(out of four)
By David N. Butterworth
“Frustratingly fake” best sums up the new film by Temple U. alums Keith
Fulton and Louis Pepe, enticingly titled Brothers of the Head. It’s
about a set of conjoined twins, Tom and Barry Howe, who cause a music biz
sensation despite–or more likely on account of–their unique attachment.
The film, technically rich and typically confident (Fulton and Pepe last
brought us the mesmerizing documentary Lost in La Mancha, about Terry
Gilliam’s ultimately failed attempts to bring his Don Quixote parable to the
screen), is a “mockumentary” in that Christopher Guest vein replete with
candid “interviews,” “viable” research, “found” footage, and all the
malarkey that goes with it. Harry Shearer with bad facial hair doesn’t clamor
to contribute but the controversial–and clean-shaven–filmmaker Ken Russell (Tommy,
Women in Love) does, supposedly having produced an aborted feature based
on the Howe’s life called, equally enticingly, Two-Way Romeo.
All this is mostly maddening due, primarily but not exclusively, to the
existence of another, better movie about conjoined twins from 1999, Twin
Falls Idaho. That little gem, directed by the Polish Brothers, was a
(comparatively) straightforward narrative that fictionalized the lives of Blake
and Francis Falls, credibly exploring the difficulties of a duo of disparate
individuals existing in such close proximity to one another. It was a small
film, touching and sympathetic, and never prurient.
In comparison Brothers of the Head loves to focus, both literally and
figuratively, on the large fold of skin that joins the brothers Howe at the
abdomen.
Raised in a ramshackle cottage on a remote spit of land on England’s bleak
east coast (the headland of the title, although clearly that’s an allusion to
a mutual meld of mindsets), Siamese twins Tom and Barry have lived their lives
in relative obscurity. Their mother died in childbirth and surgery never
appeared to be an option for their fearful fascistic father (although to the
medically ignorant separation would appear to be a relatively simple procedure).
With the likes of the Bay City Rollers saturating the bland mid-70’s airwaves
Dad seizes a lucrative opportunity to fob his boys off on a slick music promoter
who’s looking for rock and roll’s next big thing. Enter the punk rock band
with a twist The Bang Bang, with Tom the shy guitarist and Barry its outrageous
lead singer. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll freakishly follow.
And as in ’Idaho, there’s a woman–Laura Ashworth–who comes between
the boys. Memories of “maybe I’ll call you… when I’m single.”
As the Howes, Harry and Luke Treadaway are a strikingly formidable twosome
whose on-stage antics, during sound checks and demo recordings, resemble a
double dose of Iggy Pop. But the music is bombastic and unaffecting and the
supporting players–a documentary filmmaker, a disillusioned sister, various
medical experts, and Russell himself–only serve to extend the film’s kitschy
fraudulence.
If Fulton and Pepe, as has been reported, resent their film being referred to
as a mock documentary then perhaps they simply shouldn’t have made one.
