Emergent: Michael McGowan

Canadian film has historically suffered from a split personality. Equal parts über-sincere and tragically austere, it’s eternally fluctuating between cornpone pioneer fetishizing, ironic, world-weary detachment, or painful earnestness and predatory misanthropy—but rarely, of course, in the same movie. After all, this is the land that spawned the exploding heads of weirdo auteur David Cronenberg and the bravura sentimentality of The Terry Fox Story just two years later. Cronenberg probably could’ve graduated to helming studio blockbusters like fellow oddballs Peter Jackson and Tim Burton, but (thankfully) he just can’t manage to shake off enough of the weird. Ditto Egoyan, Villeneuve, LePage, Stopkewich, Arcand et al, who’ve all achieved notable levels of international critical acclaim but minimal box-office receipts. Recent low-budget forays into more commercial territory, like Rob Stefaniuk’s Phil the Alien (2004) and John Fawcett’s beloved cult hit, Ginger Snaps (2000), have managed to capture a true “Cancon” comic sensibility, but again—they’re still pretty weird. It’s enough to make you wonder, can a Canadian make movies that are funny, smart, relevant and incest-free? And can he not be named Norman Jewison?

The short answer is yes. Michael McGowan’s Saint Ralph, about a Catholic teenager determined to win the Boston Marathon in order to revive his comatose mother, is the closest a Canadian filmmaker has come to riding the slippery rails between earnest gee-whizzery and funny-bone cynicism since 1974’s The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz. Honestly, it’s less corny than it sounds. While Saint Ralph is feel-good to be sure, it still manages to remain blissfully free of the pat, saccharine sentiment a Hollywood interpretation would’ve likely necessitated. It’s hard to imagine a family film from a major U.S. studio, for instance, containing copious references to “self-abuse” in such a matter-of-fact, deadpan-funny way. “This story appears to be Disney-esque,” McGowan insists, “but the sensibilities are closer to the Coen Brothers.” OK, it’s no Fargo, but the movie so deftly toggles between the baldly earnest and comically irreverent that it’s not difficult to envision McGowan having a long career in independent film.

But if Saint Ralph is McGowan’s Billy Elliot, no doubt he wants his Hours; the filmmaker is unapologetically enthusiastic about the idea of mainstream success. “To do a big-budget film, if I like the material, would be great,” he says. For someone this commercially minded, it’s almost inevitable he go south. Fellow Canadian Paul Haggis recently hit financial and critical paydirt with Million Dollar Baby and Crash, and don’t lets get started on all the Canuck comics lighting (and, yes, sometimes stinking) up the Hollywood silver screen while cashing million-dollar paychecks. McGowan’s strategy? Partner up with Oscar-winning producer Arthur Cohn (Central Station, The Chorus) on a yet-to-be-announced project and play some serious phone tag with DreamWorks.

It’s not surprising he’s getting bites from the big leagues. McGowan obviously has great instincts—not just in his shaping of character and story, but also in his surprisingly deft, breezy visual treatment. He also manages to elicit genuine feeling from teenage lead Adam Butcher, in his first starring role. But McGowan’s ultimate miracle—in a movie all about them—might be getting this little Canadian charmer its deserved worldwide audience. Cronenberg may have nothing to worry about, but Stephen Daldry better watch his back.