There’s something magnetic about watching someone perform a task that could get them killed. Not because we’re morbid, but because when life is on the line, everything—the flick of a wrist, the movement of a foot, the blink of an eye—becomes loaded with meaning. Enter Afternoons of Solitude, the latest film from the Catalan filmmaker Albert Serra, a man known for making movies that feel like philosophical thought experiments in motion.
Now, if you’ve seen any of Serra’s previous work—say, The Death of Louis XIV or Liberté—you probably know he doesn’t do traditional storytelling. No tidy three-act arcs. No fast cuts or sweeping musical scores. What you get instead is a visual experience that requires patience and attention. Serra doesn’t hand you answers; he hands you a magnifying glass. And in Afternoons of Solitude, what he wants you to examine is Andrés Roca Rey, a young Peruvian bullfighter whose fame is already cemented—and who, at not even thirty, lives a life saturated with ritual, violence, and eerie silence.
An “Acquired Taste” Who Keeps Growing
Let’s rewind for a second.
Back when Martin Amis was under 50, Saul Bellow—yes, that Saul Bellow—said Amis had “the inventive genius of a Joyce or a Flaubert.” High praise. Wildly ambitious. But it was Bellow’s way of saying: “This guy’s outline is big, and it’s still growing.”
The same could be said for Serra. He turns 50 this year and, whether or not his style sits well with your cinematic palate, he’s undeniably an artist whose canvas keeps expanding. Matt Zoller Seitz once described Serra’s 2006 feature Honor of the Knights as a “virtual definition of the phrase ‘acquired taste.’” And that’s still true. Serra doesn’t make easy films. He makes immersive ones—films that ask you to sit with stillness, discomfort, and unanswered questions.
With Afternoons of Solitude, he once again pushes the envelope—but this time through the lens of a documentary. Or at least, something like one.
Bullfighting and Stillness: A Clash of Contradictions
The title Afternoons of Solitude sounds peaceful, doesn’t it? You might imagine someone sipping tea near a window, reading a book while the sun filters through sheer curtains. But Serra’s title is a deliberate trick. It’s ironic. Because the subject of the film—Andrés Roca Rey—performs in some of the loudest, bloodiest arenas imaginable: bullfighting rings.
Bullfighting, if you’re unfamiliar, isn’t just a dance with death—it’s a ritualistic, layered tradition. Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon laid it all out decades ago, explaining the roles of the various participants: the matador (Rey, in this case), the banderilleros (who jab the bull’s shoulders with barbed sticks), and the picadors (men on horseback who stab the bull with long lances). And that’s just the prelude to the final act—the kill.
Now, before we go any further, a heads-up: if the very idea of bullfighting repulses you, if it makes you angry or nauseous, this movie probably isn’t for you. Serra’s lens doesn’t shy away from the violence. There’s no commentary, no apologies. It just is.
The No-Frills Approach: Serra’s Quiet, Observational Style
Here’s what Afternoons of Solitude is not: a typical sports documentary.
There’s no narrator. No talking heads. No dramatic music swelling as the camera pans across the faces of teary-eyed family members. No behind-the-scenes interviews explaining Rey’s hopes, dreams, or backstory. Serra strips all of that away.
Instead, the camera simply watches. Sometimes it watches from the front seat of a van as Rey rides to a match. Sometimes it watches in the dressing room as he dons his elaborate, old-world costume. Sometimes it catches him in a moment of exhaustion after a particularly brutal match, blood on his clothes, the hum of silence around him.
And Rey? He never looks at the camera. Never acknowledges it. It’s almost as if he’s forgotten it’s there—or, more accurately, has agreed to pretend it doesn’t exist. That gives the film a strange intimacy. As viewers, we become ghosts in the room, witnessing but never interacting. It’s a voyeuristic closeness that’s more unsettling than comforting.
Rey, the Man Behind the Persona
Even without words, Rey tells us plenty.
He’s deeply religious, for one. We see him crossing himself repeatedly before stepping into the ring. He fingers a rosary. He prays. These small rituals feel sacred, private—even though they unfold in plain sight. His team respects him; we see it in the casual compliments and shared jokes. But Rey? He doesn’t joke back. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t relax. He’s always somewhere else—mentally removed.
You could call him aloof, or maybe just focused. Either way, he feels alone. And not just in the literal “no one’s talking to him” way. Serra’s camera isolates him. Even in a crowd, even in the center of a roaring stadium, Rey seems singular. Solitary. Like a monk with a sword.
Beauty and Brutality in the Ring
There’s no way to sugarcoat it: bullfighting is violent. Horrific, even. And Serra doesn’t flinch. When Rey steps into the ring, the camera follows. It gets as close as it can. You see every movement, every twirl, every charge. The bull is huge and furious. Rey is graceful, precise, and entirely in control—until he’s not.
There’s one moment—call it a turning point—where Rey is nearly gored. And suddenly, the movie changes. The risk becomes real. The stakes shift. It’s no longer about performance. It’s about survival.
And just when you’re starting to feel for Rey, Serra pulls you back and reminds you: the bull never stood a chance. The opening shot of the film—just a bull in a quiet field, unaware of its fate—is a brutal kind of foreshadowing. The animal is calm, almost serene. It has no idea what’s coming.
And you? You suddenly remember this is a rigged game. You might admire Rey’s skill, but you’re also watching a slaughter.
Time, Repetition, and the Loss of Self
What’s most striking about Afternoons of Solitude isn’t the violence—it’s the rhythm. Serra shows Rey preparing. Fighting. Recovering. Then doing it all over again. Fight after fight. Arena after arena. There’s a haunting repetitiveness to it all.
It’s here that Serra’s real intention starts to become clear.
This isn’t a portrait of a man with a vivid, talkative personality. It’s the portrait of a person reduced to their function. Rey, in Serra’s eyes, isn’t defined by what he says or feels—but by what he does. He’s a matador. That’s it. He is his work. His inner life is unknowable, maybe irrelevant.
That idea—a person being wholly defined by their job—has philosophical roots. Serra is flirting with phenomenology here. (Stay with me.) Phenomenology is about studying experience from the first-person point of view. But Serra flips it: instead of showing Rey’s inner experience, he constructs a movie around his actions and rituals, suggesting that maybe, just maybe, that is his inner life.
When Will It End?
All jobs have an expiration date. Bullfighting is no different. Serra never spells it out, but the looming possibility is always there: Rey will stop one day. Either he’ll choose to—walk away, hang up the costume, find peace. Or he won’t get the choice. One day, a bull will win.
The movie doesn’t dramatize that thought. It simply lets it hang in the air, like smoke from a cigarette. And it stays with you long after the credits roll.
A Film That’s Not for Everyone—But Unforgettable for Some
To call Afternoons of Solitude a documentary is technically accurate, but also misleading. It’s more like a meditation. Or a poem made of images. It’s slow, silent, and strange. It will not appeal to people who like tidy resolutions or clear messages.
But for those willing to sit with its quiet intensity, it offers something rare: a genuine encounter with another human being—unfiltered, unspoken, and deeply enigmatic.
Serra, like Bellow before him, sees the outline of something grand here. Whether it’s genius or just obsession, it’s impossible to ignore. And as the director turns 50, his “outline” shows no sign of shrinking. Neither does Rey’s.
At least, not yet.
