Review of Dead Ringers (1988) by Paul Z — 09 Dec 2011

A lot of the strange power between twins, the strange source to which those of us without a twin are alien, is perhaps in our mind's eye. We observe a concurrence or a precisely fulfilled expectation of some sort from one twin to another, and we perceive a certain sort of extrasensory interaction happening, when actually the entire exchange is most likely merely regular physical expression. Twins themselves constantly look as if to hold some secretive space for their being twins. They don't really talk much about it, even in interviews about twins. They start sentences that one way or another don't seem to go anywhere, as if it is not quite doable to articulate what this special bond signifies to them. I would like to have a twin. There is something tremendously superior in the idea. And I want to know what that transcendental feeling is.

David Cronenberg's unique film about twins, Dead Ringers, stars Jeremy Irons in a dual role as Beverly and Elliot Mantle, gifted identicals who grow up to be exceptionally accomplished gynecologists. They are extraordinarily intimate, to the degree that they regularly pose as each other. We learn that Elliot has all the time been the dominant twin, and that it is his routine to seduce a woman and subsequently rotate her onto the submissive Beverly without the woman having any idea.

Naturally the whole thing is reliant upon on Irons's performances as the twins. He is a completely discerning, subtle and intellectually sharp actor, and he truly does well in composing the twins into significantly different people. By means so discreet we are sometimes not even particularly alert to them, he makes it cloudless as a rule whether we are watching one twin or the other. He ripens them individually, in order that the madness in the last part is genuinely dramatic.

Cronenberg's story is probably the only movie about twins that I have ever seen aside from the Polish brothers' Twin Falls, Idaho that doesn't just rest on the leverage given by identical twins but actually explores the truly fascinating relationship. As always with Cronenberg, his emotional portrayal is so deep that it is almost indescribable. When awkward, insecure Beverly grows emotionally involved with the troubled actress played by Geneviève Bujold, it disorganizes the stability between the twins. It transpires that Bujold has an abnormal reproductive system. Her rejection of Beverly propels him into clinical depression, drug abuse and hallucinations about mutant women with malformed genitalia. Beverly is put on administrative leave by the hospital board after some demented behavior that is much more effect without being disclosed. Because of the twins' codependent bond, Beverly's loss of control sooner or later causes Elliot to follow him like a reflection in a mirror. It could be the indescribable pace of Cronenberg's script or it could be his melancholy cinematography. One can never quite be sure of Cronenberg's technique. We only see its effect. He minds great detail, but not like completing a jigsaw puzzle and more like a single breath of air. The most noticeable drive of his way to our feelings and sense of ambiance is his dark, brooding, lovely orchestral compositions of Howard Shore. We only know the outcome of Cronenberg's style.