oung identical twins in Toronto, Canada in 1954 discuss the intricacies of human sex – as well as underwater fish sex – much to the chagrin of their neighbors. It’s evident from their interests in anatomy that they’ll end up in the medical field. Sure enough, by 1967, at Cambridge, Beverly (Jeremy Irons) and Elliot Mantle (also Jeremy Irons) are leaders in their field of gynecology, even inventing a device that would become the standard in the practice. In 1988, they return to Toronto to open their own female infertility facility, which is lucrative, though they still wine and dine wealthy socialites to gain grants.

When movie star Claire Niveau (Genevieve Bujold) shows up to their clinic, with a rare uterine abnormality, she becomes of particular interest to the twins. Almost hilariously, they’re so indistinguishable that they trade places often, coming and going from the examination room without clients noticing, alternating dinner events with the same people, and even trading off sexual partners; everyone who interacts with them is completely oblivious. “I’ll take your patients.”

In David Cronenberg’s eerie look into human relationships, the lead twins share everything – from a practice to an apartment to meals to women. Bev may be quieter and more invested in his work, while Elliot is outgoing and actively pursues sexual conquests, but they’re essentially two halves of one psyche, as if together they would form a complete, better-rounded individual. In many ways, one is good and one is bad. And at a certain point, Claire wonders if Bev is schizophrenic (comically, they occasionally have difficulty telling associates apart). It’s also notable that Cronenberg would opt for a tale (based on the book “Twins” by Bari Wood and Jack Geasland) in which the main characters are gynecologists – perhaps the most uncommon profession translated onto film (morticians and gravediggers seem far more prevalent).

“You haven’t had any experience until I’ve had it too.” Although Irons is superb in the double role, it’s always strangely obvious when the camera cuts around the lack of a second actor, or when a double appears onscreen with his back to the frame, or when characters speak to someone standing just out of sight. Yet the two distinct personalities are a delight to watch; there’s always something humorous about the manipulation, the deceit, and the unruly vacillation of cooperation and animosity, especially when consequences unavoidably affect both of them. The duality doesn’t always work; it’s somewhat discordant, with editing difficulties, yet this almost plays into the vibe. “Dead Ringers” is meant to be odd and unsettling.

“I thought I’ve seen some creepy things…” With Howard Shore’s lullaby-like score (a truly astounding work) heavily contrasting the eccentricities of this psychosexual drama, it’s moderately unexpected when Cronenberg’s signature body-horror visuals eventually dot the plot. Despite the exotic nature of the premise, it doesn’t often feel like the director’s typical material. However, the sense that something horrible will suddenly transpire, merged with brief nightmare sequences or surgical chaos, certainly brings the imagery back in line with “Scanners” and “The Fly,” even if it never comes near to those excessive levels (of course, the lack of sci-fi components curbs such potential).

The steady disintegration of mental soundness and control (partially through drug abuse) as the lines of individuality become blurred (the central love story is equally muddled) further contributes to the generally uncanny aura, but it takes too long for all these pieces to coalesce. It’s equal parts fascinating and slow; Irons is consistently absorbing, but the storytelling is dreadfully unhurried. It’s essentially a two-hour, steady build to a strikingly self-destructive climax. Overall, however, it’s as brilliantly wry as it is disturbing and arcane.

– Mike Massie