Fuck Like No One’s Watching: Reijn Delivers Prudent & Provocative Sexual Odyssey
“There is to my mind no doubt that the concept of beautiful had its roots in sexual excitation and that its original meaning was sexually stimulating,” wrote Sigmund Freud in his 1905 publication Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality. In the century since Freud’s various hypotheses on sexuality were written, and eventually overshadowed by a progressive and enlightened collective understanding of how sexuality functions, cinema, particularly American cinema, has remained suffocated by rigid and archaic ideas regarding sexuality and morality. Partially, this is due to the historically patriarchal gatekeeping which repressed women and the LGBTQ+ community. But entrenched gender expectations regarding women’s agency over their own sexual identity continues to dominate every aspect of the global cultural landscape. And thus, at least in the English speaking realm, there aren’t too many films directed by women confronting the reality of their sexual desires outside of genre vehicles where their pursuit of pleasure is sanctioned by considerable consequence, usually in relation to their nuclear familial unit or social expectations. Finally, something quite frank and impartial arrives in Halina Reijn’s third film, Babygirl, featuring Nicole Kidman in a way we’ve never seen her before. While it has all the requisite aspects of a contemporary erotic thriller, Reijn wades into something more thrilling – authenticity. In the words of Freud, it is a film worthy of reclaiming the original meaning of ‘beautiful.’
Romy (Kidman) is a high powered CEO of Tensile, a company specialized in automation and robotics. She’s happily married to Jacob (Antonio Banderas), a notable theater director in NYC, and together they share two adolescent daughters. Walking to the office one day, she’s nearly accosted by someone’s dog, running amok on the sidewalk. Samuel (Harris Dickinson) whistles, gaining control of the animal for its hapless owner. Moments later, Romy is introduced to Samuel as a new intern at her office. He’s rather impertinent, but has sparked Romy’s interest. Selecting her as his mentor for an internal office program, a barely concealed desire bubbles to the service as Samuel recognizes Romy is sexually aroused by submissive role play. But as Romy explores this uncharted sexual terrain, she’s also forced to face the consequences of her actions.
What’s so refreshing about Babygirl is how Reijn plays with power hierarchies through the confrontation of ethical dilemmas. Without a doubt, their are transgressions made by Romy which are inappropriate, illegal, and potentially damaging to her loved ones. But Reijn’s narrative isn’t giving her a pass, per se. Caught between the crossfires of conditioned antiquated ideas about ‘normal’ sexual desire and the politically correct expectations enforced by a younger generation of women, Romy gives into temptation which causes mayhem…but also catharsis. Samuel mentions the nature of the cuckoo bird in one moment of insight into how he sees himself, a bird which lays its eggs in the nest of others to raise their young. The resulting hatchlings cause havoc for the host, comparable to the potential chaos of the taboo sexual dynamic both he and Romy are attracted to. Yet we all have this duality, the socialized compartmentalization of these desires. Freud called it the id. Romy simply tells him “You’re not a bird.” What’s most exceptional about Babygirl is the strikingly organic development between both of them, with Kidman and Dickinson navigating the kind of relationship almost always reserved for masculine titillation (a la Adrian Lyne’s 9 1/2 Weeks, 1986). But there’s a kind, endearing awkwardness to both of their characters, and an assurance of consent which actually focuses on an attainment of pleasure, eventually transformative for both of them. But then, the prohibitions and legal sanctions which make such an affair seem so clandestinely appealing are part of the reality they also must face.
Although it earns comparisons to other S&M or sexual compulsion narratives such as Secretary (2002) or Shame (2011), this isn’t a film about despair or disgrace. Often, such blunt examinations of BDSM sex fantasies, while having higher intentions, end up feeling silly, their failure to land the emotional, psychological underpinnings of sexuality landing in camp territory, such as Jennifer Lynch’s infamous Boxing Helena (1993). “Be honest,” Samuel goads Romy at several points. The thing about honesty is it allows for disruption of an anesthetizing balance, throwing us out of our comfort zones as we’re forced to question what we think we know about the world or ourselves.
Reijn’s film is more aligned with European cinema, such as 2014’s My Mistress, where Emmanuelle Beart is a dominatrix who strikes up a relationship with a younger man. Though it’s not in the same agonizing vein of Isabelle Huppert in Haneke’s The Piano Teacher (2001), it’s similarly shocking to see Kidman, an actor of a similar pedigree, allowed the chance to actually ‘go there.’ Having worked with her fellow countryman Paul Verhoeven in 2006’s Black Book, Reijn’s approach to the messiness of sexual passion recalls his early classic Turkish Delight (1973).
At a certain point, when Samuel breaks into Romy’s domestic sphere, their fantasy bleeds into a dangerous reality, and the simmering tension of exposure hits home, a la Fatal Attraction (1987). However, theirs is not a game of domestic or professional takeover, but rather a satisfaction of a mutual, consensual need. Unfortunately, there’s no getting around a marriage which has not sanctioned extra-marital escapades, and a work-place environment in which such a relationship is illegal. But once you let something out of your private Pandora’s Box, it can’t always be stuffed back in there. While Sophie Wilde, as Kidman’s assistant, gets one key sequence which aims to correct the inappropriateness of Romy’s work role, the exceptional transformation happens between Romy and Jacob upon her revelation of a ‘one-time’ affair. Reijn’s eerily accurate depiction of partial truths as Romy makes baby-steps toward self-actualization leads to one of the most bittersweet showdowns regarding an extra-marital affair you’ll ever see, and gives Banderas an arc we’re unaccustomed to seeing in the role of the derisively termed cuckold.
As evidenced in her sophomore feature, 2022’s Bodies Bodies Bodies (read review), where a group of bright eyed and bushy tailed Gen Z frenemies go haywire when they’re cut off from their cell phones during a hurricane party, Reijn has a talent for aligning and skewering intergenerational attitudes. A fleeting but meaningful moment arrives when Romy’s eldest daughter (who, despite mocking her mother for using Botox and telling her she ‘looks like grandma’) gently reassures her, in not so many words, about the affair. It’s a gentle reminder how, in some small regards, we’ve also inched away from children being used as tools sanctioning their mothers’ sexuality a la celebrated Douglas Sirk melodramas, such as All That Heaven Allows (1955) or There’s Always Tomorrow (1956).
Babygirl ends in a somewhat hopeful place, bookended by Romy’s moans, which are presumably not performative in the final reels as Reijn grants us one final subversive fantasy (in such a fashion which effectively transcends something similarly explored in the forthcoming Night Bitch starring Amy Adams). Somehow, even adultery feels good in a place like this.
Reviewed on August 30th at the 2024 Venice Film Festival (81st edition) – In Competition section. 114 Mins
★★★★/☆☆☆☆☆
