20 years of Brokeback Mountain: Revisiting how it feels to live in the shadows

It must have been the way Ennis del Mar (Heath Ledger)  breaks down—gutturally sobbing and punching— in an alleyway in Signal, Wyoming. Or it must have been the quiet moment when Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhaal) cries in his blue pickup on his way home to Texas. It must have been that four-year wait, the postcard exchanges, the “high altitude fucks” or it could be something else entirely.  

Whatever it is, “Brokeback Mountain,” in its very essence, still does what it does best 20 years later: It remains as the cinematic pinnacle of queer guilt, longing, and the lingering pain that comes with living in the shadows. 

Even in mental replay, Ang Lee’s masterpiece carries the same emotional weight as it does on screen. And with that, revisiting it requires great effort. It feels like pulling myself out of bed on a rainy morning: Slow and reluctant. Because beyond its poetic narration that made its two-hour run an emotional parkour, one cannot simply prepare for how it resonates now more than it did back when it first hit the cinemas in 2005 (or in my case, back in college when I first watched it.)

It starts in a humble, unsuspicious tone, with Ennis and Jack coincidentally arriving in Signal, Wyoming for seasonal work. Motivated by their hopes of earning enough to get by, the young cowboys then take on herding sheep in Brokeback Mountain. What started off as a platonic friendship built on the explicit codes of rugged masculinity, it developed into something softer when the cold, sweeping weather settled in. And as they submit to the call of their bodies, they are drawn to physical intimacy that neither of them fully understand.

Then one thing leads to another until they see themselves caught in a push-and-pull cycle that stretches on for years. As they try to lead separate lives with their own families, both of them attempt to satisfy their persistent yearning by reconnecting every once in a while. Completely understanding that there’s no space for what they have, they hide their love in the language of masculinity, calling it nothing more than two friends going 0n a fishing trip. 

With all its distinct Western imagery anchored on the cowboy culture and the masc-for-masc Marlboro-man figure, one might find it hard to connect with “Brokeback Mountain”, especially queer people who may be more feminine than others. But while it is widely viewed that way, the feelings it stirs and the dialogues it opens still land just as hard for everyone in the LGBTQIA+ spectrum. Sure, it holds up a mirror to a niche, but somehow, we all catch our own reflections in it. 

READ: Femininity is not a footnote: Visibility, present memory, and Southeast Asian queer cinema

Even with its distant and alien appeal to flamboyance, the film still succeeds in bridging together masculinity and femininity that frequently clash and sit on both extreme ends of the queer spectrum. Because beyond the masculine surface, “Brokeback Mountain” studies a universal experience that most LGBTQIA+ people, especially femmes, have lived through ever so canonically in their lives: The act of hiding. 

This experience remains eerily familiar for many young gay people in the Philippines, wherein most households are guided by Christian values that have been commonly interpreted in rigid and moralizing ways, leaving little room for queerness to be acknowledged, let alone embraced. 

I have lost count of how many times in my childhood and early teenage years I tried masculinizing my voice around my drunk uncles. There were intimidating moments when I would get anxious during reunions in an attempt to edit myself to make me more manly during dinner. In between my failed attempts and panic that someone might’ve seen through my pretenses, I was forced to chug a bottle of beer just to prove a point. And looking at it now, I unknowingly tolerated the machismo expected of me in fear of being humiliated or made fun of. 

This performative act of masculinity fleshed out of fear and shame is exactly what makes “Brokeback Mountain” such a haunting representation to many. Zooming in more closely to Ennis, he remains loyal to the masculine mold due to the threat of violence, as vividly shown in his childhood experience. He seems rather inarticulate about his feelings and in his attempt to act on it, always comes guilt. His dynamics, as opposed to Jack, ultimately forward a haunting reminder for many queer Filipinos just like me who knew how it felt to exchange softness for survival. 

To say that the cycle was daunting is an understatement in itself, but my mother, ever reassuring as she is, has set me out to discover myself more freely. With her as my first line of defense against my bullies, she taught me firsthand how to punch back against the glaring jabs of my relatives. And in her own gentle way, she reminded me that happiness is not a reward for conformity but rather a feeling I deserve for simply existing. 

Years later, when I told my mother I was bringing my boyfriend home, my voice trembled and my eyes welled up. Those must’ve been the words I’ve held in my throat for years finally making their way out to the world. At first I thought she would get upset, but she just nodded as if it was the most natural thing to say over dinner. It was then followed by a smile that seemingly said, “Finally, now, go and clean your room. Change the bedsheet, if you must.” 

That moment made me think about how very seldom queer love is accepted with ease, especially in the stories we’re accustomed to hear. Revisiting “Brokeback Mountain” helped ground that contrast more concretely, particularly on what I’ve been lucky to experience and what other people, just like Ennis and Jack, were never allowed to feel.

While Ennis shows guarded perspectives, Jack, on the other hand, yearns more freely. Throughout the film, Jack is more hopeful and dreamy for the life they could’ve shared if only Ennis had been a little braver. But in a time and place like theirs, dreaming was all he could afford to do. And that message was brought out more explicitly when Jack died. Ang Lee’s stark use of juxtaposition on Jack’s ambiguous nature of death suggests queer love can be a punishable act, successfully haunting not only the storyline but also giving the viewers a thought to meditate on.

To me, Jack’s death signifies something solemn. More than love lost, it represents queer guilt—for having to live double lives, for keeping up with the macho impositions, and for the reluctance over something so scary and beautiful at the same time. Ennis doesn’t just mourn Jack; he also mourns the version of himself he can only dream to fulfill. And that may also be the case for all who refuse to be seen as themselves. 

That’s the reason why “Brokeback Mountain” still cuts so deep two decades later. With the premise made richer by themes of infidelity, it lays bare and naked the faulty dynamics of gay relationships not for us to condemn but to understand. From that alone we learn that Jack and Ennis’ romance isn’t driven by selfishness but in the science of wanting to honor commitment while longing for a truth they aren’t given the chance to name. 

Beyond queer love and identity, it probes deeper into the grave consequences, whether you choose to hide or love loudly. And ultimately, it feels more lived than it is cinematic. Because even now with love in the open and softness allowed at the dinner table, the film reminds us of the lingering pain that comes in hiding and the impending dangers brought forth by being seen.