Like the dearly departed Rodney Dangerfield, I get no respect. In Hollywood, that is. My work is too “artsy” for the flavor-of-the-week Philistines, and not talky or “meaningful” enough to play in our politically correct film festivals. But, like my forebear Jerry Lewis, we get all the recognition we deserve across the pond. And that is where I had the novel and extreme experience of chasing the pork in Pamplona. Spain, that is. Pamplona is a day’s train from Barcelona, home of the Sitges International Film Festival, where I and Rod Steiger were wined and dined for a week for the European premiere of our film Modern Vampires.

Star Trek’s William Shatner was also on hand with his most recent director, Robert Burnett, auteur of an excellent little indie spoof called Free Enterprise. Robert is an outgoing, cherubic sort, kind of an ex-nerd comic book/sci-fi aficionado. With a non-athletic girth and passé blazer, the uninitiated might confuse him for a Midwest stereo salesman. I, on the other hand, was lean, fit, and cool as can be in my downtown hipster garb. Robert got all the babes…and his film hadn’t even screened yet!

Maybe I needed to watch Whit Stillman’s Barcelona again to study the freewheeling mating habits of all those beautiful Catalonian damsels. Robert had certainly figured things out. One night I watched the most drop-dead beautiful woman march into the hotel bar and throw a martini in his face. Before she could storm out, two more drop-dead beautiful women were solacing him. They were interested in how he could have affected a woman so. “O’ she mos’ love you veery mucho, si?” as they tenderly wiped his face and neck off with napkins. Robert, being the friendly sort, invited me to join his group.

By 5:00 in morning (Barcelona goes all night), the four of us had partied our way from club to club, the last of which had some shockingly risqué flamenco and an underground Spanish comic. Marta, who spoke the most English, translated a story about poor Saint Rosnus of Beersheba, the ill fated Roman actor who tried to postpone his dinner date with Coliseum lions by shouting up comical stories to the emperor and house full of roaring Romans. It worked…for about ten minutes, at least. Apparently the jokes began to bomb and down went the thumbs. They facetiously call him Saint Rosenberg now–kind of a patron saint to Spanish comics who genuflect and invoke his name before they take the stage. Marta was draped around Robert at this point. “Today ees the Festival of Saint Rosenberg een Pamplona!” she said. ” We weel all take the train and go, si?”

I, of course, had to be fresh for more press interviews that afternoon, as my “leave no stone unturned” Spanish distributors were beating things so hard that if a local beachcomber were stuffing a note in a bottle, these guys would arrange an interview before it was cast in the sea.

No, I couldn’t possibly go…as Marta’s gorgeous friend (cousin, actually), Lola, gave me such a sultry look that the sound in the room went surreally low and all I could hear were the strains of Bizet’s Carmen in my head. “Eet weel be too much fun!” exhorts Marta. “You can chase the peegs while the bools are chasing you!” Chase pigs? Chased by bulls? This was getting interesting now…as Lola let her leg…and thigh…casually rest against mine beneath the table. It was turning out to be one of those drat crucible moments: A. Behave responsibly, or B. Damn the torpedoes. Hmmm, now which shall it be?

The morning train ride through the Rioja Valley was quite beautiful. The legendary vines of Ribuera Del Dueuro passed in the distance; the beguiling cheek of Lola Raquel de Vega y Cadenas on my shoulder; and Robert Burnett, a bit paunchy and frumpy-looking after an endless night of drinking, kissed the elegant Marta Delores de Vega y Cadenas sloppily and passionately.

We hit Pamplona just before noon. I was just dozing off as the train ground to a halt. “Hurree!!!” cried Marta. “We weel be late!”

We hustled a cab to the little bullring (as opposed to the “big” bullring). The bulls in some adjacent pens still looked pretty big to me. And, to all my Catholic friends out there, please take note: the Festival of Saint Rosenberg is not officially sanctioned by the Church. Rather, it is the brainchild of some local comics who raise money for charity once a year by getting a bunch of idiots into a bullring and have them try to kick a bull in the ass and then run around trying to catch greased pigs. Los Toreadors de Puerco, they are called, and they all wear something crimson red…to help the bulls out, I suppose.

The stands were filling up quickly. Apparently this year’s turnout was going be the best yet. The entry fee was waived to all participants, we were told at the door. Robert politely declined an offer to participate. Do I want to join in and be an esteemed Toreador? I looked at beautiful cousin Lola. The mystery and allure in her dark fathomless eyes almost made my heart skip beats. What would Hemingway have done? I wondered.

The anteroom inside the arena was crowded with boisterous young men putting on crimson sashes and bandanas.  I was the only red-headed fellow there that day. I thought that my nose must be so red, after that night of drinking, that between that and my carrot top, I wouldn’t need the help of a crimson flag to lead a bull to my rear end.

We filled out some sort of release form, which I couldn’t understand anyway. I had a number pinned to my back, and as the crowd roared outside, cases of Rioja wine were hastily uncorked. “No thank you,” I gestured in universal sign language, as each Toreador de Puerco was handed a bottle of wine. Some official was jabbering to me about something, gesturing me to drink. I took a taste directly from the bottle, as the others were doing. “Thank you–good!” I gestured back. Some of the other guys were really gulping their wine. One guy actually finished his bottle. More guys were actually finishing their damn bottles! Then all of the guys managed to finish their bottles…all but me.

