For Jose Soberanes, Our Lady of the Rock is more than a short film — it’s a reckoning with identity, faith, masculinity, and the desert landscapes that shaped him. Rooted in his experience as a Mexican American artist and inspired by the psychological weight of the American West, the project marks a moment of turning toward what once felt too personal to face. Created slowly with a small, trusted team and an intentionally stripped-back approach, the film embraces process, failure, and honesty as essential parts of the work. Through this deeply personal story, Jose is reclaiming his creative voice and proving that meaningful art doesn’t wait for perfect conditions — it begins with conviction, community, and the willingness to try again.
I first started thinking about Our Lady of the Rock in 2021 while filming a documentary in Tucson, Arizona. Being in that desert felt like a dramatic, almost mythical version of the places I grew up around like Moreno Valley, Perris, Hemet and San Bernardino. It made me realize how deeply the desert lives inside me, and how much of my identity is tied to that landscape.
Around the same time, I had just graduated from the San Francisco Conservatory of Music, where I became painfully aware of how different my background was from most of my peers. I was often reduced to “that rapper kid,” and for the first time I began to see how much I had been trying to distance myself from where I came from. The desert, my Mexican upbringing, my relationship with faith, all of it suddenly felt like something I needed to run toward instead of away from.
I had wanted to make this film since then, but I didn’t have the skillset, resources or confidence to do it. I was also battling depression, and the idea of making something this personal felt impossible. In 2025, after spending a lot of time with my best friend Thúy Lan while she was recovering from ACL surgery, we talked constantly about life, faith, creativity and the need to stop waiting for the “right time.” I realized the time was now.
As a Mexican American watching the political climate shift, watching ICE raids, watching the way Mexican identity is spoken about publicly, I felt a deep urgency to tell a story that comes from the interior life of a Mexican man in the desert. Mexican filmmaking, especially independent filmmaking, has always carried this raw, human, spiritual weight. I wanted to contribute to that tradition in my own way.
The film reimagines a real historical bandit and focuses less on plot and more on inner confrontation — guilt, masculinity, faith, and self-destruction. What drew you to explore these internal themes, and how do they connect to your own experiences or questions as an artist?
This film is really about a man confronting himself after doing something unforgivable. That theme is deeply personal to me. For most of my life I have been trying to figure out what being a “man” means. I’ve looked to teachers, coaches, God, Kanye West, Gordon Ramsey, Kobe Bryant. Later I studied characters like Tony Soprano, John Dutton and Marty Supreme because they represent flawed, complicated masculinity. I’ve always been fascinated by how men carry guilt, pride, faith and shame.
My relationship with God has also been a constant in my life. It’s not always been peaceful or clear, but it’s always been present. I’ve wrestled with faith, with forgiveness and with the fear that some things cannot be forgiven. I’ve wrestled with the idea that some things shouldn’t be forgiven. Nonetheless, grace is really powerful. Procopio is living inside that exact space. This film is me exploring those questions through a character in the desert, where there is nowhere to hide.
You’ve chosen to share and pitch this project before it’s complete, emphasizing that the process itself is central to the work. Why was it important for you to be open about the making of the film, and what do you hope people understand by seeing the project evolve in real time?
Because I already failed once. We filmed this project last September and it did not work. I was not ready. Instead of hiding that, I’ve chosen to embrace it. I regrouped, simplified the team, rewrote the script and started again.
For me, the process of making something is sacred. Gathering your people, trying, failing, trying again. That’s where goodness lives. I think in a world of instant gratification, people forget that meaningful work is slow, messy and communal. Sharing this project while it is still in progress is my way of showing that you don’t need permission or perfect conditions to begin. You just need your people, time and conviction.
Visually and technically, Our Lady of the Rock is being created with a small, trusted team, natural light, practical effects, and a strong physical performance. How has working within these intentional constraints shaped the creative process and the emotional tone of the film?
The constraints are the reason the film feels the way it does so far. We use natural light from the sun and fires. One camera. A very small team. We shoot one or two scenes every couple of weeks so we never rush things. The actors are never performing for coverage, only for truth in the moment.
This DIY process is something I have always loved. It reminds me of being young and making things with friends just because we cared.
Alongside this project, you balance a full-time role as Creative and Digital Manager for Pacific Park on the Santa Monica Pier. How has working across both commercial creative work and deeply personal art influenced the way you think about storytelling, purpose, and staying connected to what first pulled you into making art?
Working at places like Pacific Park and with the Los Angeles Philharmonic has shaped me in ways I knew would be important for this film. I’ve learned how to manage people, timelines, expectations, budgets, quality control, and how to take feedback without losing the core of an idea. I understand what it means to deliver professional creative work for stakeholders who are trusting you with something important.
What’s different here is that I am the stakeholder. There is no client to answer to except the story, my collaborators and my own conviction. I approach Our Lady of the Rock with the same discipline and professionalism I bring to my commercial work, but with a level of emotional honesty that only a personal project can demand. Because of that balance, I’m able to think about this film both as an intimate piece of art and as something that can live in the professional world of festivals, press and public audiences. That dual perspective has been incredibly valuable.
For fellow independent filmmakers and creatives building meaningful work with limited resources, what lessons are you learning through this project about conviction, collaboration, and trusting your creative instincts?
I’m learning to trust myself again. For many years, I focused on building my professional career and quietly put my personal creative desires aside. This project has reminded me that I am still the same person who used to believe he could make anything with his hands, time and friends. I’ve also learned how important my people are. The process of making this film with Thúy Lan, with Luis, with a small group of people who care deeply about the work, has been more meaningful than I expected. There is something very grounding about creating something slowly, intentionally and together.
I still deal with depression. I still question myself. But this film is proof to me that I can move through those feelings and make something honest and meaningful anyway. That, more than anything, has been the greatest lesson.
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