Dead Ringers

Jeremy Irons not receiving an Oscar nomination for his performances in Dead Ringers becomes considerably more offensive with every viewing. My third watch, with commentary from Irons, Cronenberg, and crew members, and, somehow, this film only becomes richer, more layered and more nuanced, under its deconstruction. There is such a strong, palpable pride and passion in its composition. From the cold, cerebral interiors to the gorgeous but increasingly diseased cinematography to the costuming, which I dedicated a significant, embarrassing percentage of this rewatch analyzing and dissecting. Cronenberg’s writing is severe and clinical, yes, but beneath it all, the story is perhaps his most compelling, most heartbreaking, one of identity, masculinity, corruption, and codependence that is both tender and catastrophic. Irons is simply masterful. His dual performances are intensely physical: different stances, different centers of gravity, different points from which each twin generates his energy, alongside tiny, practiced tells that distinguish Elliot from Beverly immediately. It is a raw, controlled marriage, of sorts, between instinct and technique. Geneviève Bujold is an equal to Irons’ talent, and she brings a quiet, mature confidence and authenticity to Claire, who is nothing short of the perfect catalyst. There is bodily horror/alienation and psychological trauma/deterioration, both signatures of Cronenberg’s but nowhere else in his filmography do they affect me to such an extreme, maddening degree. Elliot and Beverly love one another so wholly, so unconditionally, so intrinsically, that the horror here isn’t as simple as sharp, grotesque instruments or mutations of the misunderstood body, but the possibility that separation = annihilation. After all, “Separation can be a terrifying thing,” said the late, great Doctor Beverly Mantle. Yep, easily my favorite Cronenberg. Devastating.