As a former food and wine critic who spent many years in France, I could easily put a bottle away…over a five-course dinner. My heart started to beat faster. All eyes were upon me. The crowd outside was ROARING. I thought of Saint Rosenberg who, two millenniums earlier, was forced to step out into life’s big arena. I managed to guzzle down about a third of the bottle, until it ran down my chin–making my large lips smack reflexively. Not bad, I thought. The fruit a bit forward, of course, coming from such a young vintage, yet well balanced by gobs of tannins and then a pleasant aftertaste of cedar, pepper, chocolate, tobacco, and (a few more lip smacks)–ah yes–blackcurrants. I just wished they’d given me another half hour and maybe a little bread and cheese to go with it. By this time, I had quaffed more than half the bottle and, I was sure, lost all future eligibility to Burgundy’s esteemed Grand Order de Chevaliers de Tastevin. Guys were slapping me on the back with smiles of encouragement. Arrghh….two thirds down…my goddamned head was reeling! I wasn’t sure if I could do it…sip, sip, sip, sip…then finally: “Ah, fuck it!” In a final gulp that eternally bonded me with every fool from time immemorial, I finished my bottle. My Spanish friends gave a round of applause and moved me along in a packed and inebrious throng, voices raised in Bizet’s Toreador March in simultaneous French and Spanish, and finally into the blinding sun of the arena to the cheers of the roaring, bloodthirsty Romans above…out marched the glorious, crimson-clad, Toreadors de Puerco, my mind adding full symphonic orchestration to our illustrious song.

Things were getting a bit surreal. I squinted in the bright light like Barabbas must have done as he finally left the Roman salt mines after 20 years. I was searching for my friends in the stands. Normally I can hold my liquor. These weren’t normal times. Then I heard it. The squealing of greased pigs let loose in the arena. My sodden brain was having trouble piecing the various parts of this Gestalt together fast enough to keep up with the flood of strange and new information. Is this really happening? Before I could answer myself, the squealing was drowned out by a thunderous roar of the crowd–clapping, stomping, laughing, screaming–as real live bulls were let into the ring!!

Events became pretty chaotic at that point. I couldn’t tell how many bulls were running around. Guys were charging about, stumbling over themselves, trying to kick bulls in the ass. Apparently (and judges keep track of this), a participant must first kick a bull in the ass, then catch a greased pig…in order to win…the pig.

A bull was vaguely running my way. I ran to other side of the ring. More bulls were running vaguely my way. I ran to other side of the ring. And so it went for an endless minute. My head was spinning. Thank God I could still stand…barely. Thwump! The first Toreador de Puerco had been hit. Youch! Attendants quickly scooped the guy up and hustled him out. Another guy was savagely trampled. This is bad! I was out of breath. I searched for my friends in the stands, but all sense of direction was gone by then. And then I saw it: my great opportunity. A bull was just standing there, looking the other way, apparently out of breath as well. I gathered my nerve and snuck up behind him with the stealth of a total drunken idiot. I steadied myself and, in my best kickboxing form, attempted an elementary roundhouse kick. I struck the poor bovine a glancing blow, tried to run like hell, and tripped headlong into some mud and…I’m not sure which it was…either pig shit or bull shit.

The bull was still standing there, about ten feet away, as though nothing happened. Then another bull charged by me, almost crushing my head. Guys were running everywhere. Pigs were running everywhere. Now that I had kicked a bull in the ass, I was eligible to catch a greased pig. Easier said than done. I managed to give chase to one, and just as I thought I had him, Bam! I crashed head on with another Toreador de Puerco. A blinding flash of light, a sharp pain…his nose bled profusely, and blood ran from a gash above my left eye. I held my brow with my hand and realized I had either pig shit or bull shit on my hand, when a bull started charging our way–this time really close. I ran and tried to bolt over the fence. The liquor was taking its full effect by then. More Toreadors de Puerco were taking hits. I barely pull myself over the fence and finally managed to, in the most graceless manner possible, fall over the other side into some people’s laps. I fell down and proceeded to throw up on their feet. Quite the ambassador for our country, I thought.

Several hours later, I was cleaned up, had copious water and a little coffee, was developing a neat shiner around my left eye, and, believe it or not, was hungry. My friends had found me, and we were at a banquet of Pork for the Toreadors de Puerco. I did not ask if the menu was recently running around the bullring.

I tasted some absolutely delicious roast pork—a Spanish national dish, not overcooked and seasoned in the local spices. “Some wine?” I was offered. “No thank you.” Lola didn’t seem to be touching her pork, as I was wolfing down mine. “She is a vegetarian,” explained Marta, and likes this festival as a day of reckoning or something. Robert didn’t eat pork either.

On the train back, Lola allowed an inch or two of space between us. Symbolically, it could have been miles. Robert and Marta kissed and smooched. I hoped my Spanish distributors had gotten the phone message I had left at 6:00am about postponing that day’s interviews.

Apparently they hadn’t, and Rod Steiger was much more animated and verbal…without me there interrupting him. After Robert’s film, “Free Enterprise,” screened, he was really a hit with the ladies, and rumor has it that Lola joined him and Marta in a tryst the last night of the festival…but I will leave that as a rumor.

Me, I wouldn’t change a thing. For I may have returned to a town that gives me no respect, but I returned a Toreador de Puerco. I have Chased the Pork in Pamplona and wear proudly that small mark, a badge of honor, above my left eye to show for it.

BACK TO RICHARD ELFMAN PAGE