Saint‑Narcisse

Saint-Narcisse – A Twisted, Erotic Tale of Identity, Obsession, and Queer Mythmaking

Saint-Narcisse, directed by cult Canadian filmmaker Bruce LaBruce and released in 2020, is a darkly humorous, sexually charged, and deeply subversive exploration of identity, desire, and the blurred lines between narcissism and love. Known for pushing the boundaries of queer cinema, LaBruce uses Saint-Narcisse as both a playful pastiche of 1970s psychodramas and a radical interrogation of family, faith, and forbidden longing.

Set in 1972 Quebec, the film follows Dominic (Félix-Antoine Duval), a handsome, leather-clad young man obsessed with his own reflection. Raised by his grandmother, he believes his mother is dead — until he discovers a long-hidden letter that suggests otherwise. Determined to uncover the truth, Dominic embarks on a journey that leads him to a remote monastery and a shocking revelation: he has a twin brother, Daniel, who was raised in religious isolation by a priest obsessed with control and purity.

The plot thickens as Dominic and Daniel meet, and their attraction to each other quickly spirals into a sexually charged and emotionally complex relationship. What begins as a search for lost family becomes an erotic, taboo-shattering odyssey through fractured identities and repressed desires.

Félix-Antoine Duval gives a compelling dual performance, bringing distinct yet mirrored personalities to Dominic and Daniel. His physicality and charisma make the narcissistic theme feel visceral, while his ability to portray vulnerability and confusion lends emotional depth to a story that could easily tip into parody.

Visually, Saint-Narcisse leans heavily into retro stylization — grainy film textures, theatrical lighting, and melodramatic music create a dreamlike, ironic tone. LaBruce blends Catholic iconography, Freudian undertones, and queer eroticism into a cocktail that’s as provocative as it is self-aware. Nudity, desire, and religious transgression are not only shown but purposefully exaggerated to critique the cultural taboos they represent.

The film is filled with symbolic dualities: sin and innocence, sacred and profane, mirror and reflection, self and other. As with much of LaBruce’s work, Saint-Narcisse doesn’t strive for realism; instead, it uses camp and provocation to unearth deeper truths about how we relate to ourselves and those around us — particularly in the context of queer identity, shame, and freedom.

While some viewers may find the film’s incestuous themes and unabashed eroticism disturbing or confrontational, others will recognize them as tools of queer subversion — a challenge to heteronormative narratives that sanitize desire. LaBruce is less interested in making viewers comfortable and more in exposing the hypocrisies of traditional morality.

In the end, Saint-Narcisse is not a film for everyone, but it’s unmistakably Bruce LaBruce: boundary-pushing, genre-blending, and intellectually daring. It’s a mythic, modern queer fairy tale where the mirror doesn’t lie — it reveals. And what it reflects is a world where love, even at its most transgressive, becomes a pathway to liberation.