QUICK AND DIRTY: LIVE FROM SAN SEBASTIAN

This is the most distressing viewing of my life. Literally. Not even the coprophagia and the eye-plucking of Salo (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1975), or the vivid animal shooting of Safari (Ulrich Seidl, 2016) made me so uncomfortable. I felt squeamish, revulsed and physically sick. And this is precisely the reason why Afternoons of Solitude is such a vital piece of filmmaking. It provokes viewers to the point of indignation. Anyone with a scintilla of humaneness will leave the cinema with the urge to set fire to the nearest bullring.

This is not an activist film. In fact, the 48-year-old Catalonian filmmaker opts for an entirely observational approach. There are no title cards, captions, voiceover and special effects. This is cinema pared to the bone, reduced to its very essence. This documentary captures the action from a certain distance, yet with unflinching determination, much like the Lumiere brothers did in the early days of the seventh art. The outcome is extremely realistic. Viewers are forced into the heart of a bullfighting arena in Madrid for virtually the entire duration of the 125-minute movie.

French filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard was once asked why he featured the real killing of animals in his movies, during an interview for Rolling Stone. He answered: “Well, why not? A lot of people are killed in Africa and Vietnam. Why shouldn’t I kill animals? It was not done because animals are animals compared with human beings; it’s just that if I had killed a human being I would have been put in jail”. Albert Serra puts this assertion to the extreme test, revealing that the pain of these sentient creatures is very palpable and relatable. You can hear the agonising grunting of the bulls as they face a slow and and sadistic death. There is no foley. The barbaric squelching and crunching sounds are hyperreal. The images are equally shocking: the bullfighter sticks countless spears on the back of each creature (in total, roughly 10 bulls are killed). The animals contort their face as they kneel and finally die, only for their semi-lifeless, mauled body to be dragged across the arena to the cheers of the enthusiastic audiences. A morbid display of unrelenting brutality.

Our protagonist is babyfaced, Peruvian-born torero (bullfighter) Andrés Roca Rey, in his mid-20s. He confronts the hapless animals and greets the crowds with a Donald Trumpian sense of narcissism and self-righteousness. His associates spur him on: “you’re a giant, you’re the best”. Tawdry religion and nationalism also aid him in his sadistic murder efforts. He kisses a rosary and looks at the Virgen del Carmo portrait inside his posh Ritz Hotel room, immediately before the “performance”. A fam prays for his protection. Others reassure him that Peru is the “greatest” nation. He takes pride in his ultra-Camp costume, so neatly tailored for his body that an assistant twice his height has to literally shake him into his trousers, but only after he puts on the sexy leggings. The garment is tight enough to make Marilyn Monroe’s Lorelei green with envy.

Despite the present of a few females in the audience, bullfighting remains a firmly male atrocity. All of Andre’s assistants are men. Serra captures their cold and contrived banter inside the entourage vehicle by placing a static camera behind the driver’s seat. This is real macho territory. A pathetic caricature of masculinity. Shockingly, bullfighting is still legal in many parts of Spain and Latin America, including the progressive Basque Country (where the film just premiered).

While retaining his firmly observational – and seemingly uncommitted – mode, there is one clue as to where the allegiance of the filmmaker lies. The film title refers to the sentiments of the animal, not of the bullfighter. It is the poor beast who is fated to spend his last afternoon in tragic solitude. A lonely creature inside a multitude of perverts.

Finding pleasure in bullfighting isn’t just barbaric. The whole endeavour is spiritually rotten and morally sick. It is on the same level as Dominique Pelicot’s actions, which shocked the world earlier this month. The onlookers are as despicable and accountable as Pelicot’s numerous accomplices. This is collective sadism. Humanity at its lowest. Afternoons of Solitude is a silent call to action: this savagery must stop. Bullfighting has to be strictly and permanently relegated to the past.

Afternoons of Solitude just premiered in the Official Competition of the 72nd San Sebastian International Film Festival. It won the event’s top prize, the Golden Shell for Best Film.