A man and a woman are on stage. It’s a performance, but it’s also a rehearsal. He stands over her, hand outstretched. “You’re not really happy”, he says, gun to her head. She looks at him with pleading eyes. She doesn’t want him to pull the trigger, but the thrill of knowing he could is seductive. Salacious, too; addictive even.
There is a thrill in running in front of the danger despite all the risk, and a trust in opening your heart as she does. It’s vulnerability as something to be given, and pleasure as something to receive.
Halina Reijn’s Babygirl (2024) is a sultry, intriguing affair (quite literally). Romy (Nicole Kidman), a married, high-powered CEO, is pulled into a twisted tryst by her young, audacious intern Samuel (Harris Dickinson). One wonders why she would ever cheat on her husband, played by the sensual Antonio Banderas. But as you watch the darkness awaken in Romy, calling her to relinquish control and surrender to the allure of becoming the titular Babygirl, you see how her twenty-year-long denial of a marital orgasm unfurls into intern-approved botox, crawling on the floor like a stray dog, and the realisation that nobody puts Baby(girl) in the corner… except, maybe, the hot intern.
An early Christmas party and purposeful soundtrack lay the stakes. When you hear the pulsing synths of eternal queer club classic (and perfect pop song) “Dancing On My Own” by Robyn, you already feel as if you know the story, that of the person in the corner of the club watching their ex have something they want and dancing through the pain. Yet in its kaleidoscope of meanings, Kidman finds a new one, not quite dancing, not quite yearning, but wanting, wanting something she doesn’t quite know she wants yet. She is dancing on her own, in her almost too-passionate marriage, in her dull and isolated office, in a life she feels she must have but can’t escape.
The first scene of Romy and Samuel alone together is electric, and throughout their constant negotiations of power and dominance there is always a playful undercurrent. When they first kiss, there’s a brief moment when Samuel pulls away, then draws Romy in. Before we know it, the door to the office is closed, yet we can’t quite see who pushes it.
This tug-of-war raises complex questions about their dynamic. In any other gendered configuration, we would clearly and definitely assess this relationship as inherently non-consensual and even abusive. Well, she is his boss, and he is an intern. Yet it doesn’t feel that easy here.
Samuel assumes the role of ‘The Dom,’ a title often portrayed in film through figures like Christian Grey: confident, authoritative and slightly aggressive. But with Samuel, you’re reminded that he’s still the awkward intern. One could say, the business world’s Babyboy.
Their first time in Samuel’s dingy motel offers an immediate antithesis to Romy’s high-powered role, yet his projection of authority is, ultimately, funny and raw. “Get on your knees,” he demands through ripples of laughter. Thrust into newfound power, he teeters between let me dominate you and let me please you, momentarily never quite landing either.
Here, Romy on her knees isn’t the most vulnerable. Instead, vulnerability lingers with Samuel too – never fully leaving him, never entirely reaching her. Their dynamic shifts unpredictably, power oscillating between them in an uneasy rhythm. Like a seesaw of sex and power, their roles tip back and forth, sometimes too much, throwing off the balance entirely.
The film plays with mirrored moments that showcase their power exchanges. Their affair begins with the closing of the office door; their affair almost ends with Samuel’s panic when Romy refuses to open the car door and let him out. In their adventures, he shatters a plate and orders her to clean it up, doggy style. Later, dishes crash on her kitchen floor, and this time, he’s the one on his knees. Each time their fantasy fades, she is reminded of the power she holds over him. That is, until the lines blur, and neither is truly in control.
If, sexually, she relinquishes herself (and all of her power) to him, and she strips herself bare to let the artifice of vulnerability she employs as a woman drop, and she betrays something real and raw inside of her, is she still abusing him? When we watch Romy crawl on the floor like a stray cat and lick milk out of a bowl, can we truly say she is abusing the man who stands over her and cradles her jaw?
I guess the better line of questioning is: Is this a feminist movie? Is “whether the story is feminist” a metric the film seems to care about? We don’t believe so. Reijn seems more interested in what occurs at the intersections between performance and vulnerability, and what it means to negotiate power in a way that many would see as degrading, let alone socially reductive. Is Romy empowered in her decision to be degraded over and over again, to humiliate herself at the hands of this much younger man, and to denigrate her stature as a CEO, a mother, a respected figure? Is it fair that she has to think about all of this before she can take pleasure in sex? Or does she yearn to get her rocks off so much that she doesn’t care anymore?
Kidman is gloriously messy, and whilst recent critiques of her performances suggest that she’s losing her ability to facially emote, it’s in her eyes and facial restraint that her performance shines. No one else could make us root for such unhinged choices as spontaneously telling your husband “I can’t orgasm with you”, and then walking straight from your marriage bed to the bar your side piece works at on the side.
Considering everything, will Romy ever truly be happy? Does she know what that means? When she returns to her dutiful and respectful husband, who has not only forgiven her for conducting an affair, but sleeping with a man in their family home(s) and lying about it on multiple occasions, will she ever be able to get absolutely railed like she so clearly wants and needs?
We noticed that there is no “daddy” in the film, even if there are not so subtle allusions to the idea of daddy issues. No, instead there is only Babygirl. This is her story, and in all of her complex and messy decisions is a woman who knows what she wants and doesn’t know how to ask for it. Maybe next time, she should use her words.
Or maybe not. This whole thing wouldn’t be as salaciously fascinating if she had. So be a good girl for us. Keep quiet. We quite like watching what happens when you do.
