There’s always been something sexy about the image of the cowboy, which has been praised as a portrait of good, old-fashioned masculinity as much as it’s been parodied. Queerness, of course, has expanded our idea of what a cowboy can/should be beyond that traditional coding, but for some, that notion of a John Wayne or Clint Eastwood type will forever linger. Rebecca Zweig & Efraín Mojica’s Jaripeo—named after and set against the Mexican bull-riding rodeo events—is fixated on this image and how a variety of men who attend these events question it, eroticize it, and actively laugh at it.
Practically eschewing any real explanation of a jaripeo, what Zweig & Mojica establish quickly is a sense of place by way of both meditative imagery and casual conversation. Traditionalism surrounds every aspect of this world, and the variety of men they interview and follow around provide a wide showcase of the way queerness breaks through, as well as how antiquated notions of masculinity are so deeply embedded into some men that they can never escape them. Within Mexican culture, that machismo remains king, and it’s particularly interesting to hear all the ways these men have been distinctly impacted by it. While one of the protagonists has chosen to never discuss his gayness with his family, self-isolates from any community, and only longs to date another stereotypically masc cowboy like himself, another embraces his femininity without issue, spending time with other queer people at church and even talking about throwing themselves a quinceañera at 20.
Much of the film is fixated on following around these men as they go about their lives, either at the jaripeo or simply at home, but the occasional shifts to the footage from the Super 8 camera that Mojica carries around suggest using film stock itself as the queer gaze. These beats feel like an explicit interrogation of gay semiotics, adapted to the pueblo cowboy lifestyle as opposed to 1970s San Francisco. Some of Jaripeo‘s boldest visual exercises also come in the obvious stagings of fantasia, be it shots of hips writhing on a mechanical bull or a strobe-heavy evening of cruising through a corn field akin to a bathhouse. The uniquely designed score by Emilia Ezeta and Marton Radics, a blend of electronic and norteño music that pulses through, only makes it all the more appealing.
Scenes at the actual jaripeo are equally engaging, whether that’s watching one of the protagonists grow from being unable to mount a bull at all to finally riding it out in the open, or witnessing another put on a drag visage just to wander and play with the audience. But the eternal fight between masculinity and femininity is what remains at the forefront of Jaripeo, down to Mojica actively challenging one of his most masculine subjects about an aversion to both femininity and anyone who doesn’t conform to the traditions he has been conditioned to lust after. The frank conversations between subject and filmmaker bounce between probing questions, a sort of negging flirtation, and a sincere interest in what drives one’s arousal. Most admirable, though, is that Mojica doesn’t give into the temptation to judge, as many a queer critic with a background in challenging gender norms might; that comes from an awareness that desires of any kind are often impossible to explain.
Perhaps some will find themselves unfulfilled by the relative slightness of a “slice of life” documentary such as this—one that never goes beyond just a glimpse into the lives of a precious few individuals—but that very dedication to a minute community simply being allowed to exist and naturally converse about their desires and hesitations is what makes it so engrossing. Jaripeo has no interest in positioning itself as a definitive text on gay cowboys, Mexican culture, queer semiotics, and anything else it cites because it understands that interrogating these themes and the way they manifest in various communities is a lot more engrossing than being lectured.
Jaripeo premiered at the 2026 Sundance Film Festival.