My only previous experience with bullfighting has been one Hemmingway novel (The Sun Also Rises?) which definately romanticized the whole affair. I had visions of a spectacle deserving of the adoration of (most of) a nation. I had read of danger and intrigue, of masterful technique and a respect for the beast involved. Hemmingway wrote of master who could place themselves in real danger only to twist and finess and glide out of way; of imposters who never placed themselves in danger but tried to appear so.
What I witnessed on television was an embarassment. Granted I am sure that the experience is much different in person. I saw rodeo clowns in spannish garb distracting an tiring a majestic beast. I saw a matador (killer, in spannish; at least they make no false claims) throw small frilly spears at the bull until the bull was sufficiently injured to be approached. The bloody beast has at this point lost a couple steps and can be avoided easily by the matador. A few minutes of show and pomp and ceremony ends in a half dead bull lunging into the sword of the matador. Where, exactly, is the honor?
No comments:
Post a Comment