Rating: R | Runtime: 114 minutes
Release Date: December 25th, 2024 (USA)
Studio: A24
Director(s): Halina Reijn
Writer(s): Halina Reijn

Something has to be at stake.

There’s a complexity to Halina Reijn’s Babygirl that can be shielded by the preconceptions born from a viewer’s reductive ideas towards the relationship dynamics at play. It’s right there in the movie when a character attempts to boil what’s happening down to their own emotional attachment and ignorance only to be quickly rebuffed with “That’s an old way of thinking.” This person isn’t completely wrong considering the confusion that ultimately does take hold in both Romy (Nicole Kidman) and Samuel (Harris Dickinson). It just isn’t so simple. Not when you remove the taboo and lies to discover a necessary awakening towards desire. This isn’t an affair. It’s a catharsis.

The maturity of Reijn’s depiction is therefore what stands out most for me. The fearless nature of letting her characters wade through what they think they want to grab hold of what they need. Look no further than the first sexual encounter between Romy and Samuel. It’s all awkward laughter and uncertain boundary jumping to figure out if this is actually what either of them wants. And when they finally settle on the affirmative—after numerous false starts—the result is more therapeutic than erotic. Or, perhaps, that therapeusis is what makes it erotic since consent and pleasure trump the overt depiction of domination this fare usually exhibits. For the first time in her life, Romy finds release.

That it arrives through her subordinate (him an intern, her the high-profile CEO) only heightens the impact because their sexual dynamic subverts their professional one. While that enhances the former, however, it complicates the latter. Not just because of everything Romy risks losing as the one holding social power, but also because of what Samuel risks losing emotionally. To him, this is “having fun”—a term Romy’s daughter uses in a blatant yet relevant mirror. He can separate these worlds where she can’t because the fear of getting caught is what drives her gratification. The thing he can’t handle is the chance that her fear might make him into her ruin. That’s a power he does not want.

The result is a removal of the quid pro quo … in theory. Romy’s fear means it will never disappear completely, but it is erased insofar as their ability to ignore it in the bedroom. That’s where they can be free. That’s where she can find the person she longs to be—someone who embraces the “darkness” she’s kept at bay via embarrassment (there’s something sweet and innocent in her shyness hiding under a sheet when attempting to let her husband, Antonio Banderas’ Jacob, into her fantasies). Remove all the outside noise and you get two human beings fulfilling each other. Not using each other. That adds too much shame to the equation and there are other characters all too willing to use them both instead.

Don’t therefore reject the messiness that ensues. Embrace it. There’s so much to absorb in the vulnerable moments when Romy and Samuel let each other down by forgetting the separation inherent to what they’re doing. Let’s be honest: there’s no getting around that when you’re dealing with so many sins at once. They are only human and desire is a powerful drug. Lines will get blurred, but adults have the capacity to step back and reintroduce a bit of logic before inevitably losing focus again. So, while the bottom dropping is an inevitability, the fallout isn’t. Not if you’re able to find control within the chaos by utilizing your newfound strength of ownership in both spheres.

It all leads to a perfect thematic and narrative conclusion wherein Romy owns her actions in a way that repositions her fears. Because she doesn’t have a second thought hiding from her family. Her focus is fully wrapped up in losing her job. That’s somehow the bigger threat despite building her career with a cutthroat nature that suffers no fools. Until she becomes her most despondent when her life and love is being taken away. Romy can compromise and deal in the office. She can’t at home. That’s where honesty proves most crucial. Where opening herself up is necessary. There are no bigger stakes than risking everything to bet on yourself. You simply must accept who you are to do so.

Kidman is fantastic in the role as it shifts between these two halves of herself while learning to merge them together. It’s an emotionally daring performance even if most audiences will focus solely on the nudity when hearing labels like “brave.” I think Dickinson and Banderas’ turns are brave too because this trio is constantly evading cliché as they reckon with what is happening. There’s an honesty to the sex positive nature of the whole, but also the empathy inherent in the love for another and the love for oneself. Because it does all start from the inside. From silencing that urge to repress one’s true desire. Bring some of that self-worth from the boardroom into the bedroom and take control—even if that means allowing yourself to relinquish it.

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(L-R) Nicole Kidman and Harris Dickinson in BABYGIRL; courtesy of A24.