Babygirl

How do I phrase this delicately? “Babygirl” begins with Romy (Nicole Kidman), ah, moaning in noisy ecstasy as she and her husband Jacob (Antonio Banderas), uh, conclude their amorous activity. Kidman’s natural sound effects are so over the top, in fact, that it will undoubtedly prompt a certain of viewer to carp, “C’mon, it sounds like she’s faking it.” A ha! That’s because she is faking it! In the immediate aftermath, she scurries down the hall and, well, shall we say, procures what her spouse could not produce by the light of some seamy footage on her laptop. And away we go, into a movie that might as well exist as something like alternate “Eyes Wide Shut” fan fiction for all the Kidman connoisseurs. Then again, “Eyes Wide Shut” was about a descent into something whereas writer/director Halina Reijn’s “Babygirl” proves to be more of an ascent toward something. Climbing orgasm mountain, if I may be so bold, teasing the rare sunny side up erotic thriller, a fascinating that idea that does not entirely come together. 

So, what does Romy want in the boudoir? Well, for that we need look no further than the rest of Romy’s life. We see her making breakfast for her two daughters in their pristine penthouse Manhattan apartment and running things as CEO of the successful robotics company she founded, exerting supreme control over every facet of her life. Therefore, it stands to reason that what she carnally craves is a lack of control. Enter: Samuel (Harris Dickinson). A new intern at Romy’s office, he ultimately seems less interested in the company than in her, psychologically probing her, laying the groundwork for some sexual gamesmanship, as if that is his real career, going around to various corporate high-rises as an intern and flirting with CEOs.

Dickinson is good in the role, at least up to a point, with a casual, cocky indifference that plays impeccably off the tightly coiled Kidman, suggesting why these two characters might be such a good match in the bedroom. Kidman uses the revelation that Romy was raised in cults to inform her whole performance, evincing a rigid, pre-programmed air, right down to an extraordinary moment during a scene at an office party where Kidman seems to literalize her character’s dream of an automated world by emitting a laugh that sounds like artificial intelligence. And as Romy and Samuel enter into a dominant-submissive relationship, Romy the character and Kidman the performer fuse in a fascinating way, the character and the actor simultaneously leaning into the fear of embarrassment. 

Unfortunately, the character of Samuel never becomes more than something like a manifestation of Romy’s own fantasy, undercutting the ostensible tension that she might be on the verge of blowing her personal and professional life apart. This is furthered in the character of Jacob, who is never a true counterweight, though Banderas wrings incredible pathos from a surprising confrontation near the end. What’s more, the all-important sex scenes, both in turning on Samuel’s, ahem, daddy-like control of his babygirl and how they are rendered so artfully, often existing as mini-music videos, rather than impassionedly uninhibited, seem to suggest a reversion to, if not outright embrace, of Romy’s programmed past, a paradox that either elides Reijn’s script or that she is never able to entirely square. It discolors the happy ending and accompanying would-be empowerment in a strange way, a climax that might mock having it all if it didn’t wind up flattering it.