Some films accumulate an emotional residue over time; rather than diminishing, their impact deepens and intensifies with each screening. When I first saw Ang Lee’s Brokeback Mountain in 2005 – a movie I’d been anticipating since a “gay cowboy” project was announced – my response was subdued. I remember telling a friend who’d asked what I thought that it was beautiful in the way a landscape painting is beautiful: lush and precisely detailed but emotionally spare. These days I can’t hear the opening strains of Gustavo Santaolalla’s poignant score without weeping.
Beautiful landscape is, of course, a central feature of the film, tantalising and talismanic. The quietly stunning Wyoming countryside is not only where our cowboys fall in love – mercurial and passionate Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhaal) and taciturn and self-loathing Ennis del Mar (Heath Ledger) – it represents the kind of emotional freedom and acceptance they can’t find in the prosaic interiors of their upbringing. Brokeback Mountain (a fictional location invented by the author Annie Proulx in the award-winning short story on which the film is based) releases something in the men, then mocks them for not living up to its Edenic promise.
It’s highly significant that the film opens in 1963 and spans a 20-year period of marriages, kids and divorce before ending in secrecy and heartbreak. This was a time of enormous progress for gay men in the US who’d fought for and won legal protections across the country. But for Jack and Ennis – who can’t even conceive of a world that tolerates, let alone actively celebrates, their love – this progress might as well be happening on the moon. It’s a salient reminder that what we think of as an LGBTQI+ community is largely a metropolitan, middle-class construct.
