When it was first released, I put off seeing Brokeback Mountain for a good month or so. So worn down did I become by everyone beginning every conversation with, “What did you think of Brokeback Mountain?” in the end, I think I saw the film simply to tear down the social barrier that was not having witnessed the cowboy love that dare not speak it’s name.
 
For me, the hype I took with me to the cinema was not one of quality, but simply an expectation that within two hours, I would be utterly devastated. I did want to see it; but every morning I awoke with the idea that “today was the day”, by the time the moment came around, I would think, “Oh, I just don’t think I can put myself through it, right now.”
 
So I’m going to begin this discussion by getting the most controversial element out of the way.
 
I didn’t shed a single tear in Brokeback Mountain.
 
I know, I know, I am apparently a beast that has no soul, a man of stone that has no heart, etc, etc. But when the credits rolled, I did something tres anti-social for an arty academic queer, like myself. I muttered the words, “Is that it?”
 
Brokeback Mountain is essentially a film in two halves (or really a third, followed by two thirds). It’s more than simply time (or the chronology) that divides the film. Brokeback Mountain’s infamous – long – exposition, where two wranglers wind up getting busy in a tent, is indeed a mesmorising con.
 
I’m not in any way adverse to atmospheric sequences designed to create a sense of time, place, or mood. Bring on the rolling hills, the dusty roads, the hard men looking up from the shadows cast by cowboys hats. But by the sixth or seventh segment - as if the film launches into Country and Western MTV like sporadic ad breaks - the time, place and mood are, let’s face it, well and truly established.
 
But Brokeback Mountain is a clever little bugger. Really, it is. It’s a game. It’s a game made by heterosexuals, for heterosexuals. That’s the absurdity of the (predictable) embracing of the film by the gay community – Brokeback Mountain isn’t in any way a queer film. It isn’t any more queer, than Roots was black. It’s about men getting busy with each other, sure. But the audience the film targets are not anything of the kind – and it never loses its cunning in the trickery of the masses it set out to shock.
 
From the very offset, the chemistry is deliberately volatile. It chooses, not quite so innocently, the epitome of the all American iconography, the very image of the Great White – straight – American male. John Wayne, The Marlboro Man, the ranch savvy of George Wanker Bush – cultural symbols that are to be twisted by the very thing that strikes at the heart of American moral (and to a great extent, evolutionary) insecurity. Two big, brave, beautiful American men… and what do they do? Get busy in a tent.
 
And that slow plod to the… um… climax, is equally as deliberate. “Sexual tension” it may be – but this is a very particular kind of sexual tension, as an audience of so called modern accepting heterosexuals are well and truly put to the test, and taunted for almost an hour, while they sit in the dark, in an uncomfortable collective (the DVD, after all, is a private experience, and therefore much less intense), waiting for THE moment to arrive. Brokeback Mountain expects you to know very well what’s coming. The tragic Mills and Boon kicks in later - the first part of Brokeback Mountain borrows heavily from the thriller genre. It’s like a horror film that draws out the scene where the babysitter you know is going to be murdered, walks around a not so empty house. Every time she nears an open window or bedroom door, we grimace, rising with the tension of the cruel knowledge of what is inevitably going to happen to her. Brokeback Mountain forces the audience to strike a tolerant smile, while all the while it tries to elicit any last drop of homophobia or aversion it has.
 
Every time night falls, every time there is a shot of the tent, every time there is a vacant, silent stare between the two – you could cut the tension in that cinema with a knife. It created the most bizarre atmosphere, honing our perception in on the expectation, to the point where even the slightest brush of their shoulders is like a teasing reminder of what will inevitably happen. The clock ticks in the back of everyone’s mind. And every time they snuggle in for the night, something happens that puts that moment off, just a little further – it draws the tension out, disappoints it, draws it out, disappoints it, and on, and on it goes. “When is it finally going to happen?” you start asking yourself.
 
