath.
An Unflinching Chronicle of Poetic Brutality
As for the humans, Serra deliberately provides no window into their inner lives. All that matters to him—and, for the purposes of the film—and to them is the sport, the camaraderie of competition, the addictive rush of performing and going in for the kill. Those same picadors who torture and taunt the bulls, weakening them so Roca Rey can deliver the final sword to the skull that ultimately fells the animal, are only shown in conversations related to their work. And when the bulls have the temerity to stay alive after repeated deep stabbings, the enraged members of the entourage curse at the animals, screaming for them to die and “Go join your fucking cow mother!”
Boys will be boys, and sometimes they’re also morons, but Serra doesn’t play these moments for comic relief or shock value. If the primary motivation for making this film wasn’t obvious to me, there are fleeting suggestions outside the fighting arena. Serra and Tort allow themselves some fun spying on Roca Rey in his hotel room, inviting us to join in on the peeping. The routine of getting dressed so elaborately and fabulously—decked out head to do in pearls, sparkles and shoulder pads—conjures a satire of a Hollywood starlet’s beautifying routine, or, in Roca Rey’s case, a life-sized sausage being stuffed into its casing. So, despite a surface plot description of “Afternoons” presenting itself like a gritty yet philosophical bit of Herzog-ian docufiction, Serra’s mischievous storytelling fits more squarely into the creatives universes of Pier Paolo Pasolini’s naughty, absurdist cinema or Todd Solondz’s horrifying humanist tragi-comedies.
The Agony and Fatality of Defeat
Following the mysterious, often breathtaking anti-thriller “Pacifiction” (2022), Serra has leapt daringly and without a parachute into his documentary debut. Tort, who won a César for photographing that sumptuous film, contributes to a scrupulous vision which demands instant audience feedback. The object of their project is to call it like they see it, remaining behind the camera and letting the performers tell the full, uncensored and often nightmarish story. A viewer will approach this film armed with certain preconceived notions and worn-out descriptors—bravery/cowardice and associated extreme categorizations—related to bullfighting, and it’s doubtful watching “Afternoons” would convert doubters or supporters. But preconceived notions shouldn’t disqualify a curious, enterprising cinephile from [un]settling in for a challenging, relentless two-plus hours, not so much enjoying as tolerating the agony of victory and inevitable fatality of defeat.
Albert Serra’s “Afternoons of Solitude” opened in New York at Film at Lincoln Center on June 27th. A Grasshopper Film release, “Afternoons” continues rolling out throughout North America this summer.
