The Matador

The Matador

74 Minutes

“Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter’s honour.” – Ernest Hemingway, Death In The Afternoon, 1932.

What is wrong with me? I thought I was over it — gave it up — it was out of my system. I walked out of the theatre, shaken. I was anxious to talk with someone about it, but no one on the elevator was interested. I walked to a favorite restaurant, sat at the bar and ordered a deep red wine. Besides me, there was a blond at one end of the bar and an elderly gentleman seated in the middle. In response to the bartender’s innocent, “How are you?” I blurted some strong feelings about The Matador though I was still unsure as to whether I was pro or con. It quickly became clear where my thoughts were headed after I found myself defending bullfighting in response to inaccurate, disgusting comments made by the blond regarding the fate of the bulls. The passion was back; I think I’m going to have to live with this.

The last live bullfight I saw was in the early ’70s in Spain, but the best bullfights we saw were in the late ’60s in Juarez, Mexico, a border town sitting on the opposite side of the Rio Grande from El Paso. The matador we most admired was Jaime Bravo, a colorful, daring, womanizing, bad, bad boy of the corrida (bullfight). Bravo was a famous (or infamous) showman who not only defied death, he dared it. During this period, my husband and I were enamored with the idea of man vs. beast, the beautiful pageantry of the bull ring, the processions, the history and the white hankies that accompanied the roar of the crowd. Though we were hippies, we were not the acid-taking, pot-smoking kind — bullfighting was our drug of choice. And a drug it was.

But now we are older and eschew every type of cruelty, so I elected to review The Matador, convinced that I had grown out of bullfighting or it had grown out of me, and my perspective would no longer be favorable. The opening shots reflect verdant Spanish hills dotted with enormous black bulls and we hear the conflict of birds chirping against the roar of thunder. Innocence and danger. Life and potential death. In The Matador, Stephen Higgins presents a documentary that is not only a balanced perspective of the passion and hatred of the bullfight but also the life and sacrifice of David Fandila, El Fandi, the matador whose goal it was to achieve 100 corridas during a single season, as well as fame where his ancestors had failed. To put El Fandi’s goal in perspective, only 12 matadors have achieved 100 bullfights during a single season; the norm is around 60, 70 or even 80. El Fandi, at age 24, became the thirteenth to achieve 100.

These days, protesters gather before the fights to chant that torturing bulls is cruel, not an art. They hassle the matadors as their vans pull up to disgorge the colorfully clad gladiators. The matadors tune them out because a lack of focus can cost them not only the fight, but their lives. On the other hand, aficionados report that these bulls are bred for the corrida and then to be food. They spend beautiful lives on those Spanish hills, grazing rich, green grass, making love under the sun; when it’s time, instead of carting them off to the slaughter house, the bulls have an opportunity to die a noble death. These brave bulls even have a chance to return to the fields if they can outwit and outfight the matador, though this is rarely the case. Most matadors select their bulls before the fight because “every bull has a different expression,” says El Fandi, and “nobility matters” in the ring. During the fight, the noble bulls challenge the Matador while falling victim to the sway of that bright magenta cape. Unsatisfied in a pass, their hooves create clouds of dust as they jam on their brakes, heave their 1300 pound mass to make a turn and head back to that swath of red, all under the heady influence of their last tango.

The rich, gorgeous photography in this film was often so close that I would gasp when the bull missed piercing my middle. Mesmerizing music, ornate, tight costumes and the heart-stopping cadence of the matador’s passes and near death dances with the enraged bull left me panting, thrilled, exhilarated. El Fandi notes that in each bullfight performance, he only has “a few minutes to bring the crowd to ecstasy.” I got there in 60 seconds.

by Jane Hruska