Title: Babygirl
Director: Halina Reijn
Cast: Nicole Kidman, Harris Dickinson, Antonio Banderas, Sophie Wilde
Where: In theatres near you
Rating: ***
Director Halina Reijn’s 'Babygirl' is less an erotic thriller and more a psychological charade draped in silk and automation. It flirts with transgression but never quite commits, teasing us with power dynamics that startle, yet resolve into something disappointingly palatable. Anchored by a fearless Nicole Kidman, the film flutters between desire and control, but its refusal to embrace the messiness of either keeps it from delivering the gut punch it promises.
Kidman plays Romy Mathis, a high-powered CEO of a robotics firm who wields corporate authority with the ease of a woman who has mastered boardroom warfare. Her home life, however, is wrapped in a genteel malaise—two precocious daughters, a strikingly handsome yet toothless husband (Antonio Banderas), and a bedroom routine that’s more pantomime than passion. When she meets Samuel (Harris Dickinson), a brooding intern with an unsettlingly sharp read on human nature, the film sets its pieces for a descent into sexual and psychological submission.
The trouble is this film never quite leaps. It circles the idea of danger—Samuel’s dominance, Romy’s willingness to cede control—but never allows these themes to combust. Their first encounter, set up like a fate-laden cinematic meet-cute, is riddled with implausibility. Samuel, appearing like a vision, tames an aggressive dog on the street with the ease of a magician flicking his wrist. A few beats later, he materializes in Romy’s office as a new intern. The contrivance is so conspicuous it suggests we might be operating in the realm of fantasy. But is that Reijn’s intention? If so, the film never leans hard enough into the surreal.
What follows is a carefully choreographed tango of seduction. Samuel initiates, Romy hesitates, then submits with the hunger of a woman starved of both thrill and self-permission. Dickinson plays Samuel with a fascinating blend of menace and vulnerability—he could be a manipulative predator or a lost boy testing his own limits. The problem is, that the film never decides. His motivations remain as vague as the film’s stance on power; he is neither fully a villain nor a lover, just an enigma with a commanding voice.
Reijn, whose previous films have revelled in provocation, hesitates here. The sex scenes are more elegant than illicit, shot in a way that prioritizes aesthetics over impact. There is an almost clinical approach to the intimacy—beautifully framed, yes, but devoid of true risk. If Romy is meant to be a woman undone by desire, we never fully see her unravel. Even in her most submissive moments, she remains composed, her torment never quite reaching the point of no return. And therein lies the film’s core frustration: it suggests radical self-destruction but never allows Romy actually to lose control.
Despite this restraint, Kidman delivers a committed performance, oscillating between brittle authority and secret longing. But this is ultimately a film that does not trust its own premise. It sets up a story about power, control, and transgression, then backs away from all three. What remains is a beautifully shot but emotionally undercooked examination of desire—one that asks provocative questions but hesitates to answer them.
