Babygirl opens with an idea that would stun half of the population: Antonio Banderas is unable to satisfy his wife in bed. It’s not that he’s bad — he’s a legitimate lover — but his wife just desires something a little… different. Nicole Kidman’s Romy Mathis is a CEO, a dedicated wife, and mother of two daughters. At work, she meets a 21-year-old intern, Samuel, who speaks softly and shows up in work attire that looks way too big on him. Off duty, he’s in a gold chain and zip up hoodies, confidently putting his finger into Romy’s mouth and telling her to get on all fours. He flips a switch inside her, holding the power to give and take away the control she craves. That’s what makes her come to life.
Obviously, you can’t have an erotic movie without an orgasm, and Nicole Kidman absolutely nails it. She accentuates every ounce of that sensation with every fiber of her being, making you feel every real orgasm she’s experienced, as well as all the fake ones she’s had to squeeze out. But when she does have a genuine climax, her face shows a pure ecstasy.
But there’s also something else.
Beneath the bliss, there’s guilt. Shame. A subtle flicker that whispers: “this isn’t okay.” Even when she’s alone, or with someone else, that shame lingers. But why? Why is there shame?
Are You Ashamed of Your Pleasures?
If you grew up in Malaysia, the chances are you learned what “sex” was through something you saw on screen — wild guess, it’s probably from some Hollywood blockbuster that your parents put on. It was probably a two-minute scene: two people under the sheets, there’s dim lighting, and you can see the skin from nondescript parts of their body. He’s always on top. She’s always below him. Your cheeks are flushed, but you have no idea what’s really going on. Even so, those 120 seconds probably sealed your expectations for intimacy for life. That’s the kind of sex you were raised on — quick, traditional, and supposedly romantic.
Babygirl isn’t made up such typical montages. It’s a two-hour deep dive into a woman’s kink, more explicitly, her inherent and uncontrollable desire for danger, the kind that electrifies her like nothing else. Halina Reijn takes us all through this journey of sensuality, forcing us to pay attention to every little quiver, frown, and shudder; with the meticulous use of shallow focus. All of it feels very… exposed. Naked, even. It’s the kind of intimacy you don’t usually see on the big screen in our local cinemas – or in any cinema. It’s rather uncommon, much like how Romy perceives herself. Raised in a conservative (in her scenario, “cultish”) environment, Romy has deemed her fantasies as dirty, and she has grown to bury them deep within.
I mean, how could she not? We’ve been shown time and time again how sex is “supposed” to look. We’ve been lectured to about what kind of sex is the most “normal.” Most people crave nothing more than a passionate lover like Romy’s husband, because that’s what’s supposed to feel good, right? But what happens when it doesn’t? For Romy, it’s that all hell breaks loose within her.
This made me wonder, how many women out there felt shame bubbling within them simply because their desires fall outside the conventional box of sex?
Why Don’t We Talk About Kinks at Brunch?
The day after my girl friends and I caught Babygirl in the cinema, we found ourselves obsessed with conversations about sex and intimacy. For context, we’re all twenty, born and raised in a conservative country, and had just witnessed Nicole Kidman eating candy out of Harris Dickinson’s palm. The film opened a floodgate of revelations — like how we didn’t even know kinks were a thing until we got to universities and started seeing people romantically. “It’s never really in Hollywood movies, though,” one of my friends remarked. It was like a brunch with a side of “what actually turns you on?”, and an extra dipping of “is this normal?”.
But here’s the reality: these conversations don’t happen often. Quite frankly, they don’t happen often enough. God knows most group conversations involve someone spelling out s-e-x like it’s forbidden fruit. So, the idea of talking about what we might want — let alone exploring it — feels almost too bold, even unattainable. All those confusing thoughts and emotions seem to boil down to one shared experience, and it’s the same one Romy grapples with in Babygirl: shame.
Intimacy then becomes something to fear. You feel ashamed for not knowing, yet equally ashamed for even trying to see what’s outside of the box. It’s a vicious cycle, and it’s exhausting.
You Don’t Know What You’re Doing? They Don’t Either!
Here’s the thing: sex shouldn’t be terrifying. And this is where Babygirl deserves credit. While the movie has its flaws, it does one thing exceptionally well — capturing the cluelessness and ambiguity of its characters. Romy and Samuel spend half the time unsure of what they’re doing. They’re confused, but still trying to figure out what they want from each other, and what they’re willing to give.
He cracks up when he tells her to get on her knees, and he stutters when he gives his first commands. She tries to assert her dominance, only to end up handing the reins right back to him. But amid all of that tension, they’re having fun, and constantly discovering pleasure in each other. It’s even unexpectedly tender. We find Samuel allaying her insecurities like no one else, constantly reminding her that what she feels isn’t shameful. Together, they create this unspoken bubble of mutual vulnerability, a space where they can exist without judgement — even if it does come at the expense of an affair (which, for the record, is not condoned). It’s a real, hot mess. But it’s theirs.
That’s the truth about navigating one’s sexuality. Most of the time, you will have no idea what you’re doing. All you know is that it makes you feel good, and in that moment, that’s enough (Which, let’s be honest, could also explain a lot of our more questionable choices at times). This constant shift, this trial and error, doesn’t mean there’s something wrong — it’s just part of the human experience. You shouldn’t feel pressured to always be in control, and you don’t owe anyone their version of you.
Which brings me to this: have you ever thought about whether you’re dominant or submissive?
Power, Independence, and the Bedroom
One of the major conflicts Romy faces in Babygirl is navigating her place in the whole dominant and submissive conversation. She’s a high-powered figure in her career and life, someone who, on paper, should have no trouble being vocal about what she wants. But in the bedroom? She craves submission with a hint of danger. She’s quiet when she’s told to be, and make no mistake, she wants to be told. At first glance, this might seem contradictory, or like a loss of agency. But I believe that understanding what someone wants, even if it’s not what you’d expect from them, is one of the deepest forms of respect.
Being independent as a person doesn’t mean you necessarily have to take charge in bed. Likewise, being seen as the “softer” person in a relationship doesn’t mean you can’t drive the stick. I have friends who thrive on calling the shots, though they’re more laid-back in their day-to-day lives. Others fully embrace being pillow princesses and own it. Some even switch between the two. It’s all valid. Romy and Samuel’s whirlwind only shows how sexy it can be to embrace all sides of yourself with the right partner. Being on either side doesn’t make anyone less powerful either.
Babygirl is no Secretary, or anything David Cronenberg, and it’s probably not making anyone’s top 10 erotic films list, but it remains a delightful addition to horny cinema. Unlike movies that dive straight into the whipping and chains with characters who already have it all figured out, Babygirl takes us through the process of getting there, with all the gritty, yet fun bits of exploring kinks and power dynamics. I, for one, had a blast in the cinema with my legs crossed (it is, hands down, the perfect movie for a girls’ night out!).
Sexuality is all about exploration, and kinks are all about pleasure. Intimacy isn’t just a random two-minute montage that leads to the climax of a blockbuster. It’s a layered and vulnerable exchange. Films like this might feel uncomfortable or even shameful to discuss, but let’s be clear — sex is never shameful, and what turns you on isn’t either.
