The Raging Bull of bullfighting
The first couple chapters of this novel read as if it might turn out to be one of those clichéd, romanticized portrayals shown in every bullfighting movie you’ve ever seen. In fact, however, the reverse is probably true: the familiar image of the matador has become stereotypical because so many storytellers have patterned their bullfighting narratives after Blood and Sand. The novel was adapted into at least half a dozen films from 1916 to 1989. Much like boxing stories in American literature and film, there’s a whole set of preconceived expectations and familiar plot elements attached to the sport of bullfighting. Blasco Ibáñez, however, is not only a realist writer but also a naturalist in the ultra-bluntly realistic style of Emile Zola, so he doesn’t settle for predictable, contrived storytelling. As long as we’re making analogies to American boxing films, this would be the Martin Scorsese’s Raging Bull of bullfighting. Blasco Ibáñez gives a much more complex and nuanced depiction of bullfighting than American authors like Ernest Hemingway (The Sun Also Rises) or James Michener (Mexico).
One area where Blasco Ibáñez tends to depart from realism and venture into more romanticized territory is his romantic subplots. He likes to put a femme fatale character into his books, and in that regard the love story here is very similar to that found in his 1900 novel Entre naranjos (a.k.a The Torrent). One aspect of Blood and Sand that I really like, however, is his examination of issues of class. Gallardo is born a peasant but works his way up to celebrity, which allows him to mingle with the aristocracy while never really being accepted into their ranks. The members of Gallardo’s support team, or cuadrilla—his banderilleras and picadores—live very working-class, proletarian lives compared to the wealthy matador they serve. Gallardo’s right-hand man, Nacional, is a socialist agitator. These elements of class commentary in the story give the reader an insightful glimpse into Spanish society of the time.
Rest assured that this novel isn’t just a glorification of bullfighting. For those who think bullfighting is a barbaric sport and are disgusted by its cruelty to animals, Blasco Ibáñez has you covered too. This is not a flattering depiction of the sport. Blasco Ibáñez explores the role of the bullfight as a cultural phenomenon, giving it its due consideration as a Spanish institution, but he also admits the sport’s needless brutality and pageant of bloodlust. He likens the corrida to a gladiatorial spectacle in which cattle and horses are the sacrificial victims. Again, like Zola, Blasco Ibáñez doesn’t shy away from the more coarse and disgusting aspects of his subject and at times will exaggerate them for visceral (sometimes literally) dramatic effect.
The last chapter of Blood and Sand is a little odd. It feels tacked onto the end and somewhat ambiguously detached from the chronology of the narrative. That’s a shame, because the rest of the novel is well-conceived and tautly plotted. I’ve only recently discovered Blasco Ibáñez, and I’ve been impressed by everything I’ve read by him. Blood and Sand is not his strongest novel—I would more readily recommend The Cabin (La Barraca) or The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—but though it falls short of perfection, a subpar outing by Blasco Ibáñez is still better than at least 90 percent of the work of his contemporaries.
