20 Years Later, In the Cut Has Finally Been Reclaimed as an Erotic Thriller Masterpiece

Sometimes it takes a while for audiences and critics to truly get a film. Cinematic history is littered with examples of titles that flopped upon release but were later re-evaluated, often by the same reviewers who slammed them the first time around. It’s always satisfying to see a filmmaker get their dues, however belated they may be, and in the instance of In the Cut, it’s particularly gratifying. It took close to two decades but finally, one of the great erotic dramas of the 2000s is understood to be so.

After its premiere in 2003, Jane Campion’s In the Cut, based on the novel by Susanna Moore, was almost instantly derided as the Oscar-winning director’s worst movie. Critics called it “half-baked and predictable;” “perfunctory and unconvincing.” Much of the derision fell upon the shoulders of its star, Meg Ryan, with some seeming almost indignant that America’s rom-com sweetheart would ever want to make a movie where she is unlikeable, often naked and seldom smiling. In the Cut underperformed at the box office, was blamed for killing Ryan’s career and was seen as the nadir of Campion’s post-The Piano buzz. One cannot help but wonder how many people either dismissed the movie outright because of the “Meg Ryan gets her kit off” leering hype from the press or lazily viewed the film through the lens of it being just another sexy thriller. Campion, like too many women directors, was underestimated in her vision of a frequently maligned genre, but the results deserved far more than an eyeroll. 

In the Cut follows Frannie, an English teacher who has little time for the world outside of her work and love of language. She accidentally witnesses a woman performing oral sex on a man in a bar basement, their forms both concealed in the shadows except for a unique tattoo on his wrist. Several days later, it is revealed that this woman was brutally murdered and dismembered, one of her severed limbs left in Frannie’s garden. Detective Malloy (Mark Ruffalo) questions her about the case, but it doesn’t take long for them to give into their fiery but messy passions. Malloy is repugnant, dangerous, but also deeply attractive to her, even though the tattoo on his wrist is a sign that she should run away. She never does.

Cinema has long been fascinated by the relationship between sex and fear. The Hays Code reinforced this dichotomy of shame to keep unfettered pleasure from the big screen for decades, essentially mandating narrative punishment for those wanton women who seduced with impunity. The era of the erotic thriller—from Paul Verhoeven to Brian De Palma to the Wachowskis—thrived in exploring the shades in between, using sex to both tackle contemporary unease around the act (particularly during the era of the AIDS crisis) and to shamelessly titillate. Most of these films, however, were told through the lens of white men. It wasn’t uncommon to see this new era’s seductresses having her desires pushed to the margins or outright demonized (hello, Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction). There are exceptions, but as the genre fizzled in popularity post-Showgirls, there was still a notable gap in the market for a dense study of feminine desire and the dangers attached to it thanks to the good old-fashioned patriarchy. 

For Frannie, who Ryan plays with aloof quietness, desire and danger are inextricably intertwined. Molloy is clearly a threat, even if he isn’t an outright serial killer. He’s racist, sexist, homophobic and constantly complaining about his ex-wife. He’s also, it must be said, extremely hot, with Ruffalo and his All Lives Matter mustache carrying the sleazy allure of a ‘70s Playgirl centerfold—albeit one who’s always carrying a gun. He essentially hunts her, seducing her with a frankness that could easily slip into threat. And she pursues him. She goes after her own pleasure above all else, including her own safety. She also gets it, and Campion shoots her sex scenes with Malloy with true passion. There’s power to Frannie’s desire, so freeing is it from the confines of her life. It’s also, alas, forever tangled up in the perennial presence of male violence. 

Frannie is almost hilariously ambivalent about the endless threat of male violence in her world. One of her students shares a conspiracy theory about John Wayne Gacy and she listens with evident boredom. A clingy ex (played by a highly strung Kevin Bacon) is stalking her and constantly seems on the edge of wringing her neck, but all she can do is try to live as normal. The latter is never played as a potential red herring for the serial killer. He’s just yet another creep who might casually murder a woman on any given day, so painfully common is this phenomenon in Campion’s New York City. 

There are no “good cops” looking out for the likes of Frannie either. Molloy, his gross partner and their entire precinct is populated by bigots, creeps and officers who seem actively repelled by the idea of doing their jobs. Having such a loudly “fuck the police” attitude in a New York-set film only two years after 9/11 feels especially gutsy. There are no heroes, not for the women of In the Cut—or indeed any other world. You just get used to constantly looking over your shoulder. It’s only in her closeness with her half-sister Pauline (the ever-excellent Jennifer Jason Leigh) that she finds a sliver of peace. Even that, however, is tinged with the sinister, as Pauline—the more sexually aggressive of the two—deals with her own obsession with a married man. 

One of the major criticisms of In the Cut after its release was that it lacked the required tension to be a true thriller, but its point isn’t in providing narrative twists. It’s really no surprise who the killer is. In real life, murderers of women aren’t tough to guess. There’s nothing unexpected about patriarchal cruelty, whether it’s a racist cop, a jealous ex or a student who thinks John Wayne Gacy was set up. The real surprise lies in the ability of women not only to survive but to thrive in a world that hates them—that finds pleasure in their annihilation and whose hatred is impossible to avoid. Campion captures this smothering anxiety acutely, bringing to life the double-edged sword of being a woman who loves men who don’t even like you in return. Perhaps that was all a bit too real for audiences in 2003.

Kayleigh Donaldson is a critic and pop culture writer for Pajiba.com. Her work can also be found on IGN, Slashfilm, Uproxx, Little White Lies, Vulture, Roger Ebert, and other publications. She lives in Dundee.