Babygirl (2024)

“It’s about giving and taking power“  
A Bold Spin on Desire and Power

Romy (Nicole Kidman) is the successful CEO of a robotics automation company based in New York. She lives in a luxurious home with her two daughters and her husband, Jacob (Antonio Banderas), a theater director. On the surface, their relationship appears flawless and perfect. (In this sense, Jacob’s role as a theater director in the script carries symbolic meaning.) However, as we see in the very opening scene, Jacob fails to sexually satisfy Romy. She, in turn, hides her dissatisfaction and fantasies from him.

At this point, the young and handsome intern Samuel (Harris Dickinson) enters the picture. From the very beginning, the camera deliberately frames Dickinson as an object of desire. His daringly bold, rebellious, and self-assured demeanor awakens Romy’s suppressed desires. Their forbidden relationship, or rather their “cat-and-mouse game,” soon risks Romy’s career and family life, marking a turning point. While this setup might sound like a cliché, the fact that Romy wields financial and social power creates a dynamic that subverts traditional gender roles often seen in classic erotic thrillers. Although Romy steps outside societal norms with her actions, she uses her power and operates within the system to get what she wants. In the film’s conclusion, the cycle of domination remains unbroken, and the system continues to function as it always has.

The film, which begins with a relatively conventional introduction, gains notable momentum in the middle, particularly leading up to the pool scene. The director skillfully builds dramatic tension during this section, with conflicts between characters and the escalating stakes drawing the audience in. However, after the pool scene, the film’s rhythm slows, and by the finale, the excitement is replaced with a more ordinary resolution. Still, despite some predictable scenes, the film’s overall narrative promises an engaging flow.

While exploring themes of comfort zones, the expression of desires, and the existence of power dynamics in both social and intimate spheres, the film provocatively incorporates stunning performances. Through the characters of Isabel and Esme, it also subtly reflects the moral compass and political correctness of Generation Z.

In terms of character analysis, Antonio Banderas’s portrayal of Jacob highlights his weakness, presented as the primary factor driving Romy toward forbidden relationships. Jacob’s passivity and his depiction as a “type” rather than a fully realized character appear to be a deliberate narrative choice. However, the film suggests that Nicole’s true motivation isn’t solely tied to her husband but also stems from her internal conflicts. This is where the film misses an opportunity to delve deeper into Romy’s sexual hunger and emotional quest. References to Romy’s past provide important context for understanding her actions, but these glimpses remain superficial, weakening the film’s emotional impact. Themes like a powerful, successful woman searching for herself, escaping her roles, or breaking free from routine could have been explored more deeply, making the film far more compelling.

The two leads—Nicole Kidman as Romy and Harris Dickinson as Samuel—deliver standout performances. The music, a pivotal element of the film’s technical strengths, acts as a silent protagonist. It significantly enhances the film’s atmosphere, effortlessly immersing viewers in its tense tone while mirroring the emotional highs and lows of the narrative. However, visual symbols, such as red warning signs and sirens, which initially amplify the tension and atmosphere, become repetitive in later scenes. This overuse disrupts the balance of the visual storytelling, making it feel tiresome.

Another noticeable aspect is the film’s inconsistent moral perspective, which undermines its thematic coherence. While Romy’s daughter freely navigates her gender and sexual preferences, Romy’s “guilt” over her forbidden relationship feels more like a shallow moral debate rather than an invitation to explore her complexity. This limits the story’s thematic potential rather than adding depth. Similarly, Romy’s struggle between embracing and taming her carnal desires (symbolized in the film by a dog) never progresses beyond hesitation. For example, in the final motel scene, the director chooses to show the dog rather than Romy, limiting the space for viewer interpretation—a choice that feels unnecessary, given the audience had likely already grasped the symbolism.

The best examples of the erotic thriller genre deeply explore multidimensional psychological and physical breakdowns, presenting transformations through the restructuring of a person’s mind, body, and soul. In the genre’s peak during the ’80s and ’90s (e.g., Basic Instinct, Body Heat), women were portrayed as femme fatales, wielding absolute power while challenging societal norms in a subversive way. However, more recent attempts in this genre often lack the psychological depth and provocative storytelling that made earlier films so compelling. In this sense, Babygirl manages to breathe new life into the subgenre.

In conclusion, Babygirl is a notable work with strong scenes, an impactful atmosphere, and some bold narrative choices. Despite certain inconsistencies and superficial elements in its storytelling, the film delivers an above-average performance overall. Considering the director’s acting background, tackling such an ambitious project is commendable. While Babygirl stands out for its music and memorable moments, a deeper narrative and a more cohesive, open-ended finale could have elevated it into a truly remarkable piece of cinema.

by Duygu Ersin & Nil Birinci