Dead Ringers

I am sick. On a second watch, Dead Ringers becomes even more upsetting. Somehow. At first, Beverly’s deterioration is so immediate and so conspicuous that it is easy to reduce Elliot to the stable, levelheaded twin, comparatively. Now, I notice his own, subtle, nearly undetected tells. Elliot falls apart alongside his brother, long before the film makes his deterioration impossible to ignore. It took me days to finish Dead Ringers, over my morning coffee, while I ate my dinner and settled in for the evening, because I could not refrain from pausing and rewinding and rewatching, again and again. Irons’ performances are methodical, truly and extraordinarily brilliant, yet so human and so grounded, still. Although I am a fan of MANY of Cronenberg’s works, I can see his love and dedication and understanding and craftsmanship and well-deserved pride in Dead Ringers — every detail and decision purposeful. “Why don’t you just go on with your very own life?” asks Beverly, pale and broken and boneless. Elliot recalls, then, the story of Eng and Chang, conjoined twins, the death of one and the innate, painful descent of the other. Blind. Instinctual. “Does that answer your question?” FUCK OFF, DAVID!!! I am unwell. Tragic. Intimate. Dark. Cerebral. Domestic. Pathological. Beverly and Elliot’s love is so total, so enormous that neither learns where one brother ends and the other begins.