Tardes de soledad

Albert Serra's Tardes de Soledad documentary sets out to capture the intensity of the Spanish corrida de toros, but its suffocating style strips the art form of meaning. Shot almost entirely in cropped, tightly framed images, the film successfully conveys and amplifies the bull's raw power. Soon enough, though, the device reveals its real function: to make space for Serra's fixation on prolonged close-ups of bulls' death twitches after the sword has been placed.

It feels less like aesthetic discipline than a calculated pretext. By keeping every moment claustrophobic, Serra makes the death throes appear integral to the film's language. If he had shown the lidia in wide, generous shots and then suddenly zoomed in only for the spasms of dying animals, it would have looked gratuitous. Instead, the close crop becomes the default, turning mortality-not artistry-into the film's center of gravity.

The casualties of this approach are glaring. Ninety-five percent of viewers will leave with no sense of the impact Roca Rey has had on the corrida in the decade since his alternativa, no feeling for the emotional weight of a faena, and no grasp of the geometry of the passes or the beauty they create. Key moments vanish, like the way the matador is impacted by jeers of the obnoxious torista afición who reside in tendido 7 at Las Ventas in Madrid. These are layers that make the corrida profound; Serra edits them out of existence.

The repeated Roca Rey "in the van" sequences were dispiriting. In an era when the stomach-turning spectacle of sycophants fawning over US President Trump is unavoidable, watching a cuadrilla indulge in a smaller but no less obvious version of the same behavior was revolting. Whether he encouraged it or simply allowed it hardly mattered-the stench of obsequiousness was overwhelming..

In the end, Tardes de Soledad mistakes narrowness for intensity. It reduces Roca Rey to a cipher, flattens the corrida into a one-note polemic, and leaves the viewer with little more than claustrophobia and fatigue. Anyone new to the art of toreo will leave the documentary having learned little to nothing.

Winner of the Golden Shell at the 2024 San Sebastián Film Festival, this documentary film, written and directed by Albert Serra, hypnotically and soberly immerses us into the world of Peruvian bullfighter Andrés Roca Rey. The film patiently and meticulously observes his profession, his rituals, his subtle gestures, his silence, and his constant exposure to danger-all under a contemplative gaze that avoids both glorification and judgment.

The title feels very fitting, as it not only reflects the symbolic confrontation between man and beast but also suggests a broader reflection on vulnerability, tradition, and death. Serra does not indulge in absolute idealization of the bullfighter: he also gives space to the bull, observing it with respect, turning it into another character one that, as always, is destined to perish.

This is something many bullfighting films forget or evade: here, the animal is not just an obstacle or a symbol but a real, living creature that breathes, feels, and suffers. And this balance is the documentary's greatest strength it is neither pro-bullfighting nor anti-bullfighting. It inhabits a neutral, contemplative space where the viewer can admire the bullfighter while simultaneously questioning the nature of this "spectacle."

The cinematography is stunning-every shot is meticulously crafted, pulling you into its hypnotic rhythm. The nearly silent narration, wrapped in immersive sound design, places us in the bullring, in the dressing room as he suits up, in the pre- and post-fight conversations. The first half felt visually and emotionally powerful, while the second half becomes somewhat repetitive. Trimming about 15 minutes could have made it more accessible to general audiences.

Still, this is a valuable, provocative, and beautifully ambiguous documentary.

In summary, Albert Serra delivers a hypnotic and respectful documentary that portrays bullfighter Roca Rey without mythologizing him while also giving a voice to the bull. The film observes without judgment, with austere, intimate, and sonorous direction. Though its second half falls into repetition, its neutral and contemplative gaze makes it a provocative and unusual work.

