Dead Ringers

Where has Dead Ringers been my whole life? David Cronenberg creates this surreal, devastating, but all-in-all beautiful story of horror, identity, and intimacy. Jeremy Irons is nothing short of incredible, if his performances as both Elliot and Beverly Mantle can be so simplified. Dead Ringers opens, and at its beginning, it is only after a couple of scenes and a few words exchanged that I can separate the twins, and from that point onwards, I knew exactly which one Irons was portraying before the character spoke, from posture and expression alone. An unbelievable use of costuming, physical acting, and body language. Still, at the film’s climax, Elliot and Beverly become, mentally, one again, and the overlap is so tense, something so tragic. Again, because I truly cannot stress this enough, Irons’ performances are magnetic, intelligent, and wonderfully unsettling. The coloring and cinematography is breathtaking, too, these sterile, clinical white and blues yielding to reds and darker, more unreadable settings as the story progresses. Brilliant. I love a torturous, psychological, and — most importantly — seductive film, and Dead Ringers checks every box, baby! A blur between brothers (not-so-identical twins) and a shared, stretched-thin interest. It’s not staged as a cheap, flashy love triangle. No, it’s quieter, more obscure, more emotionally and psychologically charged. The ending is bleak and devastating, but I can’t fathom an alternative. It’s tender, too, in Cronenberg’s way, a reunion, a coupling of sorts. A story of love, beneath the damage and codependence and manipulation. I could continue on for paragraphs and paragraphs, no doubt, and I cannot wait for a second, third, fourth, and so on watch.