But what “is” going to happen is nothing as simple as plot development. When it boils down to it, not a great deal actually evolves in Brokeback Mountain – and certainly nothing we don’t walk in already knowing will take place. Two cowboys get busy in a tent; they then deny the connection and marry, until they realise they can’t take the repression any longer. Heath Ledger clings to his so much, he passes off constipation as some clever metaphysical metaphor (paging Doctor Freud). In the end, they get busted, and tragedy keeps them apart. We all cry. The end. We all knew that. I became anxious not knowing the exact nature of that tragedy, but really, that was it. We’d heard too many café conversations not to get the gist of Brokeback Mountain, and quite frankly, if you’ve seen the trailer, you’ve already familiarised yourself with the plot. This is the posterboy film (alongside Coppola's postergirl, Lost In Translation) of the strange new breed of arty mainstream. It uses vague, "clever" subject matter, and aesthetics, and of course, marketing, to pass itself off as some kind of experimental arthouse. But it's actually remarkably shallow. For the enormous themes it carries, for the opportunity to explore such complex components of human nature, of love, of lust, of collectivism - it actually says very little. It has a wonderful message, of course - "homophobia is bad". But it never goes any deeper into this slogan, and even then, tries to put its message across by simply making us very, very sad. It's manipulative knee-jerk film-making, and it's remarkably two dimensional. It's all about the social suspense around two points of action - a scandalous sex scene (the first half), and a horrible tragedy (the second half).

Like Lost In Translation, this gives the film a strange, postmodern detachment. The joke is always on the audience. What’s going to “happen” isn’t that two characters, Jack and Enis (Enis?? Hello?! How altruistic and innocent is a film that phonetically names its constipated, repressed homosexual, Enis?!), are going to fall in a deep, complicated union. What’s going to happen is that audience after audience of the ordinary heterosexual are about to see two guys get busy in a tent. In the phenomenon of Brokeback Mountain, the story is secondary, for the first hour. In fairness to it, the film actually makes no pretense of that – there really isn’t a story for the first hour, anyway. Two wranglers wrangle sheep, eat baked beans, and ride around on their horses before sleeping dangerously close, yet ever so agonisingly out of reach. Repeat that rather simplistic pattern six times or so, and voila - welcome to the suspenseful world of Brokeback Mountain (a suspense that requires a heterosexual mindset, to operate). If you don't have an inch of aversion in you (and however liberally minded people are, there's a fine line between accepting it and seeing it - keeping in mind that this was the first time millions of accepting people actually had), Brokeback Mountain's slow crawl to the tent scene is unbelievably dull. There must be about two lines of dialogue mumbled every ten minutes – if that. And the deceptively soothing adult contemporary soundtrack glides through all.
 
And then, it happens. The two cowboys get busy in the tent.  And they don’t even smudge any of their make up, or ruin their hair.
 
Still, regardless of the theatrical aesthetics, the bizarre thing is, it’s a convieniently heterosexualised act. It’s still “real” - in a way -  sure. That was what, for me, was the most startling thing about the moment. I personally found it quite unsexy – suddenly, this slick well-designed postcard, this fantasy, goes rather dark, and behind the manipulative exterior is a realistically based sex scene. When the repression finally boils over into physical action, it results in an awkward, rough, semi-violent act - which is perfectly feasable for these two men. It’s not very romantic, and it’s not very titillating. But that’s just me (I'm sure it hit the spot for a few people, out there) .
 
For me, this was the point where the poster-boy imagery and the superficial post-modernity collided with something quite unpleasantly real. These aren’t two pretty boy models, and they’re not making sweet love. They’re not even being erotic, in a more salacious sense. They’re two repressed victims of the masculine construct. It’s not a beautiful moment, because they are reduced to two men trapped in the anger they are ironically “allowed” to have as “real men”.
 
But as "real" as the cirumstance it depicts is, that circumstance is a very partiular niche, indeed. That the gay scene chose – and I do mean chose – to see this as a "gay" film, is quite bizarre in what it says about their desperate longing to be represented in mainstream media. And we should be. But this isn’t that moment. It’s exactly the same dynamic that came back to haunt me when a messed up young model walked onto a reality TV show three months ago, and sold himself as the gay saviour – somewhat ironically exploiting (and being exploited by the programme for) the Brokeback Mountain image of everybody's favourite idea of homosexuality (despite the fact that it's actually quite a fucked up one). Brokeback Mountain ended up defining the very image of the mainstream homosexual. That’s what is actually quite wrong about the whole thing. It defined it to a point where suddenly a gay man could nearly win Big Brother – and all down to whether he could maintain the character of the Brokeback Cowboy. Ironically, he couldn’t, and his popularity suffered.
 
But this is hardly a representative image that can adequately generalise homosexuality. At best, Brokeback Mountain addresses a tiny minority within the realm of homosexuality; at worst, it’s an impossible fantasy – the 1960s American cowboy who happens to like fucking men without an inch of femininity, and happens to be breathtakingly beautiful, with not a drop of dirt anywhere to be found on him. What good does that do? And how did it happen that this was to be the most accepted image of the homosexual that mainstream culture had ever seen?
 
