Embracing the Silence: A Deep Dive into 'Afternoons of Solitude' at San Sebastian

When you come across a documentary titled Afternoons Of Solitude, you might expect a leisurely stroll through the lives of introspective people sipping tea and contemplating their place in the universe. Instead, you find yourself in the gritty, adrenaline-fueled world of bullfighting, which, let’s face it, is about as far from “afternoon tea” as one can get. Directed by the provocative Albert Serra, this film has been described as “the front line of the soul,” and watching it raises the intriguing question: who truly embodies solitude in the arena—the torero pushing his limits or the bull, facing an inevitable demise?

This documentary centers around the captivating Peruvian bullfighter Andrés Roca Rey. It marks a notable departure from Serra’s previous dramatic works, creating an experience that feels both immersive and alarmingly unflinching. It's the kind of film that demands your attention, even as it grapples with the discomfort of animal suffering displayed on screen. To say it’s not for the faint-hearted would be an understatement; the film seduces you into its depths and then slaps you awake with its unapologetic realism.

Now, let’s talk about Roca. The man is on screen for what feels like the entirety of the film, and yet—it’s as if a barrier exists. Sure, we see him peeling off his blood-soaked shirt in a hotel room, his muscles rippling under the harsh fluorescent lights as an assistant helps him squeeze into his tight trousers. But who is he really? Serra chooses not to share much about Roca's personal life, leaving viewers with little more than an existential portrait of a man whose very identity is wrapped up in silk and blood.

Watching Roca strut his stuff in the ring is a spectacle in itself. His entourage—dressed to the nines—lavishes him with praise that sounds more like a rock concert than a bullfight: “You have big balls!” and “Superhuman!” one can almost hear the glittery confetti fall around them. The irony is palpable; here’s a man revered for his ability to dominate another creature, yet surrounded by those who adore him, making it all seem a bit like a tragicomedy.

The actual fight plays out like an intricate ballet. Every taunt, every jab, every flourish is executed with the precision of a seasoned performer. Roca’s movements are as graceful as they are brutal, a dance between the primal and the polished. Under the eye of cinematographer Artur Tort Pujol, the film frequently zooms in on the poetry of violence, be it a bull’s hooves striking the ground or its fierce gaze meeting that of the man poised with a sword. The juxtaposition of nature and artifice reverberates throughout—a canvas drenched in blood splashed against the backdrop of a flamboyant, sequined outfit.

Of course, it would be easy to accuse Serra of reveling in the spectacle of blood sport, but one cannot ignore the implicit questions raised as the camera lingers over a bull’s shredded body or its haunting stare mid-death. The film lacks narration, relying heavily on the chilling score by Marc Verdaguer and the dissonance of music choices, including a hauntingly distorted passage of Saint-Saëns. Yet, for all its brutal honesty, very little is offered in terms of insight into Roca’s inner world or the socio-economic dynamics of bullfighting.

What does emerge from Afternoons Of Solitude is a palpable discomfort that begs to be examined. It’s a far cry from the romanticized portrayals of classic bullfight cinema. Serra offers not just the blood, but the sweat, the fear, and the agony. In this stark portrayal, one is left pondering not only the nature of bravery and glamour but also the stark reality of the battle where the bull is undeniably outnumbered.

In the end, perhaps the greatest solitude depicted is that shared between Roca and the bull—meeting one another in a tragic dance where neither truly wins. And isn’t that just the epitome of life? In the chaos of existence, we all end up as performers on our own bloody stage, whether we realize it or not.