Journalism Master’s student David Farrell examines the themes of ‘Disclaimer’ and its social implications in Ireland.
A thriller that reflects reality
Alfonso Cuarón’s Apple TV thriller masterfully critiques how the stories of sexual assault survivors are often twisted against them, much like the protagonist of the show, Catherine Ravenscroft.
The 2024, seven-part psychological thriller miniseries Disclaimer, based on Renée Knight’s 2015 novel, opens with a subtle yet ominous warning to the viewer: “Beware of narrative and form.” At first glance, this may seem like an abstract prelude, but as the series unfolds, it becomes a thematic cornerstone. Disclaimer unravels how personal histories can be rewritten to suit the storyteller, distorted and weaponised—particularly against women who dare to survive their trauma.
The plot centres on Catherine Ravenscroft (Cate Blanchett), a revered, award-winning journalist whose life begins to unravel upon receiving a novel that exposes a buried secret from her past. Kevin Kline plays Stephen Brigstocke, an enigmatic and embittered old man whose motives are deeply tied to Catherine’s history. Rounding out the ensemble cast are Sacha Baron Cohen as Catherine’s husband, Robert Ravenscroft, along with Lesley Manville, Leila George, Louis Partridge, and Kodi Smit-McPhee. Each contributes to the labyrinthine narrative, where lies and assumptions drive characters to lash out at Catherine and each other.
Premiering at the Venice International Film Festival, Disclaimer gained immediate recognition for its non-linear storytelling and unreliable narration. The plot oscillates between Catherine’s present life in London and a fateful holiday in Italy that led to a tragic drowning. Each episode presents an intricate psychological puzzle, forcing viewers to question whose version of events is real.
A reflection of Ireland’s legal system
Despite its gripping thriller exterior, Disclaimer serves as a commentary on how sexual assault survivors are silenced, scrutinised, and reshaped by societal and legal narratives. Initially framed as the villain, Catherine is ultimately revealed to be a sexual assault survivor. The true horror of Disclaimer lies not in its plot twists but in its chillingly accurate depiction of how victims can lose control of their own stories.
In Ireland, the legal system still allows for the cross-examination of victims’ private counselling notes during court proceedings. A strikingly similar dynamic unfolds in Disclaimer: Catherine’s truth is not her own. It is rewritten by every character in the show—the author of the novel, her husband, and her son—who believe the fabricated version of events, allowing their judgment, insecurities, and recriminations to cloud fairness. Just as in real-world sexual assault trials, where victims must defend their credibility while perpetrators receive the benefit of the doubt, Catherine finds herself trapped in a web of imposed narratives.
Another chilling parallel is how Disclaimer presents the perpetrator as the ‘good guy.’ The first few episodes frame Jonathan Brigstocke (Louis Partridge) as an innocent victim, supposedly left to drown by Catherine’s callous decision. This mirrors how courts frequently extend leniency to the accused, particularly if they come from privileged backgrounds. Ireland has seen cases where politicians provide character references for rapists, arguing that they are “promising young men” whose futures should not be destroyed by a “mistake.” This legal posturing erases the trauma of victims in favour of protecting the perpetrator’s reputation—just as Catherine’s truth is overshadowed by others’ imposed narratives.
The myth of the perfect victim
In the final episode, Catherine, after years of silence, finally confronts her past. She reveals the truth of what really happened, contradicting the novel’s narrative to her husband and son. Yet, she is met with hesitation and doubt. Their reactions reflect a society conditioned to scrutinise women rather than believe them, especially when they do not fit the construct of the ‘perfect victim.’
Cate Blanchett herself admitted that she initially found Catherine unlikable, throwing the script across the room upon her first read. But therein lies the show’s power: Disclaimer forces us to confront the uncomfortable truth that victims are not always paragons of virtue. Catherine is ambitious, sometimes aloof, and by her own admission, not a great mother. Women like her—flawed, independent, and assertive—are often doubted in sexual assault cases. Their choices are dissected: Did they report it immediately? Did they cry enough? Were they drinking? Would a woman like her really be a victim? Disclaimer lays bare the deep-rooted misogyny in these questions.
In the series, Catherine’s assault is misjudged because her attacker is a younger man—someone easily framed as the victim instead of the perpetrator. Her story is rewritten by his parents and her own family, reflecting a troubling real-world tendency to sympathise with accused rapists, particularly when they do not fit the archetype of a predator. It is often easier to doubt a traumatised victim than to acknowledge the horror of the crime itself.
Ultimately, Disclaimer is more than a psychological thriller—it is a harrowing critique of how society handles sexual violence, both in public discourse and in the justice system. Catherine’s story may be fiction, but its themes resonate far too deeply in reality. In a world where survivors must fight to be heard and where truths can be rewritten to fit more palatable narratives, Disclaimer is an urgent and necessary reflection of the battles victims face simply to be believed.