Babygirl

The corporate office in Halina Reijn’s Babygirl is a marvel of architectural coldness—all floor-to-ceiling glass, brushed steel, and the kind of aggressive minimalism that suggests any hint of human emotion has been filed away in a cloud server. I watched this in a theater where the air conditioning was cranked so high I had to tuck my hands into my sleeves, and that physical chill perfectly matched the sterile, high-stakes world inhabited by Romy.

Nicole Kidman plays Romy, a high-powered CEO who commands rooms with the icy precision of a diamond-tipped drill. She has the perfect husband in Antonio Banderas (playing Jacob, a sensitive theater director) and a career that most would kill for. But underneath the expensive blazers and the strategic poise, Romy is bored—or more accurately, she’s starving for a type of control that can only be found by giving it up entirely. Enter Samuel, played by Harris Dickinson, an intern who looks like he wandered off a London streetwear shoot and into a world where he doesn't belong, yet he’s the only one who truly sees her.

The Glass Ceiling and the Basement Floor

In the current landscape of "elevated" thrillers, there’s been a lot of talk about the death of the erotic thriller. We’ve spent a decade in a cinematic desert where intimacy felt choreographed by lawyers rather than artists. Babygirl feels like a deliberate, stylish middle finger to that trend. Released in an era where social media discourse often flattens complex power dynamics into "problematic" or "empowering," Reijn chooses a much stickier, more uncomfortable middle ground.

What I found most striking isn't just the nudity or the sex—though there is plenty of both—but the psychological chess match. This isn't a simple "older woman, younger man" trope. It’s an exploration of the "female gaze" in a post-#MeToo world. Romy isn't a victim of Samuel; she is an active participant in her own potential ruin. Harris Dickinson’s Samuel is essentially a Golden Retriever with a very dark side quest, and he plays the role with a terrifyingly confident "brat" energy that feels specifically tailored for 2024. He understands that in a world of rigid corporate hierarchies, the most powerful person in the room is the one who refuses to follow the script.

A Study in Surrender

Nicole Kidman is doing some of the best work of her career here. There is a specific scene involving a dance track and a bowl of cereal that I suspect will be studied in acting classes for years. She manages to convey the sheer, vibrating anxiety of a woman who is terrified of what she wants, even as she’s reaching out to grab it. It’s a brave performance because it isn't always "likable." She’s messy, she’s often cold to her family, and she makes decisions that made me want to shout at the screen.

The supporting cast earns their keep, too. Sophie Wilde, who blew everyone away in Talk to Me, provides a grounded, skeptical counterpoint as Esme, an assistant who sees the cracks in Romy’s facade long before anyone else does. And Antonio Banderas brings a poignant, gentle masculinity to the role of the husband. He isn't a villain or a buffoon; he’s a good man who simply isn't what Romy needs in her darkest, most private corners. The chemistry—or lack thereof—between these three corners of the story creates a tension that is almost unbearable.

Behind the Curtains of Power

Interestingly, Halina Reijn comes from a background in prestigious European theater and acting, and you can feel that in how she treats the "set" of the office. She treats the boardroom like a stage where everyone is performing a role. Turns out, the production utilized intimacy coordinators heavily to ensure the "torrid" scenes felt authentic rather than exploitative—a hallmark of contemporary filmmaking that Babygirl uses to its absolute advantage. While some might roll their eyes at the "corporate intern" fantasy, the film’s $60 million box office haul proves there is still a massive theatrical appetite for adult-oriented dramas that don't involve capes or multiverses.

A24’s marketing leaned heavily into the "taboo" nature of the film, but the real secret is that Babygirl is actually quite funny. There’s a dry, satirical edge to how it portrays Gen Z office culture and the absurdity of corporate wellness speak. The film is basically a high-fashion car crash where everyone is wearing Prada, and I found myself laughing at the audacity of it just as often as I was holding my breath.

Babygirl is a sleek, jagged, and deeply necessary jolt to the system. It’s the kind of movie that reminds me why the theatrical experience still matters—there’s nothing quite like the collective, awkward silence of a room full of strangers watching a CEO lose her mind over an intern. It’s bold, it’s beautifully shot by Jasper Wolf, and it features a career-defining turn from Kidman. If you're looking for a film that engages with the complexities of modern desire without offering easy answers, this is the one. Just maybe don't watch it with your parents.