At the heart of the film is Bunny Freeman, played with stunning authenticity by Bonni Camp. Bunny arrives in Atlanta hoping to reinvent herself, only to be drawn into the seductive neon swirl of fast cash, false friends, and dangerous highs. When her college dreams begin to slip away, she’s introduced to the city’s nightlife hustle by Renee (Simone Johns), a sharp-witted stripper who becomes both mentor and mirror. But as Bunny falls for Edward Wright (Jawara Mills), a charismatic yet volatile music producer with a cocaine habit, her world spirals further out of control.
Salaam crafts Cut as a cautionary tale of obsession, survival, and identity, moving fluidly between moments of intimate vulnerability and chaotic, almost music video-like bursts of nightlife energy. His handheld camera stays close to the characters, immersing us in their emotional turbulence while giving the film a nervous, electric pulse. The editing plays with timeline and perspective, opening on what appears to be a murder scene before rewinding the clock — a choice that casts an ominous shadow over everything that follows. Interrogation sequences punctuate the narrative, heightening tension and allowing the ensemble to shine.
Bonni Camp grounds the film with a quietly powerful performance, especially in the smaller, more intimate dialogue scenes where her inner conflict flickers just beneath the surface. Opposite her, Simone Johns is magnetic as Renee — effortlessly commanding the screen with both confidence and warmth. Johns brings complexity to what could have been a stock “mentor” role: her Renee is resilient yet vulnerable, fiercely protective yet clearly scarred by her own battles. Their chemistry gives the film its strongest moments, balancing tenderness with tension, friendship with warning.
Jawara Mills is chillingly convincing as Edward, the charming yet toxic producer who becomes Bunny’s undoing, while even the supporting cast — including Chris Jeffreys as Chester — contributes to the sense of authenticity, creating a lived-in gallery of characters that feel as messy and real as the streets they inhabit.
Visually, Cut is both stylish and gritty. Salaam infuses the film with inventive sequences that playfully reference American media culture, echoing the frenetic spirit of Oliver Stone’s Natural Born Killers while never losing its own voice. The rhythm is sharp, the tone urgent yet lyrical, and the streets of Atlanta feel both alive and suffocating — a character of their own, pulling everyone closer to the brink. The result is a film that feels as volatile as its subject — slickly shot, cut like a scalpel, yet rooted in human fragility.
Rather than offering easy answers, Cut lets the tension accumulate until it bursts. It’s a story about identity, survival, and the price of pretending — about how easily the promise of a new life can slip into the shadows. Malik Salaam signs a bold and compelling film that lingers long after the credits roll, carried by the strength of its performances and the sincerity of its gaze.