A fine documentary about the world of bullfighting showing the reality of the bullfight, displayng colorful images and stunning close-ups of the two contenders in rhe ring: the torero and the Bull. It exposes the intimate experience of the bullfighter, his religiosity, and adoration of the Virgin Mary, his sacrifice and path to fame, his rites of dress and suit of lights, along with the assumption of the risk of facing a deadly duel as a personal duty, following a tradition that has been sustained por centuries. In fact, bullfighting, as an art form has already been profusely painted and praised by prestigious artists such as Goya, Picasso, Rafael Alberti, and many others. The director himself -who is not a bullfighting enthusiast- said he wanted to film it seriously and objectively, representing an aesthetic challenge for him. He attempts to accept it as it is, and show it in all its rawness and reality, including the gushing blood, as toro as toreador, and the harshness of the Plaza. According to some bullfighting critics, he is credited for portraying that world as it is, the naked truth.

The documentary faithfully portrays the splendid figure of the great bullfighter, Andrés Roca Rey as he faces the bull. His face , his grimaces, his face, as well as bull's bravery with its tirelessness in confronting the opponent in order to gore him. And it definitively shows a certain admiration that develops between bullfighter and beast. According to the director, there was a commmitment of the highest level on the part of the toreador Roca Rey. He states the film has not generated controversy or international rejection and is interesting in its own right as an anthropological document. The movie develops a beauty that emerges intermittently through a violent struggle between a man and a beast, both confronting each other to the death, one with his sword and the other with its sharp horns, a confrontation between animality brutality and human racionality.

For those of us who long for something different-truly different-Afternoons of Solitude delivers that wish. Films like this are rare, and when they appear, they tend to divide. Albert Serra's latest work is no exception: defiant as a duel under the sun, hypnotic as a silent prayer, and unforgettable as a scar on memory.

Serra takes a risk-and wins-with tightly framed, deeply intimate shots that draw us into the drama unfolding in the sand. These are not mere images, but visions that burn into the retina: the brutal goring, the exact instant the sword seeks its mark. There is violence, yes, and there is blood, but never indulgence; instead, there's a raw, essential beauty that transcends the act itself.

Balanced between art and discomfort, Afternoons of Solitude is a work of cinematic freedom and a total immersive experience. A journey in which any viewer with sensitivity-even without a taste for bullfighting-will find a profound truth, as ancient as the ritual itself.

For those of us who crave something different - truly different - Afternoons of Solitude grants that wish. Films like this don't come around often, and when they do, they tend to divide. Albert Serra's latest is no exception: challenging, hypnotic, and ultimately unforgettable.

The discomfort doesn't come from the bullfighting itself - at least not for me. I grew up in Spain, and bullfighting was part of the cultural fabric of my childhood. I've since come to reject the cruelty of it, but I can't help the nostalgia I feel remembering afternoons spent watching corridas with my father.

What makes Afternoons of Solitude so fascinating - and at times, hard to sit through - is the absence of narrative. Serra repeats the same bullfight, again and again, variations on a theme that grows heavier with each cycle. He's been explicit that repetition is the point - the very essence of the film.

Some critics argue that we shouldn't seek deeper meanings in this film beyond the pure recording of the human-animal fight. I disagree. When Serra calls the film "metaphysical" and says he's after whatever "truth" resides in bullfighting, you can't help but look beyond the frame.

At its core, this is a film about the human drive for perfection - that relentless, sometimes self-destructive instinct. The torero, elegant and precise, risks everything to touch transcendence. It reminded me, in its spiritual intensity, of Tarkovsky's Andrei Rublev - for those who may have seen it.

But across from the torero stands another protagonist: the bull. Maybe the only animal that will continue to charge under threat rather than flee. And it's that presence - powerful, unwilling, tragic - that stains the torero's pursuit. His art, his perfection, is built on the suffering and death of another. What is that if not a metaphor for humanity's endless ambition, achieved at the expense of nature?

And perhaps, despite the film's title, the afternoons of solitude aren't the torero's at all. Perhaps they belong to the bull - the loneliest figure in that arena.

To me, Afternoons of Solitude also echoes the moral confusion of the world we live in - how beauty, power, and image can distort our sense of right and wrong. As a member of the audience, you can't help but care for the torero, as you should. But in doing so, you almost forget who began this fight.