The "spiritual thing" is the almost eerie empathy that exists between the Kemps; a similar quality, but perverted toward violence, helped fuel the Kray twins' passion for bloodshed in the '50s and '60s. The Kemps deny that they are anything like the Krays, which is true as far as it goes: The Kemps, who first attained fame in the '80s pop group Spandau Ballet, have never, as the Krays did, stabbed anyone with a bayonet. But there are similarities. Like the Krays, the Kemps have working-class roots and spend most of their time together. Most telling, one brother seems incomplete without the other. "I loved doing The Krays with Gary," said Martin. "I could look across the set and see him the same way I had for the past 28 years of my life. I couldn't believe we got that chance."
The opportunity came in 1986 when, during a hiatus from touring, the Kemps were approached by co-producer Dominic Anciano, who had made videos with them, about playing the Krays. The brothers quickly agreed, but the project was delayed while Anciano looked for financing and negotiated to buy the movie rights from The Who's Roger Daltrey, who had purchased them in 1982. "The Krays had a power, a myth built around them," says Anciano. "Cinematically we needed someone who took the myth indubitably. The Kemps were the only ones who could do it."
To prepare for their roles, Gary and Martin took boxing lessons and began immersing themselves in the Kray myth by visiting Ronnie, who was certified insane in 1957, in Broadmoor, a prison for the criminally insane. He was, says Gary, "pleasant, polite, well-mannered. But the only thing I have in common with him is that I have a brother I work with."
Tell it to the critics. "There's a cold sheen about the Kemps' work which freezes the blood," wrote Derek Malcolm in the British Guardian. And Iain Johnstone of London's Sunday Times said, "They manage at the same time to preserve the righteousness of mummy's boys while parading the ruthless-ness of men who had no idea of a moral code."
What the critics picked up on was the Kemps' own version of brotherly love. Although not twins, Martin's and Gary's birthdays fall in the same October week (which is also the week the Krays were born) and, as with the Krays, one brother calls the shots. Just ask their wives. "Gary dominates everybody," says his wife, actress Sadie Frost, 24. "He has the most powerful, the most extreme energy."
"They don't have many outside friends," agrees Martin's wife, Shirlie Holliman, 28, who is half of the singing group Pepsi and Shirlie. "So when they go their separate ways, it throws them."
A similar bond united Reggie and Ronnie. As any taxi driver in London can tell you, the Krays ruled the East End until they were convicted of two murders and sent to prison in 1969. They supported their lifestyle of Savile Row suits and Rolls-Royces through gambling and protection rackets. The fact that they had to maim or murder the occasional enemy didn't detract from their glamour or prevent them from rubbing elbows in their nightclubs and casinos with the likes of Judy Garland and Tony Bennett. During the 21 years they've spent in prison, their standing as folk heroes has only grown. Deborah Harry, Patsy Kensit and Robert Duvall are rumored to have visited them behind bars, and Michael Jackson has written to them. Earlier this year they made headlines when some Brits objected to the $500,000 the brothers were paid for the rights to their story.
Ronnie and Reggie were born at home on Oct. 17, 1934, to Violet Kray and her , husband, Charles, a "pesterer" who made his living going door to door buying and selling household goods. Always well-mannered around their mum (portrayed splendidly in the film by British actress Billie Whitelaw), the twins were getting in street fights by the time they were teens, became local boxing champs and, at age 18, were court-martialed for striking an officer and going AWOL from the army.
Back in the East End by 1954, they started their first protection racket. While other thugs used razors and fists, the Krays preferred sabers. "They didn't have any fear," says older brother Charlie, 59, who served seven years in prison for disposing of the body of one of their victims. "That was the most dangerous thing about them."
In 1965 the twins' bond began to break when Reggie fell in love with and married Frances Shea, a 21-year-old local girl, and Ronnie began openly engaging in homosexual liaisons. Emboldened by their position as protectors of the East End, Ronnie brazenly walked into a pub in 1966 and shot George Cornell, a rival who had called him "a fat poof [homosexual]." The following year, Frances committed suicide. Lost without his alter ego, Ronnie goaded the grieving Reggie "to do your one," meaning commit his own murder. Reggie finally obliged one night when he repeatedly stabbed Jack "the Hat" McVitie with a carving knife while Ronnie held the victim's arms. In 1969 the Krays were convicted and sentenced to a minimum of 30 years in prison.
Just 9 and 7 when the Krays were put behind bars, Gary and Martin Kemp remember hearing tales about the twins' exploits. The only children of Frank, a printer, and Eileen, a housewife, the Kemps grew up in a large house in North London with no indoor toilet that they shared with an extended family—11 in all. For the Kemps, it was acting, not boxing, that got them out of the neighborhood. When Gary was 10 and Martin 8, their parents enrolled them in the nearby Anna Scher Theatre. As children, the boys appeared in several BBC productions, leading to Martin's role in the 1978 series Rumpole of the Bailey. "Martin used to be awfully shy, which is about the opposite of me," recalls Gary. "He got a lot of confidence performing and eventually became the flash bastard that he is."
By the time they were teenagers, the Kemps had become part of Britain's avant-garde music scene. With three friends, Gary and Martin formed Spandau Ballet—the name coming from Berlin's Spandau prison—which cut six albums between 1981 and 1986 and had a Top 10 hit with "True" in 1983.
Now, thanks to their acting opportunities, the brother act may be sundered. Last month, for example, Martin was on the set of the film The Girl Who Came Late in Australia, while Gary signed up with an agent in Los Angeles. Both admit they'd rather be home. "My average day in London is walking my dog on the Heath and being at home with Sadie, the baby [Finlay Munro, 2 months] and my friends," says Gary, adding that his Georgian terrace home is a virtual "open house" for family and friends.
Martin hangs his hat in his Hampstead home when, as his wife puts it, he's not off "trying to be the next Mel Gibson." Shirlie and Martin have a 1-year-old daughter, Harley Moon, who he says helps him keep his life in perspective. "About four weeks before filming started, Harley was born," says Martin. "There was something in my life that was a million times as important as the film. I could come home, look at her and forget I was Reggie Kray."
As for the real Reggie, who resides at Lewes, a maximum security prison, he may see home as early as 1997, when he'll be considered for parole. Ronnie, however, may never leave Broadmoor. That the Krays have spent so many years behind bars irritates many Kray apologists. "I don't believe in violence," says one taxi driver. "But you know, down the East End, where I come from, things were safer with them there." Adds Roger Daltrey: "The people the Krays murdered were other villains. I mean, you only have to pick up the papers to read about someone who is getting off with a three-month sentence after smashing up a little old lady. The Krays wouldn't even swear in front of a woman."
Mary H.J. Farrell, Jonathan Cooper in London
- Contributors:
- Jonathan Cooper.
Saved by the Bell Reunion
The hookups, the meltdowns, the memoires
The case reveals what was really going on what they think of each other now!
