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nocturnalfrenzy · 2 years ago

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Is Brokeback Mountain a True Story?

Brokeback Mountain directed by Taiwanese director Ang Lee saw the theatres in the year 2005. Primarily, a romantic-drama set in old west theme introduces us to two American cowboys Jack Twist and Ennis Del Mar; the story takes us through their terrain like lives after they meet in 1963 while working as sheep herders on pastures of Brokeback Mountain. The film keeping their relationship at its core threads various phases of Jack and Ennis lives as they ride ahead. The depiction of Homosexuals in a Homophobic society makes it first one of its kind.

Ang Lee won his first Academy Award as Best Director for this movie. Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger gave two brilliant performances in their respective roles each demanding attention when on-screen, the cast also consisted names like Anne Hathaway, Michelle Willaims, David Harbour, Kate Mara.

Is Brokeback Mountain based on a true story?

The technically correct answer to this question would be a ‘NO’, the movie was adapted from a short story penned by Pulitzer fame American novelist Annie Proulx, the screenplay being written by Larry McMurty and Diana Ossana.

Fictionally the story is about these two characters and their love and journey of twenty years from 1963 to 1983 but it in actuality it’s the untold stories of all those Jack and Ennis that really existed in the fog of homophobic society.

In the early 1960s to late 1990s homosexuality was dangerous notion to have in U.S, several hate crimes that occurred in these times are the alibi of the aforementioned statement until 2003 when Lawrence vs Texas case brought a change in the laws. Jack and Ennis discover each other sexually, emotionally on Brokeback Mountain in Wyoming and keep seeing each other secretly in the name of fishing trips to hide from everyone. Duality in their lives makes the viewer a part of their journey since many of us live in duality, they prioritize responsibilities over love. Each of two leads get married to a woman but finding them in the want of each other’s company; the excitement in the body language and eyes of characters when they meet tells us all we need to know. Each of characters have different stands; Jack being more confident wants to have a life with Ennis divorcing his wife whereas Ennis even though divorced is afraid of the thorns of society they live in. In one scene Ennis says “If this things grabs hold of us again in wrong place, wrong time, then we are dead” all the while thinking about the thought process of his late homophobic father.

As the story rolls ahead both of them finds it difficult to maintain their dual lives showing the frustration and fits of rage in various altercations they have, both Jack and Ennis are distanced from their respective wives. Even through the tough times their love and emotional connection stays strong but they are not able live it to fullest. They live of the moments they spent together in Brokeback Mountain as Jack mentions aptly in a scene “All we have is Brokeback Mountain”. Since Brokeback Mountain stays as only standing proof of their relationship. The sexuality of the characters take a side seat while the film focuses on the mental struggle a homosexual person went through in those times.

The grounded and mature depiction of homosexual characters brings it more close to reality. In popular culture gay men are imagined of possessing flamboyant characteristics and being effeminate but in this film the characters don’t clad any of this colorful traits. So it seems Jack and Ennis could be anywhere or anyone hiding from the mindset of our social structure of this world we all belong to willingly or unwillingly. Once Ennis gets the knowledge about Jack’s death is taken aback and imagines him getting killed in the same way his father had described killing a homosexual person. This imagination of his brings forth the fear Ennis had in him throughout the story. The screenplay keeps the viewer guessing the validity of his imagination hence asking ourselves whether he died because of a hate crime or an accident, sadly the former option seeming more probable. In broader spectrum answering the big question that even though the film is fictional the building blocks are picked from reality of many homosexual men in those time periods.

#movie brokebackmountain moviethoughts homophobia realityorimaginary loveislove crimeonlove film cinema thoughts mytakeonmovie #movies #film #cinema #homophobia #cowboys #thoughts #movie thoughts #movie explained #loveislove #slotted angle racks #ang lee #jake gylenhall #heath ledger #writer on tumblr #philosophy #movie history

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sweetlovepascal · 20 days ago

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polaroid hearts

pairings joel miller x reader

summary during a quiet patrol, you and joel find a working polaroid camera at a gas station. later, you discover he’s been secretly taking pictures of you.

tags established relationship, slow-burn, tender moments, filled with cuteness overload, fluff, and sweet romance as joel secretly cherishes the memories you create together.

masterlist

it happens on a slow day. one of the rare ones.

the two of you stumble on the gas station, half-collapsed but still standing while on patrol together. it’s one of those quiet, golden afternoons, where everything feels just a little softer.

no infected, no people. just you, joel, and the crunch of gravel beneath your boots.

inside, the place is mostly ransacked, long picked clean by the past patrol.

you and joel knew but for some reason decided to check inside.