A couple of aspects. Firstly, the fact that it does deal with characters constructed (contrived would perhaps be a better word) as far removed from homosexuality as conceptually possible. It may even be strangely in line with their character; but they act, talk, and walk like the straightest of men. They even fuck like the straightest of men. Take away the penetration we don’t actually see, and it’s a little like a semi-naked grid iron scrum in a tent. So people aren’t really embracing the idea of homosexuality that they have known. The most vivid social memory I have from the month of Brokeback, was when someone said to me, “It was great, you know, because it didn’t even feel like I was watching two gay men having sex.” They actually said that to me, quite honestly – quite oblivious – as if that was a sign of their acceptance! They completely missed the irony – so obvious to me – of what they were actually saying.
 
When it comes to acceptance, culture works in surprisingly exact images. It embraces a particular construct that the “embraced” must conform to. The cruel irony is that it doesn’t work so easily in reverse (which says so much about us). Rejection is completely the opposite. We don’t say “well, this is our image of the bad terrorist Muslim, and any Muslim who doesn’t fit this stereotype will not be rejected.” If only. Our paranoia creates such an agenda, it happily sucks anything into the prejudice (a Muslim with a van is a suicide bomber, a Muslim woman wearing a veil must be opressed, a group of young Lebanese walking through a park must be looking for a rape victim). Our rejection and persecution tends to be a rather loose detective in regards to constructs. Often, instead of images of the subculture or ethnicity in question contradicting our stereotype, we need to consciously see others outside it who hold the same qualities or capabilities (such as my discussion on the latest rape case, "Anybody vs Them"). Of course, the difference is that if it's "us" who hold the same capabilities, we may slowly come to weaken the stereotype; if it's another minority - or "other" - they will simply be roped into the stereotype alongside those who originally fit it (if homosexuals start bombing planes, they'll simply be put in the category alongside Muslims). It's a game of generalisation, functional not merely in how we perceive others, but how we perceive ourselves.

 

But our acceptance of the "other" is not so generalising. That’s the danger of Brokeback Mountain and the commercialised image of the "rugged" homosexual – and we saw that evidenced in the comparison in the popularity of David in Big Brother, to the public reaction of the decidedly more token Rob. It's not merely that a negative stereotype was eroded by something contradicting it (that could have been beneficial, if it was simply a realisation that there were many "kinds" of homosexuals), it's that we were presented - sold - an image that a large portion of society have completely embraced, and have done so as the new image of the canonised homosexual. Such is the acceptance generated for this kind of homosexual (the un-homosexual kind), it has actually justified our rejection of the older (more realistic) norm. Now, we have a point where homosexuals who do not conform, can be rejected on the basis of not conforming (bad homosexual, to be the kind we dislike, and fail to be the kind we accept). At one point in this year's Big Brother, David was even lovingly told, “But you’re not like Rob. I don’t see you as being gay, you know? You’re gay, but you’re not gay.”
 
Again, that was supposedly a proud statement of homotollerance! I accept your homosexuality, because conceptually, you don’t force me to accept homosexuality! This is supposed to be some sort of breakthrough?!

By the end, David ran around the house, anxiously asking people, "Do you think I act gay? You wouldn't be able to tell, would you?" Great. That's real healthy - it's such a step forward when gay men link being accepted to being able to act in accordance to the non-gay masculine construct, to the absurd degree of the cowboy role (or in our culture, farmer). I fail to see the advances, there. I think it's great to get the idea out there that there is homosexuality beyond the cliches and stereotypes, but the reality is that this is a stereotype simply too extreme, and ultimately (especially considering how big a part their beauty plays) unattainable for most young men dealing with their sexual identity. I don't know any straight men like that, let alone gays. We've seen what has happened to the terrible ideals of the "female" in our culture (and the body image problems, and eating disorders, and esteem issues that come from that for women). As the gay image has finally emerged in our culure, we are in danger of the same thing happening to us. "All the best looking guys are gay," goes the silly modern cliche. It's not actually true - and it's a stupid value with which to credit homosexuals. They're also human beings, and are no better or worse than the next person. Many of them are smart, and caring. But in true millenial style, they've ended up being "hot". 

And beyond the constructs of Jack and Enis as (beautiful, overly masculine) characters of the film, we cannot ignore the more inter-textual dynamic of commercial cinema, in regards to Heath and Jake. Because we’re not just watching Jack and Enis. Are Heath and Jake, Jack and Enis? Or are Jack and Enis, really Heath and Jake?
 
