oore serial killer story is restlessly erotic. “The cut” is vaginal. New York City teacher Frannie, a bee to honey, squirms into the netherworld courtesy of sex with a homicide detective (one Malloy), who may or may not be what he seems. When the killer murders her sister, Frannie can’t get enough of the aftermath’s scent. It’s rapid transit on the madness line. The climax is a bloody, well-played pas de deux, the work of an accomplished writer trying to frame sexual nihilism.
“In the Cut” eventually yielded a dishonest film adaptation, which kept Frannie (Meg Ryan) among the living. The novel refuses such facile conclusions.
