From Nicolas Cage in Adaptation to Eddie Murphy in Bowfinger, many actors have plied their skill in the challenging roles of identical twins—and when they succeed, as in both aforementioned cases, the result is dazzling. I’ve long used Cage’s brilliant performance in Adaptation as a shield from those who disparage his good name, due to the incredible dexterity required of an actor playing a dialogue-heavy scene with himself. But the genius of that performance is in the fact that the viewer can immediately identify which brother is which based solely on Cage’s mannerisms.
Of course, in Brian Helgeland’s new film, Legend, there’s no question of mixing up brothers Ron and Reggie Kray, real-life gangsters who ruled London in the 1960s, portrayed here by Tom Hardy: Ron wears glasses, Reggie doesn’t. Ron smokes cigars, Reggie smokes cigarettes. Yet Hardy—who, after the impressive one-man show Locke, continues to accumulate accolades—doesn’t fall back on these superficial details to differentiate the two characters. For the mentally unbalanced Ron, he’s developed a stiff-jawed growl and an unnerving, penetrative stare that firmly separates him from the suave, but no less commanding Reggie.
It helps, too, that the film is fairly light on visual tricks. Save a few scenes—including a prolonged, bloody brawl between Reggie and Ron that veers toward pure gimmickry—the brothers rarely occupy the same frame. Sometimes the logistics of blocking certain scenes requires a contrived excuse to get one of them out of the room, as when Reggie announces that he’s going to get a beer, and then disappears for around five minutes. But mostly, this allows the viewer to just focus on the characters, rather than being caught up in the awe of watching a feat of both technical and performative virtuosity. Even the film’s longest take—far from mere showboating—actually feels justified: in the Krays’ East End nightclub, Reggie leaves his date to step into the other room to take care of some business (namely, punching a thief in the face), and then returns to his date after smoothing his hair back down. Keeping all this in one continuous take efficiently conveys the full scope of Reggie Kray, both the façade and the beast within.
By the same token, though, this focus on the characters only highlights the fact that Helgeland’s screenplay barely even attempts to penetrate the psychology of the Kray brothers, let alone any of the supporting characters. Certainly, Ron’s introduction in the film, in a mental hospital, casts him as a figure of pity, if not one of sympathy; the same is true of Ron’s relationship with the Krays’ doting mother. But the delinquent brothers coast mostly on charisma, even when they’re committing acts of unspeakable brutality. Helgeland’s directorial approach is smart, but his screenplay simply lacks depth.
This isn’t to say that Helgeland doesn’t also have some fun with the material. The first hour in particular bursts with energy, and even if the visual style, heavy on Steadicam shots and American jazz and soul music, feels lifted from Martin Scorsese, that energy is nevertheless infectious and fun. The film’s first half chronicles the Krays’ rise to power as they take London over from the Richardsons (known as the Torture Gang) and eventually form a partnership with powerful Las Vegas gangster Meyer Lansky, who feels London could be the Vegas of Europe. But the energy that drives this portion of the film quickly wanes once the narrative reaches its apex. When things begin to disintegrate in the second hour, including Reggie’s marriage to Frances Shea (Emily Browning), Helgeland struggles to keep the viewer’s interest.
Helgeland’s treatment of Frances’s character is particularly troubling; the only prominent female character in the film, she’s a victim from beginning to end. The fact that she narrates the film doesn’t add any depth—it just creates a cognitive dissonance, given how little she’s given to do in the film other than cry and cower in fear. Helgeland doesn’t even have the courage to portray Reggie’s violence toward her in all its ugly detail, preferring to keep the act offscreen. Of course, Frances still tenderly calls him “My Reggie” in voiceover.
It’s frustrating that Legend, like so many other mediocre-to-good films, just doesn’t know what to do with its female lead, and even effaces some of her suffering in order to preserve the viewer’s sympathy with the male lead. If the scene in question had been removed, the film’s second half would simply be dull. As it stands, it’s both dull and disgusting.