Irish film Archives

“Boy Saint” (2018), directed by Tom Speers and adapted from Peter LaBerge’s poem, is a visually poetic short film that brings to life the subtle tensions and deep yearnings of queer adolescence. T

Boy Saint

his seven-minute drama follows two teenage boys as they navigate the confusion, excitement, and pain of first desire—offering a cinematic interpretation filled with tenderness, vulnerability, and a sense of secrecy.

The film’s style is marked by its lyrical narrative and imaginative cinematography, offering a haunting visual language that complements the poem’s themes. Scenes shift between the chaos of boys’ friendships and moments of intimate stillness, underscoring the story’s mix of danger, longing, and fleeting comfort. The deliberate contrast between group scenes and quieter exchanges reflects both the exhilaration and isolation that come with discovering one’s sexuality.

Authenticity lies at the film’s core. Tom Speers’ direction ensures that the actors’ interactions feel genuine, from roughhousing to shared silences. Much of the cast wasn’t made aware of the film’s full intent, creating an extra layer of realism—especially in scenes where the emotional stakes are highest. The choice of a classical choral soundtrack heightens the film’s poignant mood and aligns with its religious motifs, drawing viewers further into the characters’ inner worlds.

Critically, “Boy Saint” has been celebrated for its emotional honesty and artistry. It has garnered festival recognition for its profound impact despite its short runtime. The film resonates as a delicate portrayal of queer youth, marked by both longing and hope, presenting a story that lingers well beyond its final moments.

Boy Saint

In the beginning, we were one blood. Then the body, stem of thorns, grew its disagreement from the inside out. Like all biblical stories, it begins with a simple thorn, a natural secret the body kept from itself. I open the sealed envelope: everything in the sky folded, gathered into one body. Shoulders, the tightness of my mouth. Wounded bird. Lightning fluttering between two boys who want to be in a basement in a town they dreamt up. Lightning in cities and towns I’ve never been to, never heard of. I am positive. I am not. I make a moon with sugar and a damp thumb, watch its unlicked body dissolve into memory. A couple of towns over I am born and reborn. I am not. Not positive until I say it. Until I taste it. Boys died and die in bodies like this and don’t ghost, except on voice messages their mothers play to keep alive. They dress to grieve in churches. Inside black moons. Blotted-out days. Separate from face, posthumous thorn. Body liquefaction. I dream about altar boys in ironed seersucker suits pecking each other like swallows when dared. Boys with whiskey-mark necks. Like a scream of darts found them in the sanctuary’s locked basement in the dark. One night, they drew it—the town they dreamt of, fences yellowed, clouds like the static on the tv. Their only light. Knowing any other light would wake one’s sleeping sister, her body in the corner of the room’s mouth. Faithful, moving only as God does. One night in a symphony of nights. And He likes us until he doesn’t. Like trees struck by lightning, we aren’t visible until we’re on fire. Everything depreciates like this once it’s been said. Unless it is overheard. Unless it is shot in flight.

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