The first thing you see in “Babygirl” is a shot of Romy Mathis’ face during sex.
Writer/director Halina Reijn spends a lot of time on this image. Romy (Nicole Kidman), a high-powered tech CEO, is having sex with her husband, Jacob (Antonio Banderas). The camera stays with Romy, ensuring you get a sense of how she looks, how she sounds, the way her face moves. It’s everything we’ve come to expect from sex in movies, especially when it comes to women – she’s beautiful and girlish, her voice pitched high and breathy. The picture of perfect, pristine pleasure.
But something is missing. When the deed is done, Romy immediately leaves and goes to a separate room to watch some pretty intense, dominant daddy-related porn. She doesn’t totally unleash herself here, stifling her movements and noises to make sure her husband and children don’t hear her. But in later scenes, when she finally lets go, she is loud and guttural – ugly, even – in her passion. The first time you see it, you realize what wasn’t clicking in those opening moments. She was faking it before, but this is real. This is true. And when Romy becomes infatuated with a young male intern Samuel (Harris Dickinson) at work – who seems equally interested in dominating her – that truth is put to the test.
At its core, “Babygirl” is about “ugly” truths; what we present to the world and even to our loved ones versus what we wouldn’t dare to show anyone, and what happens when someone comes along who not only sees that hidden part, but encourages it. It explores the release of that honesty through the nuances of human interaction, of negotiating boundaries in real time – it’s dirty, messy, and sexy all at once.
Romy is the CEO of a tech company that uses AI to help streamline delivery services, a career befitting of the most efficient person who has ever walked the planet. She exercises total control in her professional life, too scared to seek the lack thereof in her personal one, ashamed of her distaste for her husband’s gentle, loving demeanor in bed. When Samuel enters the picture, he has an almost mystical quality to him – a sagelike, keen sense of what people need and how to give it to them. You could argue the characters are both a little thinly drawn, and that’s a fair critique. Besides vague mentions of being raised in a cult in Romy’s case and a volatile upbringing for Samuel, there’s not too much by way of backstory. But that mystery, especially in Samuel’s case, adds an extra, enigmatic layer to Dickinson’s performance, and allows both actors to find real interiority in the characters. There’s so much going on that the audience isn’t privy to, and although you might not know exactly what it is, you can see it manifesting in both performances.
This is not the first time BDSM has been explored on screen, but it is one of the first films since the “Fifty Shades” trilogy that feels interested in anything beyond pristine, safe pleasure with the facade of danger barely layered on top. In “Babygirl,” there is a real sense of anticipation – of attraction, of risk, of instability – sprinkled through all of Samuel and Romy’s interactions. The chemistry between Kidman and Dickinson is palpable, so much so that the kink is almost besides the point. You don’t have to enjoy what they’re doing yourself to find the relationship sexy – the fact that the characters are so clearly enjoying themselves and each other is enough.
The negotiation of Romy and Samuel’s dynamic is as enticing as the relationship itself. Reijn is aware that sometimes, watching two incredibly compelling actors size each other up and repeatedly try to gain the upper hand is enough, but she does show that negotiation visually as well. There’s a long montage set to INXS’ “Never Tear Us Apart” where Romy and Samuel see each other through glass boardroom windows, or only in reflection, only to quickly cut away to them slamming together with hurried intensity – forced apart only to later collide. This needledrop is part of a collection of wonderful songs, and the music is one of the best parts of “Babygirl.” The entire movie pulsates like you’re at a rave, mostly thanks to Cristobal Tapia de Veer’s score – at the beginning, classical and prim, but later devolving into synthy compositions punctuated by harsh gasps and moans.
And yet, the moments where the camera simply hones in on the push and pull between Romy and Samuel is when the film is at its best. There’s nothing practiced about their interactions, nothing polished – and Romy isn’t the only one who’s a bit off kilter. Samuel might be the dominant one in their sexual relationship, but he feels just as new to this as she does. As much as there’s intense emotion and sometimes even pain wrapped up in this new dynamic (the first time Romy has an orgasm with Samuel, Kidman gives a performance that feels akin to a bleeding wound), there’s a lot of humor too, especially on Samuel’s part. Early on when Romy shoots him down particularly aggressively, he gives a gleeful little gasp, surprised and delighted at the ferocity in her response. The first time he tells her to get on her knees, he laughs at himself soon after. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing either.
The power dynamics between Romy and Samuel are so twisted and complex, always changing depending on the situation and the place. But the lack of experience with this particular dynamic on both their parts (Romy might be older, but she doesn’t have any sort of real sexual life before Samuel comes along) puts them on an equal playing field in a lot of ways. Romy starts to become more comfortable with the person she is when she is with Samuel – perhaps the person she has always been, but was too afraid to show.
There’s a wonderful quote towards the end of the film that Romy says to her husband, Jacob – “I told you I was someone else, and then got angry when you didn’t know I really was.” As the audience, you feel Romy’s frustration with her husband and his inability to satisfy her intensely. But it’s impossible to expect anyone to know what we need, who we are, if we refuse to show them. Romy’s relationship with Samuel is untenable, always doomed to end. But the trust it opens up might be here to stay.
