Copycat

Male buddy movies are a dime a dozen, yet finding memorable female screen teams is as difficult as securing a good therapist, doctor, lover, or any other real-world rarity. Yet in Jon Amiel’s 1995 serial-killer thriller, the steely women protagonists M.J. and Helen are a powerhouse duo thanks to the ingenious pairing of Holly Hunter and Sigourney Weaver—even if their character names don’t have the lasting ring of, say, Thelma and Louise. Copycat was originally written with a man-woman partnership at its center—leaving open the possibility for romance—but the director wisely changed the dynamics of Ann Biderman and David Madsen’s script in order to develop a more compelling female bond.

Copycat’s early scenes introduce an incident so jarring—and improbable—it could easily have passed for a dream sequence. But no such luck for celebrated criminal psychologist Helen Hudson (Weaver): a sudden violent attack on her in a public restroom, post-lecture, that claims the life of a police officer is real enough to send her into a deep agoraphobic state. Thirteen months later—when the action of the film picks up—her would-be assassin, an escaped mass murderer she once profiled, is back in prison, and she hasn’t crossed the invisible bars of her apartment.

When the bodies of slain women start materializing across San Francisco, Hunter’s homicide detective M.J. Monahan and her partner, Ruben Goetz (Dermot Mulroney)—these two share snappy chemistry as well—turn to Helen for help in uncovering the killer. She’s aggressive and highly cynical, but keenly observant, even from within her self-inflicted captivity. As an expert in criminal behavior, she swiftly notes that the current perpetrator looks to be emulating the methods of past infamous serial killers. For her part, M.J. is a devoted and fearless justice seeker, and I could watch her and Helen solve any case together (seriously, a sequel further following their adventures would be welcomed with open arms).

In the early ’90s, The Silence of the Lambs ushered in a monumental era for the serial-killer movie, and Copycat should have been the big Hollywood breakthrough for Amiel, an English director and veteran of the Royal Shakespeare Company also responsible for the beloved 1986 Singing Detective miniseries. But the film ended up getting a little lost in the shadow of that other dark (but very male) psycho-killer mystery released in 1995—David Fincher’s Se7en.

Yet to me, the more mainstream, less stylized Copycat was the stronger film then, and remains so now. It’s simply tight and entertaining, and only more satisfying upon repeat viewings. It’s also a grand reminder that Hunter and Weaver are among the most captivating actresses of modern times, here complemented by the solid support of Harry Connick Jr., a Southern charmer playing against type as the slimy, smiley psychopath Daryll Lee Cullum, who tries to kill Helen at the start; and the clean-cut, unassuming cutie William McNamara, something of an ’80s hunk, who is chilling as the active copycat murderer. This film presents the idea that people aren’t necessarily safe from villains such as these even when they’re locked up—and that the psychological distress they inflict can be so severe that being trapped at home, even with a threatening figure, might feel just as scary as reentering the big, dangerous world outside.