In the end, it doesn’t matter where you draw the line - those two men getting busy in a tent are just pretending. They’re hetero heart-throbs. The director yells “cut”, and they go back and fuck women. Heath was even sleeping with his onscreen wife. By the end, she was pregnant to him. It makes the world of difference. Because they’re gay, but… you know… they’re not.
 
A more recent twist in this, comes with the development that Jake Gyngenhall is fighting off rumours that he is – gasp – a real homosexual. The terrible final insult is that it’s actually damaging his career! How does that work, exactly?! We’ll accept you if you’re pretending to be gay, but not if you actually are?!? What the fuck is that?!
 
And during the P.R tour of the film – it tried to keep its supposed “art-house” cred, but c’mon, art-house films don’t get Oprah specials – there was the very conscious awareness that the actors’ heterosexuality was paramount to the successful marketing of this movie. Interview after interview, and worse, press junket after press junket (where anything that comes out of a star’s mouth is scripted by a marketing copywriter) – over, and over, we were reminded of how straight these lads were. They talked about how “gross” the scene was, and how nervous they were. They told us how glad they were when that scene had finally been wrapped. They made jokes about the overwhelming unlikelihood that they were even the slightest bit gay.
 
It was incredibly insulting, to come from the two men at the centre of this supposed milestone for homosexual acceptance. The Oprah audience screamed, and wept, and carried on like teenagers at a rock concert. Heath held Michelle's hand, and told us how in love with his woman he was. Oprah told them what brave, perfect men they were. And every now and then, she reminded us how “moving” the film was.
 
And yet, all around the world, gay men clutched their chests, and declared, “Oh, I feel the pain! This movie is so real. It speaks to me – it speaks about me.” Please! They feel the pain, because the harsh reality is, the pain is so great – and mostly so unresolved – that the mere suggestion of it can elicit it, and there you are, “feeling the pain”, all over again. STILL feeling the fucking pain.
 
And heterosexuals don’t leave Brokeback Mountain understanding “our pain”. As if. They understand your pain, so long as they can project their Beaches meets Mills and Boon tear-jerker reaction, upon an idea of you as a 1960s masculine cowboy who happens to fuck men like the rugged man you are. And chances are, you’re not. I’m sure there’s the odd repressed cowboy out there – somewhere – who is confronted by a reflection of their life upon the screen. I’m sure there are even married, repressed homosexuals who find much in the film. I’m not taking anything away from them, don’t get me wrong. But the film never offers anything further than the observation of such situations through a silly, melodramatic Hollywood lense, and people didn't come away from the film understanding the men who deny their sexuality with marriage any better than they did when they walked into the cinema. All they've done is felt sorry for them - and that's positive in a way, but in a way that ultimately means very little. And they certainly don't undertand the broader gay community, who are a completely different kettle of fish than the repressed homosexuals in straight marriages. Ultimately, a real depiction of the standard modern homosexual, Brokeback Mountain is not; and yet, this is what the film has now "become" for stright audiences. Brokeback Mountain became Brokeback David - and anyone who had anything to do with my last site knows what I think about that.
 
By the time the rest of the film had gone through its motions, and the tragedy was upon me, yes, I felt nothing. I “wanted” to cry. Some logical part of me went, “Oh, that’s supposed to be sad.” Supposed to be. I guess I just couldn’t suspend my disbelief, or perhaps I couldn't remove my intellect from what was clearly an overly contrived exercise. Maybe I just couldn't project my egocentricity upon something that clearly had no relevance to me. And I’m no screaming queen. Not by a long shot. If I couldn’t manage to relate, I have no idea how the Kylie brigade did.
 
But they did.
 
I don’t hate Brokeback Mountain. But there’s something to it that has never rested easy with me, and I suspect, never will. I suppose because it’s all very well for me to remove myself from the broader Brokeback audience (or “market” is probably a better term with this film), and engage with the story outside of the cultural phenomenon it was/is. But the thing is, I don’t find much else to it. Take away everything else, and it’s just something you watch late at night on TV, and go, “Okay, well that was an alright film - albeit, pretty obvious”, and forget about it by the next week. Ironically, if we were so accepting, and we really saw homosexuality as no different to heterosexuality, I could say that about this film without any air of controversy. But because of the very real phobia, and the (completely understandable) sensitivity around it, I'm supposed to think this film is much better than it really is. Brokeback Mountain isn’t too far removed from Beaches (and I must say, I've known plenty of cancer patients, and cannot recall a single one telling me that Beaches "spoke to them"). It’s a sad - but contrived to be - tale; and hey, it kills a couple of hours. And that’s about it. Except, of course, I actually at least managed to cry at the end of Beaches.
 
Now how gay is that?