Film Name: 公牛历险记 / Ferdinand / The Story of Ferdinand
Perhaps every nation truly has its own aesthetic preferences. Take Japanese sumo wrestling, for instance—my fascination with its ceremonial aspects far outweighs any enjoyment I derive from its competitive nature. Then there’s Spanish bullfighting, which strikes me as nothing short of a cruel psychological ordeal. The matador, acting like some sort of gentleman, taunts the bull before bestowing upon it what he calls honor and respect—a single sword thrust through its brain stem.
So when the film depicts a herd of bulls—even young calves—dreaming of becoming matadors, I find it utterly incomprehensible. If a child aspired to be a bullfighter, I might understand; but a calf yearning to charge into death? That can only be described as the recklessness of the ignorant. Of course, I acknowledge that my superficial understanding and aesthetic aversion to bullfighting stem primarily from cultural differences.
Ferdinand, the bull who loved flowers, ultimately had to stake his life on the mercy of humans—a profound tragedy. In the film, his small love for flowers reflected a greater love for friends, family, and life itself. This love successfully moved the audience, the ranch owner, and the bullfighters, ultimately sparking compassion that saved his life. Yet as we marvel at the power of this love, we often overlook a harsh truth: such affection does not inevitably breed compassion. Are not countless counterexamples in life where kindness is repaid with ingratitude?
A small flower, striving to bloom in an act of goodwill and affection toward life, may earn the affection of a strong soul like Ferdinand who cherishes life. Yet it may just as easily face ruthless trampling and crushing—much like the fate of that flower at the film’s opening. The film encourages audiences to praise Ferdinand the flower-loving bull, one-sidedly emphasizing the so-called power of love. In reality, it stirs people’s lamb-like nature—naively believing life is truly beautiful—acting as a spiritual anesthetic cloaked in anti-war and pacifist rhetoric.
Any tale of a utopian paradise must feature flowers, for they embody beauty. For Ferdinand, the bull pen represents his real world, while the little girl’s home is his utopia. The flower-strewn ground in that utopia appears beautiful but is actually a dangerous illusion—mesmerizing, alluring, and fundamentally designed to make people escape reality and lose their fighting spirit. Didn’t the people in Tao Yuanming’s writings, ignorant of the Wei and Jin dynasties, retreat into that so-called utopia to hide from reality?
Thus, after living with the little girl for a time, Ferdinand would inevitably return to the bull ranch. Of course, I hoped that the little girl and her tranquil world would remain more like a beautiful dream for Ferdinand—one from which he would awaken, even if returning from the bullring, to the harsh realities of his existence. Yet the film clearly intended to prolong this spiritual anesthesia to the very end: not only did Ferdinand return to the little girl’s home, but he brought his entire herd along. Faced with the enchanting mountain scenery and the towering trees on the mountaintop—a stark contrast to the grim slaughterhouse atop Bull Run—these bulls might just collectively lose their bullish spirit.
The bulls all ran away, and even the hedgehog followed them, heading off to live in this utopian paradise. I wonder if the director ever considered how the owner of Bull Run might feel about this?
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