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A very moving story that is totally unsentimental.
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Set in Greenwich Village, the protagonist is a writing teacher who becomes involved in a murder investigation because she has accidentally witnessed a sex act in a bar involving the victim. Written with gritty realism, the reader is drawn into the writing teacher's own graphically erotic sex scenes with a detective, as well as her fear of being stalked by an the unknown murderer.
The plot twists and turns and seems to be a basic murder mystery. But then, the book ends suddenly in a sick and sadistic way. And the reader is shocked, not only because of the brutality of this conclusion, but because there was no real foreshadowing of this kind of development. I cringed when I read it. But I can't say it haunted me because it was just so discordantly out-of-context that I couldn't identify with it. For that reason I can't recommend this book.
But even though I still get occasional negative chills recalling the book, I'm sure I'll want to see the movie.
Frannie, the story's protagonist, is a mild-mannered English teacher with a fascination in the regional colloquialisms of urban minority groups. Her research frequently takes her into the streets of New York City where, late one night in a bar, a stolen glimpse of an illicit sexual encounter sets off a series of events which may or may not connect her to the victim of a grisly murder. Soon she finds herself engaged in a passionate liaison with a rugged police detective who could be hiding a dark secret. The book is not structured as a conventional murder-mystery; for the most part Frannie has little interest in finding the killer and nor, it seems, do any of the other characters. The murder serves as more of a backdrop to Frannie's ever-increasingly complicated relationship with the detective. Likewise, although sexually graphic, the book is not a conventional work of erotica. Instead, the sex is used as a way of probing Frannie's inner psyche, revealing deep-seated needs and fixations, leaving the reader feeling more anxious than aroused.
The most problematic aspect of "In the Cut" is that Frannie is not a very sympathetic heroine. Though intelligent and articulate, she is abhorrently self-centered, a reckless risk-taker, and exceedingly stuck-up. It is not until the book's final thirty pages that we begin to feel much compassion for her, which means that the first five-sixths of the book will be, for some, rather frustrating to get through. I am assuming that this is quite intentional on Moore's part; the story's unsettling conclusion seems to reveal a kind of karmic logic that validates much of what leads up to that point. Many have found the book's morbid and gratuitous ending to be morally offensive, but it is ultimately Moore's refusal to supply the reader with an easy resolution that makes the story resonant and affecting.
What is particularly notable about "In the Cut" is the quality of its prose. Moore is a bold and assured writer, and fills the story's passages with style and edge. It is a smart, graceful and refined work of literary fiction that employs the conventions of popular pulp genres as a device for exploring deeper emotional terrain. A worthy read for those interested in gritty, uncompromising storytelling, but not recommended for the faint of heart.
Frannie's background is only alluded to, but her upscale lifestyle in Greenwich Village, as well as her voyaristic fascination with the working class, made her an only somewhat sympathetic heroine. We sense she has an intellectual pretension, and feels superior to her cop lover and to her inner city students. There are hints that this is an exploration of social values, and parts of this exploration make excellent, thought-provoking fiction. But, unfortunately, the book takes a turn in the final act and focuses entirely on the silly, by-the- numbers serial murder plot. The final page of this novel regains the hints of earlier brilliance, and it's almost enough--almost-- to save it from the dopey climax.
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