Babygirl (2024)
Director: Halina Reijn
Screenwriter: Halina Reijn
Starring: Nicole Kidman, Harris Dickinson, Antonio Banderas
On a rain-slicked New York street, CEO Romy Mathis (Nicole Kidman) is on her way to the office when an off-leash dog charges toward her, barking and aggressive. Frozen with fear, she watches as the dog suddenly turns and submits to a young man crouched across the road with his hand extended. That man is Samuel (Harris Dickinson), a new intern about to begin his first day at Romy’s robotics company. That brief exchange—danger turned to obedience—serves as one of the film’s sharpest introductions and foreshadows the shifting power dynamics that drive Halina Reijn’s third feature, Babygirl.
Reijn, who made waves with the satirical horror of Bodies Bodies Bodies, returns to themes she touched on in her directorial debut: desire, control, and obsession. Set in the hierarchical, efficiency-driven world of corporate America, Babygirl explores modern sexual politics through the story of a woman who must reconcile the persona she presents with the private cravings she has long suppressed.
Romy Mathis appears to have everything: she’s a respected CEO of a robotics firm, a beloved leader to employees like her ambitious assistant Esme (Sophie Wilde), and part of a seemingly content family life with theater director husband Jacob (Antonio Banderas) and two daughters, Isabel and Nora. She splits her time between a sleek urban apartment and an expansive upstate home. But beneath that polished exterior lies a woman whose outward perfection masks unacknowledged sexual desires.
When Samuel arrives, he immediately sees through Romy’s carefully constructed façade and recognizes a vulnerability she has trained herself to hide. Though Romy initially resists, the two soon embark on a clandestine relationship in which Romy explores submissive fantasies she has long denied. The affair forces her to question how much of her identity is performance and how much is truth—and whether she’s willing to risk the life she’s built to pursue it.
Erotic thrillers, rooted in film noir, peaked in the 1980s and 1990s amid a cultural moment of anxiety and fascination with sex on screen. Films from that era paired eroticism with danger, where desire and risk were inseparable. In recent years, interest in sensual storytelling has re-emerged, and Babygirl situates itself between classic erotic thrillers and a potential new wave that must negotiate consent, empowerment, and changing generational attitudes.
Babygirl is as much a character study as it is a commentary on how different generations approach sex and consent. Romy comes from a world of order and tight control; New York’s rigid architecture and symmetrical interiors echo the structure she imposes on her life. Kidman portrays Romy as taut and contained, a woman who runs her company—and her home—with clinical efficiency. Costume choices underline this tension: tailored clothes and constricting necklines visually suggest a woman restrained by her own choices.
Romy’s private life contrasts sharply with her public image. After a seemingly perfect sexual encounter with her husband, she retreats to watch BDSM content alone, a ritual that finally brings her release. That split—performative intimacy in public and secret, primal need in private—defines much of the film’s emotional core.
Samuel, by contrast, moves through the world with casual confidence. His loose tie and oversized suit give him a slightly boyish, effortless appeal. Harris Dickinson balances maturity and mischief, shifting between commanding and vulnerable in ways that keep Romy—and the audience—off balance. His generational outlook on authority and consent becomes a catalyst for Romy’s awakening.
Babygirl foregrounds language and the power of naming desires. The screenplay directly tackles consent, sometimes unabashedly so: Samuel insists that their dynamic must be negotiated and affirmed, teaching Romy vocabulary she never used before. That discovery—learning to ask for what she wants—marks a turning point for her identity, illustrating how communication transforms intimacy.
While Reijn centers Romy’s transformation, the script leaves gaps in backstory that could have deepened the character. Romy briefly references a childhood spent in “cults and communes,” a detail that hints at formative experiences of control but is not fully explored. Similarly, Samuel’s past remains opaque, and his vulnerabilities provoke questions the film doesn’t wholly answer. These omissions limit how fully the audience can map cause to effect in both characters’ choices.
Still, the film often finds humor and tenderness in awkward beginnings: their tentative fumblings and moments of vulnerability feel genuine and, at times, unexpectedly funny—such as Samuel’s nervous laughter when instructing Romy into a new role. Reijn favors a redemptive arc over the darker consequences typical of classic erotic thrillers; she opts to give Romy growth and empowerment rather than ruin. That tonal choice makes Babygirl feel closer to a character-driven drama with erotic elements than a cautionary genre piece steeped in punishment.
Anchored by strong, vulnerable performances—particularly a standout turn by Kidman—Babygirl is imperfect but compelling. It bridges generational divides around sex and consent and suggests a direction for erotic storytelling that emphasizes communication, self-knowledge, and agency. The film doesn’t fully embrace the genre’s darker impulses, but it offers a fresh, contemporary perspective on desire and the work required to own it.
Score: 20/24
Rating: 4 out of 5