Our eyes will not see a work of art as monumental as that of Albert Serra. For his mastery in the fight of the cameras, of sound, of moments so far blind even for the most bullfighting looks. And, above all, because in front of the … Focos had an actor who was not. There sequences of life and death were shot with a man in front of the bull. If Roca Rey was already the maximum figure of the moment, in this film his heroic dimension is brutal. Serra enters us without any complex, showing the blood to open grave, towards the stark truth of bullfighting. If bullfighting his roots delves into the epic, ‘lateness of loneliness’ returns us to the essence: the struggle between man and animal, survival as miraculous dogma and death as an unavoidable shadow.
“I have forgive my life,” Andrés whisper after the most dreadful fuck in Santander. As if the four paths of the Plaza drove that July 25 to the sacrament of the extremeunication, amplified in that scene of the film where, in the foreground and in front, the Peruvian appears crucified against the tables with the Almibarado pythons on the top. What baptism, the only cheesy of a documentary task that makes a shrink in the movie theater, where “Ay (s)!” and the tension remains. If nobody ate pipes with Victorino’s hipliness, no one will eat popcorn. Neither in the most tempered frames, nor in those of loneliness in the room, nor in the liturgy of being entered the warrior terno with silences that torment, nor in the elevator waiting that never arrive, nor in that journey to the square in the van of the first figure, something never seen. Drying in the throats, the caramel, the seriousness in the face, the minimum comment of the lot of others.
If that first leg impresses, with Roca Rey Santiguedo at the exit, with the kiss to the Virgin, with the three blows of the sword boy to the door of the suite, the return – tan uncertain – Acongoja. Up to twice appears with the green gown that still smells like chloroform, with the hot beating for the mishaps. “I’ve been lucky,” says the killer. “It has been tragedy,” he sounds in the background. Entremedias, the square praise of the gang: “bicharraco” to “what big eggs.” A lot of testosterone in the great epoch of bullfighting.
The film strips the bullfighting of its ornamental varnish and returns it to its origins: the fight without artifice. With the microphones embedded in the light suits and the alleys, we listen to the breath, the broken breathing, the weight of the anguish. We feel the loneliness of the bullfighter in his room, the echo of the latent cornada in the gloom of waiting. And then we understand that the bullfighter is not just a man: he is the incarnation of an absolute delivery capable of frightening his own fear.
There is blood, of course. Nothing is covered here and all the rawness of this art is reflected. The Antitaurinos will continue with theirs, although some ‘misfortune’ of the animalist sect ends up telling Serra what that Vegan so Maja of New York: “You have corrupted me.” Or like some film critic who now asks when the Peruvian does. There will be criticisms of some bullfighting, but not for the film, but of the antiroca.
The acrimony of his Protestants thunder in this documentary while lengthening the challenging look of the bullfighter, while the Pythons of Madrid – as Serra explains, with the most trapío bull is with which the images acquire more strength – they trigger poisoned cartridges. The bullfighter not only dealt with the bull, but with the division of sun and shadow. And between shouts, whistles and cheers, the “you have to have them very fat” of those of silver or the “what you do is not available to anyone” of its then attorney, Roberto Domínguez.
“Another comes and does,” is heard. And that phrase is worth both for rock and for Serra. The filmmaker unleashes as a resurrected Goya and, with all the beauty of his work, he transports us to an unequivocal pain, the one who covers in the deepest, the one that surrenders to the purity of cinematographic art, to the titanic nudity of the Roquista bullfighting. Not only bulls are dealt with: the existence itself was dealt with.
#Rosario #Pérez #eat #pop
