Dominic (Félix-Antoine Duval), the protagonist of Canadian writer-director Bruce LaBruce’s latest cinematic provocation, is a modern Narcissus in his self-adoration. The film begins with a scene in which he has passionate sex with a woman he encounters in a laundromat, pleased that a crowd of fascinated passersby can observe the action through the front windows. He lets no reflection of himself go by without admiring it, and though the year is 1972, he takes what amount to selfies, using a Polaroid camera rather than a smartphone.
Dominic lives in Quebec with his elderly grandmother (Angèle Coutu), who encourages him to find a girl and have a family, but after she dies he learns that she has been keeping a secret from him: a hidden cache of letters reveals that his mother Beatrice (Tania Kontoyanni) is not dead—as he was told by grandma and his late father—but alive, and so he sets off on his motorcycle to find her.
Considered a witch by the locals, she lives in a cabin outside the titular village with a beautiful young outdoorswoman named Irene (Alexandra Petrachuk). She welcomes Dominic warmly, but he discovers there is another family secret: he has a twin brother, Daniel, who has been raised in a very peculiar monastery, where skinny-dipping and ritual self-flagellation are regular parts of the regimen.
The place is controlled by creepy Father Andrew (Andreas Apergis), who is obsessed with both Daniel and St. Sebastian, the martyr killed by being shot through with arrows; Andrew keeps a life-sized statue of Sebastian in his office and conflates Daniel with it in his mind.
When Dominic and Daniel confront one another, they feel both amazement and attraction, and Dominic shaves his hair and removes his beard so they will be even closer mirror images; a showdown with the possessive Andrew is inevitable, as is the restoration of ultra-close familial ties.
Saint-Narcisse is designed to shock, but for those willing to be challenged by its sly combination of elements—a critique of modern narcissism (especially of the gay variety) and anti-queer prejudice, as well as an obvious disdain for a Catholic mentality that provides institutional cover for pedophilic lust—will find it not just provocative but thought-provoking.
And it is quite elegantly made, with evocative cinematography, a supportive music score, and performances attuned to LaBruce’s distinctive vision. With an audio commentary by LaBruce and some deleted scenes as extras, this is a strong optional purchase for independent and international film collections—with the appropriate caveats about its potentially unsettling subject matter. Library shelves with a focus on queer cinema should also consider this unique title.