“i’ll check the back,” he says, brushing his hand across your lower back as he passes.

that little touch. simple and instinctive still gives you butterflies.

you sift through shelves, overturned display racks, old register drawers. you’re about to move on when something behind the counter catches your eye.

a polaroid camera.

“no way…” you murmur, pulling it out carefully. joel hears you and rounds the corner, shotgun lowered but alert.

“you find somethin’?” you hold it up.

he pokes his head around the doorway, rifle slung over his shoulder.

“a camera?”

“polaroid,” you say, tapping it with your knuckle.

“retro as hell. wonder if it still—” you press the button. the machine clicks loudly, a little wheeze and miraculously a photo begins to slide out.

“no way,” you whisper, grinning like an idiot. “it works!” joel eyes it with suspicion. “that thing still got film?” “got two whole packs, looks like. better make ‘em count.” joel chuckles low in his throat, leaning against the counter with arms crossed, watching you with that soft, fond look he probably doesn’t realize he wears just for you. “okay,” you say, turning toward him, “your turn.”

his smile fades a little. “nah. i’m good.”

you walk toward him slowly, raising the camera. “just one. for me.”

he sighs, not quite meeting your eyes. “i look like hell.”

you lean up on your toes and kiss his cheek. “you look like you. that’s what i want.” joel lets out a soft huff, but the corner of his mouth lifts, just a little.

“alright, fine. go on, then.” you raise the camera and snap the shot just as he squints at the light, caught between a smile and a protest. he’s caught mid-squint, sun in his eyes, standing near the light coming through the shattered window. there’s the hint of a smile on his lips

the photo slides out with a buzz. you hold it delicately, waiting for it to develop.

“now i can remember this face when you’re grumpy tomorrow,” you say, giving the photo a dramatic little wave.

“i’m not grumpy.” he crosses his arms but doesn’t say more.

you tuck the picture carefully into your pocket, joel watches you do it.

“you’re keepin’ that?” he asks, voice softer now.

“of course i am,” you say without hesitation. “you look…so damn handsome.”

joel shakes his head, but you can see it—the blush he tries to hide behind a chuckle.

that same week —

the fire crackles, sending flickers of amber light across joel’s front porch. the night in jackson is quiet as you sit beside joel, his arm draped casually over the back of your chair, fingers tracing slow patterns against the worn wood.

without thinking, he reaches for the camera.

the button clicks, and you don’t even stir.

the photo slides out, and joel takes it gently, shielding it in his hands as it develops.

you, caught mid-thought, a soft, genuine smile playing at your lips. no walls, no guarded edges—just you.

you felt it before you saw it.

you watch him, stunned into silence by how careful he is with it.

the subtle shift in joel’s posture, the way he straightened just slightly, like he was preparing for something. you caught the way his fingers lingered near the polaroid camera, the telltale glance in your direction, quick, like he was checking, like he was making sure you weren’t looking.

but you were.

when the image begins to appear, joel stares at it. a smile spreads across his face. slow, sweet, impossible to hide.

you fought the smirk threatening to rise, keeping your expression soft, easy, like you hadn’t noticed a thing.

“whatcha doin’?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just looks at you like really looks. there’s something in his eyes, something unspoken.

“you were peacefully looking at the fire’ earlier,” he says softly, lifting the camera.

“you looked… i don’t know. happy. i don’t see you like that near enough.”

“joel,” you murmur, already blushing.

“goddamn,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head in quiet awe. “how’d i get so lucky?” he looks at you then.

“you. just sittin’ there. smilin’ like that.”

you don’t know what to say. your heart’s pounding.

joel watches you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s holding back a grin.

you catch the way he glances at the camera, the way he shifts slightly like he’s debating something. so, naturally, you decide to make his choice easier.

with exaggerated enthusiasm, you lift your hands to your face, shaping them into hearts and pressing them against your cheeks, tilting your head.

