Dead Ringers (1988)

While luridly thrilling in concept, Dead Ringers is disappointingly flat in execution. The film is a fictionalized (heavily fictionalized, one hopes) account of brilliant twin gynecologists (both played by Jeremy Irons) who run a thriving practice and conduct award-winning research. The Mantle brothers have very different demeanors – Elliot is suave and confident, whereas Beverly is diffident and brooding – but that doesn’t stop them from sharing (and deceiving) women as part of some strange sexual fantasy. This is obviously garish, pulpy material, but David Cronenberg’s clinical direction is theoretical and detached, leaving Dead Ringers frozen under a block of unbreakable ice.

I should admit that I have a history of wanting to like David Cronenberg’s movies a lot more than I actually like most of them, particularly from this era. I’m all-in for body horror and dark psychological thrillers, but there is something about his style that doesn’t engage me. That was my experience with Scanners and Videodrome, and it’s the case again in Dead Ringers. The audience has no entry point into the film – unlike Cronenberg’s previous effort, The Fly, in which both Jeff Goldblum and Geena Davis were humans caught in an inhuman predicament, the Mantle brothers and their shared love interest (Geneviève Bujold) are so odd and inscrutable as to be reptilian. It robs Dead Ringers of its danger, its taboo-shattering thrills.

Jeremy Irons is fantastic as Elliot and Beverly, particularly in a second half which requires him to portray significant mental and physical disintegration. The twin effects are done extremely well; the conceit is mildly distracting in early scenes, but Cronenberg employs it so seamlessly you quickly stop distracting yourself by wondering how he did it. But either a lot of Dead Ringers wound up on the cutting room floor or there are major script issues – in particular, the conclusion is unintentionally confusing (as opposed to the ambiguity Cronenberg otherwise employs with his dual protagonists). Dead Ringer’s most interesting scenes take place at the twin’s fertility clinic, playing (with sadistic glee) upon the discomfort both men and women feel towards gynecology. But these darkly captivating scenes are used merely as a sort of background expressionistic horror, existing at the margins of an otherwise surprisingly reserved film.