Her POV: ‘Babygirl’ is all tension with no release
In her column “Her POV,” Blyss Cleveland reviews classic and contemporary films directed by women.
“Babygirl” (2024) examines whether the unequal power dynamics of age-gap relationships are mitigated when the older partner is a woman. The story is even more complicated because it is a workplace affair involving sadomasochism. While the film maintains the camp sensibility of writer and director Halina Reijn’s previous film, “Bodies, Bodies, Bodies,” the sly wit doesn’t save “Babygirl” from heavy-handedness.
When the film premiered at the Venice Film Festival, Reijn noted her directing was inspired by the erotic thrillers of the 1980s and 1990s. The hallmarks of the genre — an illicit affair, suspense and explicit sex scenes — are on display. If you’re familiar with those films, you know exactly how “Babygirl” ends. Reijn avoids taking a stance on the numerous issues raised, which disappointingly amounts to tension with no release.
Early on, the titular babygirl, Romy Mathis (Nicole Kidman), applies makeup as she gets ready for work — her boss lady drag. She dots her cheeks with bright pink blush, and before blending it in, she looks at her reflection — a fun sight gag and foreshadowing that she’s about to act like a clown.
Romy is the CEO of Tensile, a pioneering company that has automated warehouses using robots. She is married to a handsome theatre director, Jacob (a sensationally cast Antonio Banderas), and a mother to two daughters. When a cohort of interns arrives, Romy’s assistant, Esme (Sophie Wilde), makes her available as a mentor. Romy soon takes an interest in Samuel (Harris Dickinson), an upstart who strongarms his way into becoming her mentee and lover. Romy’s midlife sexual awakening is intriguing because it reverses the older man paired with a young woman trope. But simply reversing the roles limits the subversiveness of the storytelling when the broader story still takes place in a patriarchy and is characterized by the same gender inequality.
The narrative outlines various factors that lead Romy to get involved with Samuel. Although she founded her company with the aim of giving people their time back, she is ironically consumed by the daily operations of family life. The thanks she gets for preparing meals and organizing a family photo shoot for the holidays? Critique from her family about her appearance. The comments are egregious considering Romy’s Patrick Bateman-esque health and wellness routine.
As to why Romy would step out on Jacob, we learn he cannot produce sexual encounters that she finds satisfying. When he obliges after she shyly requests novelty in bed, he gives up quickly because he feels like a “villain.” Alas, he refuses to get with the program!
At work, Romy is subject to the constraints of being an “approachable leader.” As the homme fatale, Samuel uses several tactics to engender intimacy with Romy. He is impertinent, yet gets her attention by showing he has done his research and strategically provides positive feedback.
Samuel is aware that the rarity of their pairing — an older female CEO sleeping with a young male intern — makes any revelation of their affair more damaging for her than for him. Boys will be boys, but grown women are supposed to know better.
Samuel and Romy’s positionality are underscored through the brilliant costume and makeup design. His wardrobe is as limited as Romy’s is abundant and he appears slightly disheveled. The green fatigue jacket he dons over his suit signals his working-class background. Romy’s messy bun, french tip nails and makeup appear effortful, but haphazard — she found a suitable look that worked in her heyday and hasn’t updated it since. Her neutral ensembles include garments such as sheath dresses with cutouts that strategically show skin. Her figure is draped in expensive heavy knit woolens and silks because they’re the only things that know how to touch her right.
It is very little wonder that undressed is the state where the lovers can bridge the class and generational divide. The electricity of Kidman and Dickinson’s chemistry is on display during two extended erotic montages that are set to late 80s hits. The action between and after these scenes is where I began to feel vexed. Samuel is only willing to discuss issues after certain boundaries have been breached. One hopes that Romy will use her ever-present iPhone to search for “male behavior decoded” content. Instead, she gets played like a game of Tetris.
Romy declares that she herself has always known she’s not like other women. This assertion breaks down when the audience takes stock of certain facts: she doesn’t find sex with her husband satisfying, she likes being dominated and has difficulty articulating those desires. A woman at the top who just wants to bottom is about as groundbreaking as florals for spring.
Her lack of self-knowledge is the point, but it is underlined, italicized and extrabolded. Frustratingly, Samuel and Romy continually declare that there are great risks involved in their affair, but what’s at stake remains unclear. Samuel is supposed to be a plot device, but he is given too much interiority and his character arc is treated as an afterthought. He is a calculating outsider, but we’re kept in the dark about his intentions — a mystery the film lays out, yet has no interest in solving.
In the end, Reijn traffics in the tropes and retrograde sexual politics of classic erotic thrillers and presents them in a faux female empowerment narrative. “Babygirl” could’ve benefitted from discarding the latter and only keeping the former, but maybe that would be throwing the baby out with the bathwater.
Editor’s Note: This article is a review and includes subjective thoughts, opinions and critiques.
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