“how’s this for a shot?” you tease, batting your lashes for effect.

joel exhales a laugh and lifts the camera without hesitation.

“you’re impossible,” he mutters, shaking his head. click.

the photo slides out, and joel picks it up with practiced care.

you lean forward, watching it develop, your heart hammering just a little faster than it should.

slowly, your image comes into view—that sweet pose, the warmth in your expression, the way the firelight softens everything.

but the real giveaway is joel’s face when he sees it—how his lips press together like he’s trying to suppress something big.

you poke his arm. “what? didn’t turn out?”

he shakes his head, eyes still glued to the picture. “no,” he says, voice quieter now. “turned out too good.”

you blink at him, watching the way his fingers trace the edges of the photo like it’s something delicate.

and then without a word he tucks it away in his jacket, alongside the other. “wait,” you laugh, reaching for it. “that one’s mine.”

joel leans back, smug now. “nope.”

you try again. he dodges.

“joel,” you groan, half-laughing, half-serious.

he smirks, finally meeting your eyes.

“gonna keep it with the others,” he says simply, patting his jacket.

you blink. “…others?”

joel doesn’t answer, just watches the fire again, completely unbothered by the way your mind is now racing with the thought of just how many pictures he’s been secretly collecting all this time.

you sit back, grinning like an idiot.

you’ll find them someday.

the fire has burned low now, embers glowing soft in the night. you sigh, shifting closer, and joel doesn’t hesitate. his arm settles around you, firm, steady. he’s always been solid, always been something to hold onto, even when he doesn’t realize it.

your cheek presses against his shoulder, breath evening out. joel turns slightly, just enough to look at you, eyes soft in the firelight.

“you tired?”

you hum a little, not quite answering, just letting yourself sink into the warmth of him. his fingers trace slow patterns against your arm, absentminded, gentle.

“you’re gonna steal all the polaroids, aren’t you?”

you smile without opening your eyes. “obviously.” joel huffs a quiet laugh, tilting his head back. “gotta admit, i like the thought of you keeping ‘em.”

your fingers tighten just slightly against his sleeve, something deep settling in your chest.

“you should be in more of them,” you say, voice low, drowsy. “maybe.” you know that you’ll get your chance to capture more of him.

one memory at a time.

just like he’s been doing with you.

the next week —

you and joel are back on patrol, weaving through the forest on the edge of jackson. the sunlight filters through the branches in scattered beams, casting long, golden streaks across the moss and ferns.

you’re walking ahead, checking the brush for signs of anything recent, when you hear him behind you.

“hey,” joel says, voice low.

you glance back. he’s a few paces behind, hands resting casually on the straps of his backpack. his rifle hangs across his back.

there's something about the way he’s looking at you. like he’s trying to decide something.

you slow your pace until you're side by side. “what’s up?”

he doesn’t meet your eyes at first, just studies the clearing you’ve stepped into—a little patch of light surrounded by trees, the trail winding quiet through it.

“you, uh…” he clears his throat. “still got that camera?” you pause, the mug halfway to your lips. you don’t smile. not yet.

just nod. “yeah. in my bag.” you tilt your head, curious. “why?”

joel shifts his weight, eyes scanning the tree line like he’s stalling, but there's no tension in his shoulders. “just figured…” his hand lifts halfway, then drops again. “if you still wanted a real picture. of me.”

you blink at him. “now?”

he gives a small nod, almost sheepish. “better light out here than back home. figured maybe… the trees’d look better behind me than a damn porch railing.”

you smile, slow and warm. “alright, joel. c’mere.”

he exhales like he’s already regretting it, but walks over without protest. you watch as he steps into the clearing, finding a spot where the sunlight filters through the canopy. he plants his boots in the moss and— pop.

there it is.

that knee.

he shifts his weight onto one leg, resting the other with just a slight bend, popping his knee out like he always does when he’s standing still. like it’s habit. like it’s comfort.

you grin. “you always stand like that.”

joel furrows his brow. “like what?”

you tilt your camera down, gesturing. “that knee. you pop it every time you’re trying to look like you’re not posing.”

he scoffs under his breath. “ain’t posin’.”

