Brothers of the Head
Directed by Keith Fulton & Louis Pepe
Animatronic Pirates aren't interesting or sexy iconoclasts; punk rockers are. Especially those with truly novel reasons to be defiant-like Wassup Rockers' Latino skater-boys with a band on the side, and the British conjoined-twins-cum-underground '70s rock stars Tom and Barry Howe of Brothers of the Head. A punk spirit enables Wassup's sweet heroes to escape the barrio and its stereotypes; it affords pissed pretty boys Barry and Tom a metaphysical reprieve from their freakish existence. Yet it's their shared, writhing swatch of skin and bones-which girls touch with erotic squeals-that fills the clubs and ensures their celebrity. As eulogized in this faux-documentary of "recovered" footage and modern-day interviews, these screaming, strumming victims of biology and exploitation could only end their 15 minutes in mythic tragedy.
Although its slavish devotion to simulating a real D.A. Pennebaker-style documentary (poor lighting, off-camera action, rambling dialogue) is occasionally more admirable than engaging, Brothers of the Head extracts haunting audiovisuals and complex questions from a schticky premise-one shared with hushed indie melodrama Twin Falls, Idaho and the underrated slapstick of the Farrelly Brothers' Stuck On You. Sold by their father at age 18 in 1974 to a vaudeville impresario who "never exploited anyone who didn't want to be exploited," musical novices Barry and Tom were first subjected to "Making the Band"-like training for a group called the Bang Bang. Armed with guitars and a mike before their first curious, hostile audience, Tom and Barry rage against the pop machinery, tearing and shouting through their twee material as if inventing punk on the spot. As surviving bandmates and hangers-on recall, the Siamese-fronted Bang Bang quickly became a phenomenon in the U.K., impressing and titillating crowds everywhere; complications come just as quickly in the form of drugs, booze and the romantic complication of Laura, a beautiful, shrewd reporter.
Real-life twins Harry and Luke Treadaway have the doe-eyed, snarly lad-beauty of Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, and perfectly embody the Jekyll and Hyde symmetry of quiet, McCartney-ish Tom (Harry) and ferocious, Jagger-like Barry (Luke). The choreographed ease with which they cartwheel in tandem and negotiate bedspace (even as Tom cavorts with Laura) is remarkably natural.
The Howe brothers' less-synchronized struggle with separation drives their inevitable, predictable downfall. Is it possible to keep two identities distinct when you're literally joined slightly above the hip? Is there a third self shared between the two-and is that veiny in-between a destructive or creative force? Could anyone withstand such an ongoing existential, bodily crisis in the public spotlight?
A gothic rock 'n' roll fairy tale that teases beauty out of the grotesque without relying on Spinal Tap cheekiness or fantastical whimsy, Brothers of the Head, despite its appropriately loud, fast soundtrack, is most striking in silence: when the camera spies the brothers through dim corners and keyholes sleeping, drawing a bath, roughhousing. In this bizarre world of two, these moments are as private and sacred as they're going to get.