Enter the Beaver: Lee Demarbre and the debut of Can-Fu

IN THE DRIVER'S SEAT of a four-door van, speeding through downtown Ottawa, Lee Demarbre is in a good mood. The large-framed, puckish filmmaker with a permanent Cheshire cat's grin, is in his clement. "Tarantino said it best. Hong Kong cinema is the most visceral cinema ever," he declares, taking on a curve. "If you look at Hollywood films in the 1980s and 1990s, it's amazing how much they were inspired by it. I can point to scenes in Stallone and Bruce Willis action films and show you exactly where they came from." Meanwhile, Ian Driscoll, his screenwriter and collaborator, sits silently in the back bemused by Demarbre, observing everything around him with a quiet but determined look. A white shadow of sorts.

Driving with the creators of the Canadian cult hit Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter (JCVH) does give the impression of being on the more. Likewise, the film, a zany "kung-fu musical" featuring none other than J.C. as a modern day action hero, has been making a name for itself (one critic described it as "Jesus does Buffy"). It's also proving to be an exception of sorts: an English-Canadian feature that actually made its money back. "A producer friend of mine checked it against other films," enthuses Demarbre, "[saying] that if you look at the budget of JCPH and how much it grossed theatrically, it was really the most successful Canadian film of 2002!" Parking the van, he tends to an errand while I press Driscoll for further insights into Demarbre's psyche. "It takes a while to get to understand [Lee's] particular brand of madness," he explains. "Once you do, you discover he's actually a, you know, functional maniac. A functional member of society who's just a little bit deranged."

The accounting department at Alliance Atlantis might yet challenge Demarbre's claim of making Canada's most successful 2002 net-profit film; nevertheless, Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter has been doing remarkably well. Made on a budget of $45,000 and released independently through Odessa Filmworks, Demarbre's own company, our nation's first indigenous kung-fu--or "Can-Fu"--flick has been making waves at rep houses and college campuses across North America. Now enjoying a DVD distribution deal in the United States, it's also pulling in the necessary revenue for Demarbre, Driscoll, lead actor Phil Caracas and collaborator Josh Grace to finish a second feature, Harry Knuckles and the Pearl Necklace, due for release in October 2004. "There's a sense of joy in his films that put audiences at case and predispose them very quickly to enjoy themselves," explains Tom McSorley, head of the Canadian Film Institute in Ottawa (and Demarbre's friend and former employer). "The cinema is not a church for Lee Demarbre. It's a carnival."

JCVH features the Messiah (Caracas) back on Earth conducting baptisms by the Ottawa River. He is recruited by a local parish to do battle against a punk horde of sunlight immune vampires sporting a death wish against the city's lesbian community: (The Trinity, as it turns out, is actually pro-lesbian. As the Virgin Mary puts it, "God loves them so. They get so much done in a day, don't you think.") Aided by Mary Magnum, a buxom vigilante in a one-piece reflective outfit, and Santos, a paunchy, masked Latino wrestler (a homage to El Santo, the Mexican matinee idol), Jesus takes on the forces of darkness Bruce Lee style, occasionally stopping to do a musical routine or rough up a gang of 20 atheists out to put him in his place ("Let's get on with the conversions," he growls).

Both reverent and irreverent, Ian Driscoll's clever, hard-boiled script portrays a modern-day saviour who is hall streetfighter, half United Church liberal--the King of Kings as the king of kickboxers. "I think it proceeds from a pretty simple idea that Jesus is or was a man of action," explains Driscoll. "He's the guy who threw the moneylenders out of the temple. He didn't just ask them to leave politely. He grabbed them by the scruff of the neck and tossed them out. He's not one to back down from a fight." Unlike Kevin Smith's Dogma, which got bogged down by its own sour moralizing, or that other Jesus film by Mel Gibson, JVCH never gets preachy or overbearing (save for one short sermon, happily free of any proselytizing). "I have a certain faith," says Demarbre, "but I don't need to practise it or show it off by going to church every Sunday, which is sort of like watching the same bad movie over and over again."

Theology aside, it's JCVH's camp value that infuses the film with its spirited, manic energy. It shamelessly draws from that cinematic well of inspiration--the 1970s drive-in flick. "That was the era of the great exploitation movies," says Driscoll. "By the time you get to the 1980s, it's all Wall Street, corporate and homogenized. The 1970s were the last time that you could do the really free-wheeling independent film and work in the genre of exploitation, which Jesus clearly is." But unlike more high-polished efforts in cross-genre comedy like Lance Mungia's Six-String Samurai or Don Coscarelli's Bubba Ho-Tep, Demarbre's films don't just seek to mimic or parody yesteryear's exploitation. Like his Winnipeg predecessors John Paizs and Guy Maddin, Demarbre is out to make the Real McCoy, warts and all. Shot in washed-out 16 mm with post-sync sound, the grainy photography and dubbed voices recall the style of a late-night Filipino horror show.