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The closest literary analogue to Albert Serra\u2019s astonishing new film, Afternoons of Solitude<\/i>, is Ernest Hemmingway\u2019s lyrical exploration into the grisly allure of bullfighting \u2013 \u200b\u2018<\/span>Death in the Afternoon\u2019. It is a\u00a0piece of spare cine-portrature about Peruvian\/\u200bSpanish \u200b\u201c<\/span>maestro\u201d toreador Andr\u00e9s Roca Rey, with Artur Tort\u2019s camera locked into his every bodily fluctuation and gurning grimace as he whisks a\u00a0slew of raging bulls back and forth under his cape and blood arcs into the air like champagne.<\/p>\n In terms of its cinematic connections, it sits somewhere between Jennie Livingston\u2019s classic text on queer expression, Paris is Burning<\/i>, and those strange faux-ethnographic documentaries such as Mondo Cane <\/i>which tease viewers with the prospect of seeing real people and animals die. The film is structured to focus on the intensity and physicality of the fights themselves, the only respite coming from the shuttles to and from hotels, with Roca largely ignoring the torrent of effusive, toadying praise from his omnipresent entourage. The only person Roca is seen engaging with outside of his close circle is a\u00a0portrait of the weeping virgin that he keeps beside his bed and kisses prior to each\u00a0bout.<\/p>\n As such, you genuinely feel that Roca is a\u00a0man who only fully exists in the bull ring, a\u00a0human husk that is suddenly imbued with a\u00a0startlingly violent lifeforce. His neutral, expressionless demeanour when he\u2019s not fighting is counterpointed with the most grotesque and theatrical glare when he\u2019s staring down a\u00a0bloodied beast. Roca appears not only as a\u00a0man without fear, but a\u00a0man who elicits a\u00a0certain erotic pleasure from narrowly escaping having his body torn to shreds in public. And on a\u00a0couple of occasions here, he comes extremely close.<\/p>\n With men in crotch-emphasising show-costumes constantly talking about balls, having balls, big, giant balls, it\u2019s hard to ignore the queer-coded aspect of the sport which its fans either don\u2019t see or ignore entirely. Roca himself has androgynous facial and bodily features, seen most clearly in one scene in which he poses in a\u00a0sheer white body stocking and rosary beads around his neck. And the stances and poses he makes in the arena would not look out of place at a\u00a0New York drag\u00a0ball.<\/p>\n The film offers no explicit commentary or context, but instead allows the images to speak for themselves. It asks the viewer to choose if they want to be complicit in the violence, and judge whether this is a\u00a0valuable local tradition with implicit sporting value, or an antiquated and foolish spectacle that belongs to another, less refined age. In many ways, it makes for an intriguing partner piece with Serra\u2019s own study of illicit pleasure seeking, Libert\u00e9<\/i>, although this film certainly has a\u00a0nerve-shredding thrill factor that that film (intentionally) doesn\u2019t.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n\nGet more Little White\u00a0Lies<\/h3>\n<\/p><\/div>\n