While doing research for an article about queer punks, I discovered the documentary Queercore: How to Punk A Revolution. This documentary explored the early days of punk, particularly the queer offshoot that started as an affront to the way the LGBTQ+ community was being treated. Unlike the queers who wanted to be mainstream and become assimilated by the heteronormative culture, these avantgarde musicians, comedians, artists and filmmakers wanted to stand against that tide of conformity.

One of the members of this revolution is a filmmaker named Bruce La Bruce, who cut his teeth on transgressive short films with evocative titles like Boy, Girl and I Know What It’s Like to Be Dead. Since then his films have covered the gamut of confronting sexual transgressions and continuing the ethos that created the queercore movement. So it makes sense that, in a career that explored audiences’ relationship to porn, gerontophilia and zombie sex, Bruce La Bruce would eventually explore narcissism and twincest through his latest film Saint-Narcisse.

But what is most surprising about his latest exercise in transgressive filmmaking is how accessible it is.

Set in the 70s, Saint-Narcisse opens on the black-panted crotch of Dominic (Félix-Antoine Duval), filling the screen with its black bulginess. Shot by cinematographer Michel La Veaux, Dominic oozes sexuality, even when he’s apathetically waiting for the washing machine to finish washing his, and his grandma’s, clothes. We notice him. The woman next to him notices him. And when they start fucking, the passerbys outside absolutely notice him. And then he notices himself, dressed in a dark monk robe, standing in the crowd. And just like that, Dominic awakes, fully clothed in the laundrette as if from a dream. Dazed, he goes home to his grandma and, alone in his bathroom, snaps Polaroid selfies of himself.

“When will you get married? You need a family,” his grandmother tells him. The concept of family gets explored throughout the film and it begins with his grandmother’s death and the discovery that Dominic’s supposedly late mother is actually alive and living in a very small town called Saint Narcisse. Well, actually, she’s been living in the forests outside of town, shunned by the townspeople who view her as a witch. When he shows up in town, a waitress regales him with stories abound of her witchiness and her eternally unaging female companion. And when he decides to go find her, he sees a group of young monks, including a man who looks just like him. But before he can talk to him, Father Andrew (Andreas Apergis) interjects and warns him away.

The moment Dominic meets Beatrice (Tania Kontoyanni), they both immediately know they’re family, even though Beatrice’s ward/maybe lover Irene (Alexandra Petrachuk) doesn’t trust him. Granted, she discovers him outside their idyllic home, stripping away his clothes and showering outside. His unapologetically masculine nakedness intrudes on their very feminine home and his appearance throws their existence into turmoil. And that’s before he discovers, and is obsessed by, Daniel (also Félix-Antoine Duval), who lives at a monastery nearby that’s run with psychosexual domination by Father Andrew.

Once Daniel is introduced, Saint-Narcisse splits its time between the two households. One is filled with domination and sexual abuse, as Father Andrew believes Daniel is the literal ressurection of Saint (and martyr) Sebastian and worships his body. Andrew covets Daniel and creates BDSM encounters with him behind the closed doors of the monastery. This fortress of brick and secret trysts stands in stark contrast to the woodsy life Dominic finds himself living with Beatrice and Irene, the latter of which gives him a gun and tells him he must forage and hunt for his food.

Saint-Narcisse explores notions of love and obsession, particularly of the self. The setting and time reminds the viewer that while “selfies” might be a modern notion, it’s a trend that has continued throughout time. Dominic is absolutely obsessed with himself and his body, snapping polaroids to jerk off to his picture, after he’s discovered Daniel. But the title itself hints that there’s more at play than simply exploring these notions of self-love and potential narcissism.

The hyphen between Saint and Narcisse suggests a form of saintly narcissism; a hyper focus and obsession with sainthood and the horrors it contains. “You’re my salvation, boy”, Andrew fawns over Daniel. Later he tells Daniel that he’s destined for greatness just like Sebastian...while glossing over the fact that he died, filled with arrows. Since then, Sebastian has become a symbol for homosexual desire, a problematic and evocative image that equates those desires with violent death.

While Saint-Narcisse isn’t technically a horror film, Bruce La Bruce stages it as one by incorporating musical stingers and surprise reveals that border on jump scares. A dreamlike haze flits over the film from the opening scene and Saint-Narcisse is punctuated with vivid images, such as a woman with a milky eye who, like an oracle, warns Dominic, “don’t try to know yourself too much.” Once Dominic enters the town of Saint Narcisse, it’s as if he’s been transported to a different world where his mother could be a witch and the woman she lives with might just be her eternal lover...or just a young woman who looks just like her lost lover.

In the end, it comes back to grandma’s statement that Dominic needs a family. From Father Andrew and Mother Beatrice, to his potentially biological sibling Daniel and step-sibling (?) Irene, Saint-Narcisse abounds with explorations of family and love. But like the queercore movement of the 80s, La Bruce isn’t willing to indulge in heteronormative explorations of the family unit. In its place is a transgressive and confronting ideal of family; one that evokes and rejects a status quo. Uncomfortable and unconventional, yet bursting with surprising heart and humor, Saint-Narcisse feels like a culmination of the themes La Bruce has explored throughout his career.