Humbling experience
Tristan Garel-Jones
Tf anyone believes that the EU can 'impose cultural and political homogeneity, they should come to Madrid for the festival of St Isidore. Twenty-nine corridas, on the trot, from 10 May to 7 June!
Lest any animalists should believe the fiesta is running out of steam, the two corridas I chose were a sell-out. Only judicious string-pulling landed The Spectator in the private box of the government of Madrid.
At the parade I always feel anticipation and fear. Up in the box, and all around, real girls. Elegant, feminine — but tough. Do not imagine that Spanish women are shallow little girlies; they kill too. Was it not Maria de Monroy in the 15th century who, dressed as a man, rode to Portugal in pursuit of her son's murderers, chopped off their heads, rode back to Salamanca and placed them on the boy's tomb? Down there — real men. About to engage the fiercest fighting beast on earth. Primitive? — yes, but sublime, too, For all this takes place within a code where beauty, grace, honour and bravery come together.
Daniel Hannan (Spectator 17 May) was right. The bulls are all. No bulls, no corrida. This lot, bred by Alcurrucen, were a disgrace. The third was rejected after staggering about for a few minutes like a drunken football hooligan. What a tragedy it will be if this noble, savage beast is bred into mediocrity by a conspiracy of impresarios, breeders and managers.
The matadors did their best. An odd flash of class from Ponce. A fine pair of banderillas (barbed sticks placed into the bull's back) by Ferrera by a method called al quiebro — on the swerve. The beast comes at the matador (standing still) headon. A swerve of the hips, properly timed, and the animal roars past, enabling the banderillas to be placed neatly in the right spot.
The only bull with class was the sixth named Barquero. Valverde, who graduated that day from novice to matador, put together some well-contrived passes, stood his ground bravely, killed well and was rewarded with an ovation.
After that disaster, it was with a sense of anticipation that I repaired to Las Ventas to see Julian Lopez, El Juli, confront all six bulls alone. El Juli is the number one, He is Hockney, Beckham, Mozart, Henry Moore all rolled into one. He has his detractors, but I am not of their number.
The bulls were well presented brave, noble and strong. One exception, the third, again by Alcurrucen, was rejected in two minutes. This breeder should try his hand at chihuahuas or budgerigars.
El Juii's triumph came in the fifth bull. With the cape he performed a series of walking serpetuinas with a lopesina at the end. A page would be required to describe the beauty, poise and bravery involved. The cape is spun, serpent-like, in the air as the beast approaches, and then wrapped around the matador himself as the bull passes by and Juli strolls, almost nonchalantly, into the next one. OM! He placed his own banclerillas, put together a series of mesmerising passes with the red muleta, and despatched the animal with one sword thrust to the hilt. Pandemonium. He was rewarded with the second-highest trophy — one ear. As he walked around the ring showered with flowers and applause, a cripple threw his crutches at his feet. At that moment many would not have been surprised, when the maestro returned them, if the cripple had got up and walked!
Some respected critics do not buy in to the Juli phenomenon. He is described as modern, young, clinical. But taurine critics have a tendency to contrariness and they are a curmudgeonly lot. Adulation sticks in their throats, That day was not the greatest ever triumph for Lopez: not carried shoulder-high from the ring; no two-ear trophies. But it was the details that marked him out. The craftsmanship with which he directed the spectacle. The modest refusal to take a bow on the fourth. Five of the six animals despatched with one sword thrust. And, yes, a showman too. On the fifth a belligerent sector of the crowd started a slow handclap. Standing still, in the bull's terrain, he looked away and straight at them (dangerous). A gesture, elegant not arrogant, said 'So?' He silenced them with a look. Applause. Maestro! Torero!
Paco Camino once said: 'Anyone can be a minister. Not anyone can be a matador.' That puts me, and others I could name, firmly in our places.
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