BABYGIRL. “Fifty Shades of Grey” for snobs [REVIEW]

An erotic thriller is a rather rare genre in modern cinema. The golden age of this genre dates back to the increasingly distant 1990s, which operated under different rules in terms of industry dynamics and societal discourse. Today, in the post-#MeToo era, amid ongoing social and sexual scandals, there is a much more cautious approach to depicting erotic fantasies on screen. However, this doesn’t mean the genre is dead—over the last decade (and a bit beyond), there have been several successful productions labeled as “erotic thrillers” that prove: a) it’s possible, b) it can be done well, c) erotic thrillers don’t have to rely on sexist clichés, and d) the genre still holds subversive potential (see Paul Verhoeven’s Elle or Park Chan-wook’s The Handmaiden). Enter Halina Reijn in 2024, with her film Babygirl contributing to the conversation.

In line with Alfred Hitchcock’s classic rule, Babygirl starts with a bang—an orgasm, to be exact. Though it’s only for one half of the naked duo of Nicole Kidman and Antonio Banderas. After her expressive spasms, Kidman’s character sneaks off to another room to finish the act solo, indulging in rather crude porn featuring themes of (male) dominance. This opening sets the tone for the film and returns, paraphrased, in its closing scenes. The core of the story revolves around the pursuit of fulfillment by a middle-aged woman confined by societal roles as a career-driven woman, mother, and wife. Romy, the protagonist, has long suppressed her hidden desires and fantasies until an opportunity arises to explore them. This opportunity comes in the form of Samuel, a brash, self-assured, and reckless intern who joins her company. The two soon engage in a game of blurred lines between desire and power.

The premise of Babygirl is almost classical, yet Reijn’s film is not as straightforward as it may initially seem—or at least tries not to be. The director of the ironic slasher Bodies Bodies Bodies doesn’t settle for a simple tale of forbidden desire, instead intertwining multiple layers of meaning in Romy and Samuel’s story. Most intriguing is the meta-level, comparing the dignified, mature Nicole Kidman (turning 58 this year), an Oscar-winning actress who has graced red carpets for decades, with her on-screen lover, the energetic Harris Dickinson (turning 29 just four days after Kidman), riding the first wave of his career. The commentary on femininity and the female body becomes especially poignant in one of Babygirl’s boldest scenes, where Kidman’s character undergoes cosmetic procedures. At that moment, the film reflects on the cult of beauty and youth, with its erotic suspense posing the perverse question of sexual “expiration dates.” Unfortunately, this thread is introduced but not meaningfully developed.

Instead of delving deeper into the themes of age and societal roles, Reijn eagerly shifts to a narrative about women in corporate power structures. The insights Babygirl offers in this regard can be summarized with a paraphrase from Boys Don’t Cry: to be a CEO in New York, you must be like a shark, or the other sharks will eat you. Romy is a shark—capable and resourceful. But what if, behind this tough-woman facade, she harbors desires to be dominated? The answer, according to Reijn, lies in confronting Romy with the forbidden fruit that is the cartoonishly roguish intern. Their attraction relies more on vibes and the insistent magnetic gaze of Kidman, captivated by a boy who… knows when to give a dog a treat. Once their romance is hurriedly and sketchily established, Babygirl proceeds along a rather predictable erotic thriller path—concealed passion threatens to destroy the protagonist’s carefully organized life.

Reijn aims to construct a multifaceted narrative centered on power and the perverse allure of reversing it. The problem is that Babygirl lacks a cohesive concept tying its elements together. Abrupt tonal shifts—ranging from unsettling to campy—undermine its coherence. Promising threads are either cut short or capped with a standard quip before transitioning to the next chapter of this erotic saga. A disorientingly eclectic soundtrack further adds to the chaos and detracts from any consistent atmosphere.

Reijn attempts to subvert the genre’s conventions, reversing traditional power dynamics between the desired and the desiring. However, it becomes unclear who should embody which role, leading both Romy and Samuel to circle within surprisingly tame erotic games. Samuel, despite Harris Dickinson’s solid performance as the domineering seducer, is inconsistently portrayed: sometimes a ruthless manipulator, other times a fetishized object of desire, and then an emotionally conflicted boy. This muddled characterization results in a disappointingly bland male lead cobbled together from incompatible archetypes. Ironically, this reduction of the male character to a shallow figure mirrors the stereotypical treatment of female characters in similar narratives—a potentially deliberate choice, but the film offers little evidence to support this interpretation.

Babygirl suffers from a lack of narrative cohesion and fully realized characters. Both Romy and Samuel feel more like archetypes than genuine, flesh-and-blood individuals. The film doesn’t signal whether it aims for symbolism or realism, leaving it stranded somewhere in between.

Despite a strong performance from Dickinson (Kidman’s role is somewhat weaker, though still noteworthy among her recent work), clever editing, and Jasper Wolf’s striking cinematography, Babygirl misses the mark. It could have been a modern reinterpretation of the genre, a thought-provoking exploration of gender roles, or simply an engaging psychological story about desire. Instead, Reijn tries to juggle all these ambitions, ultimately failing to fully deliver on any of them.