“mmm,” you hum, raising the camera again. “sure you’re not.”

he doesn’t argue. just lets his arms cross loosely over his chest, posture relaxed—but that knee stays popped, his weight settled the way it always is when he’s just being himself.

you look through the lens, and your chest tightens.

joel, out in the open, just him. honest. unhidden. carefree. standing there in the quiet green of the woods like he belongs to it. like he belongs here, with you.

click.

the camera clicks, and the photo slides out with that familiar little whir. you cradle it in your hands as it begins to develop, shielding it gently from the breeze.

joel steps closer, watching with quiet curiosity. you hold the picture up between you both as the image starts to form.

slow and ghostlike at first, then clearer.

joel beneath the trees, that knee popped, hands relaxed. his face half in sunlight. eyes soft. like he’s not fighting anything in that second.

you glance over. “you look good.”

he studies it for a beat. “didn’t even realize i stood like that.”

you smirk. “i know. that’s what makes it good.”

“so,” you begin, your voice teasing, “didn’t know you were such a softie, joel.”

joel’s eyes soften, a rare, quiet affection flickering there. “you got me figured out, sweetheart. ain’t nobody else sees it like you do."

“i just… don’t mind you takin' my picture, sweetheart."

you laugh lightly. "if you keep standing like that, sure."

"you’re really gonna give me crap about the knee, aren’t you?"

“hey, i’m not judging. just sayin’, it’s part of your charm,” you tease, nudging his shoulder again.

“yeah?” joel ask, looking over at him.

your heart does that thing again. just a little at his words. you keep your gaze ahead, not wanting him to catch the way your cheeks warm.

the rain starts in the early afternoon. you and joel cut patrol short before it rolls in fully, returning soaked but laughing, hoods dripping, boots heavy.

now, the storm taps gently at the windows.

joel’s upstairs tinkering with a stubborn window latch, while you curl up on his couch with a blanket and a mug of tea, the room filled with the low hiss of the fire.

you shift to get more comfortable, and something slips off the armrest with a soft thump, joel’s flannel jacket.

you lean down to pick it up. as you straighten it, your fingers brush something stiff in the chest pocket.

curious, you slip your hand inside.

polaroids.

you blink.

carefully, you pull them out, all tucked together. the edges are worn, a little soft, clearly touched over and over again. it’s you.

sitting by the fire, cheeks pink from cold. you’re laughing, eyes crinkled.

the next: you curled up in the joel’s couch, fast asleep, head tipped against the window. sunlight streaks through the glass. there’s a shadow in the bottom corner. joel’s hand, maybe. close but not touching.

another: you in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove, tongue between your teeth in concentration. light pouring in from the window. one of your socks is mismatched.

then the one, hands on your cheeks in a heart shape, eyes squinting with laughter.

you remember that one. you remember how warm he looked at you afterward, even when he tried to hide it.

you flip to the last one. you, in profile, sitting on the porch with a blanket around your shoulders. the light hits your face in this soft, golden way that feels more like a memory than a photograph.

you aren’t smiling. you’re just… peaceful.

you don’t even hear joel’s footsteps until he appears. he stops mid-step when he sees what you’re holding.

“guess you found ‘em.”

you look back down at the photos, heart full and aching in equal measure. “you’ve been carrying these around?”

he rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “didn’t mean to hide ’em, really. just… i dunno.”

you trace the edge of the photo with your thumb. “these are all of me.”

joel nods slowly. “yeah.”

“you don’t have any of yourself.”

he shrugs. “don’t need any of me. i remember me just fine.”

your chest squeezes. you walk over, placing the photos gently on the table, and wrap your arms around his neck. his hands settle on your back, one of them coming up to cup the back of your head.

“you’ve been holding onto me,” you whisper. joel leans his head down against yours, murmuring into your hair. “always.”

you pull back enough to meet his eyes. “you know i’m stealing one, right?”

“figured you might.”

“this one’s mine.”

he watches you tuck it into your pocket with a fondness so open, so sweet, it leaves you breathless.

you smile at him. “don’t worry. i’m gonna take so many pictures of you, you won’t know where to keep them.”

explicit version — caught mid-cum

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal imagines #x reader #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal #tlou #pedrohub #marcus acacius x reader #sweetlovepascal

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