Morante, the memory of bullfighting, and two who have forgotten how to bullfight: a new lesson from the maestro of La Puebla in Seville

Morante de la Puebla's treatment of his work has left his memories scarred, a partial erasure of his performances, works of art that live within us. Just in case, La Maestranza refreshed him yesterday, the beauty sculpted on the sand on May 1st. These after-effects of the electric shocks, the loss of memory, the fade to black, are paradoxical, given that Morante is the memory of bullfighting. A historical museum of ancient bullfighting and, above all, an emotional archive. He ignites before the bull so that bullfighting can blossom. MdlP hasn't forgotten how to bullfight, that's obvious. In truth, others have. José María Manzanares and Alejandro Talavante were there to prove it once again.

They start from a base that deepens the contrast: they cite where Morante steps, place the muleta where he stands , and pass them where the embroque loses its name. And Morante's taleguilla, smeared with bull's blood, ends up being the daily proof of the cotton. By nightfall, the white thread and turquoise background of her dress had become a red stripe along her sash.

The maestro's lesson in bullfighting and valor with his two bulls—nothing fancy—sealed the afternoon, rewarded with an ear, tying Manzanares alone on the scoreboard. The difference became abysmal because the Alicante native also enjoyed a lot from Puerta del Príncipe. If Zarabando was good and classy, ​​Frangeado was superlative, delivering the most impressive bravery of the entire fair. That left horn should have been a perfect fit and stopped the bullfighting. Wow, with Matilla , he did his client a disservice at this point by not feeling anywhere. The bull, which was one of those that made you fight well and slowly, seemed to recover—even the previous one—at some point from the distant JMM. But no. It took him a century to see the clear hand—that Paraíso on the left—he didn't gel and ultimately punctured him. He squandered a vital opportunity to revive his flagging career and his already waning relationship with Seville.

Let's get to the important stuff.

A first pass from Matilla, low and well-made, was soon condemned to the green handkerchief with its lack of power and soft supports. Morante's pass came from inside, stayed below him, and even so, he delivered a delightful verónica and a beautiful, devastating medial pass that shook the ring as much as the bull. The substitute, of the same brand, was mounted, tall and well-built, showing its points. Fine of horn but not of build. It was positioned in a bell-shaped position. Morante walks with extraordinary confidence. So much so that he went to the middle to collect it, on his legs. That gives confidence to the heart. And, once closed, he stretched out to the verónica. Powerful, brave, with a resounding voice. With a frightening determination. The bull hated being subdued, and he turned around. A very fast disarming performance. The performance continued to be dominated by determination, bullfighting, and intelligence. To understand the beast at his level from the start and demand more from him afterward. There were extraordinary series from both hands, which added up to a muted merit: when he connected the obligatory passes with his chest, the charge bounced back. I don't know if the crowd understood much. From the high prologue—a pass that was scorned by the poster—to the epilogue opened with a monumental trench. The finale was feet together. The sword cooled an atmosphere that never fully warmed up. The band played Curro Romero's pasodoble.

They would find out with a fourth black man with a clean, fine-horned expression, who, with his own, Morante-esque expression made of old bronzes, caused a great uproar. The bull's high-altitude passes gave off the scent of Rafael el Gallo. He kept pace with his right hand, and with his left, he pronounced the bullfighting style. The bull's stamina couldn't hold up, and from then on, after the third pass, he was already broken, finally splitting. Morante, settled, on his heels, offering his chest halfway, was completely on offer; his outside leg was forward. The bull dragged him with his hindquarters, and the fright sank the spirit of Seville. Overcome with pride, MdlP, closed in on the boards, charged with immeasurable natural forces, swallowing with all his might the most hoarse cheers in the ring. A sword thrust, a legitimate ear. A bullfighter who had completely emptied himself walked around the ring.

Talavante, since his reappearance in 2021, has lost his memory of who he was, forgetful of bullfighting. Infertile and incapable of rekindling the flame within him. He leans toward the muletazo as if it were his past. And he doesn't find it, nor does he find it. Everything is peripheral. The third was a Guijuelo bull. But Guijuelo bulls also wound. He ripped Javier Ambel's thigh, from top to bottom, as he came out of a pair with the querencia behind his back. The bull wasn't worth it. The last one was. And a lot. A good corrida. AT relied on the showmanship from the start, using the exchanges in the rings, that reckless arrucina. Serious bullfighting and Talavante walk parallel paths. They don't cross, not even by accident. He doesn't lay down the muleta even if he's dead. A change of hand was the best . The rest is rubbish for the common people. He asked for two ears—"Bullfighter, bullfighter!" they shouted—because Talavante made foolish moves on the boards, even more foolish moves, I mean, with the bull already torn apart, and he killed with integrity. Thank goodness the presidency took its place and stopped the madness with a trophy.

Maybe it's not just that these people have forgotten how to bullfight, but that Seville has also erased the bullfighting codes that Morante guards in his memory.