How Babygirl Can Fix Film

We need more movies that see us as humans, not consumers

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Something annoying happened recently that encapsulated my prickly feelings about both media and film. I wrote an opinion piece about my problems with the film industry, and how it under-serves women, through the lens of Halina Reijn’s delightful BABYGIRL. It was not published (with many apologies) because ultimately this publication couldn’t make room for it—due to an overflow of content about that guy in the White House. I have to laugh, because being a woman in this industry has so often meant moving over for a loud man who’s taking up all the space.

Halina, thank you for the gracious, illuminating conversation. I wish that millions of people could have seen the piece below instead of thousands, but as women, we make the noise where we can.

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There is one specific moment in Halina Reijn’s film Babygirl that made the movie for me. Nicole Kidman, playing neurotic CEO/mom Romy, sits on a couch, in a hotel suite, in a show-stopping cocktail dress, framed in a way we’ve seen before. Samuel the intern (Harris Dickinson), with whom she’s begun a confusing dalliance, has just asked her to open her legs. She could have met this with predictable bedroom eyes, and made us sweat. But she pauses and sighs, the look on her face telegraphing a world-weary, mortified Am I really doing this? followed by Ugh, fine! as she submits. The theater–a packed, midweek, 10:15am screening–roared with laughter.

When I saw the poster for Babygirl, I thought I knew what I was being sold. Tightly-wound, busy mom goes wild, and her life falls apart. We have a rich history of these narratives in books and film, and I braced myself to watch a titillating movie about a miserable woman who is cosmically punished for opening a door to desire. The trailer was intriguing–-with its Santa Baby backing track–-and its Christmas release date was a brilliant counter-programming strategy. I texted a group of friends, most of whom had made plans to see it in theaters already, and all of whom gave a response like I think I know what this is, but I need to make sure.

This was in stark contrast to what I felt during the theatrical trailers when I sat down to watch the film. A half-hour of studio previews blurred together, a forced march of IP and slight departures from things we’ve seen already. One guy wants to avenge someone’s death. Another to avenge a loved one’s… kidnapping, I think. The paint-by-numbers parade reminded me of the two decades in entertainment I’ve heard buyers going on and on about “old wine in a new bottle.” The safe thing to do, says conventional studio wisdom, is to buy, make, and release familiar stories in sparkly packaging, which is why we have so many photocopies of photocopies of Taken, or tentpole, four-quadrant IP-based films. Their only measure of success right now is defined by a billion dollars in box office receipts.

But while audiences and critics alike are grumbling about IP fatigue, studios don’t seem to be listening. One exec I recently spoke to expressed frustration at his employer claiming that a disappointment was because the brand hadn’t been universal enough. But it’s worth noting that I zoned out multiple times during that of half-hour studio trailers, and I didn’t exactly see anyone in the audience leaning in. What was it about Babygirl, specifically, that had gotten us all here on a Wednesday morning?

First, the promise of a women’s story, told by women. One tale I dust off from my agency days is how often we’d walk into a staff meeting and one of my male colleagues would say, without irony, “I guess we’ve learned women want to watch movies too!” And then we’d spend the rest of the meeting diving into the branded-entertainment slates of all of the studios, which were decidedly neither for nor by women.

Babygirl was unapologetically marketed to women: A 90s erotic thriller, refreshingly told through a female lens. Even its title was soft, rounded, and pink. But once the film started, I was shrieking and gasping with delight throughout. At the way Romy sputters in her intern’s face, his insolent smirk unraveling her prim facade completely. In her (wonderful) husband–played by Antonio Banderas– as he supplements with probiotics before bed. In the familiar way her kids, while loving, troll her without mercy. There’s a face we see Romy make toward Samuel, every time he attempts a flirtation, before her eventual capitulation. She’s not horny, she’s startled, and we’re right there with her. I realized, in comparing the film to the trailer, the trick A24 had actually pulled: luring me in with a familiar genre, and then upending my expectations. I was reeled in by the stylish packaging, and found the wine inside was fizzy and unexpected.

I don’t think I’m alone in craving novelty and depth in the films I watch. As viewers, we’ve experienced the golden age of TV, and enjoy a robust, intelligent, independent film environment. So why are traditional studios terrified to start a conversation, or surprise us? When are they going to figure out that creative risks don’t have to be financial ones?

I spoke to a talent representative this week who bemoaned the traditional studio playbook, the tightly-scripted PR offensive which doesn’t leave room for serendipity, or delight, or nuance. If the team involved in the movie doesn’t seem visibly excited about it, how do they expect audiences to be? I asked point-blank, if she’d been part of what she’d call a “good” studio release in the last five years. “The animated movies are pretty well-handled,” she said, after a long pause. “But you only remember the nightmares. And there’s a lot of them.” And too often, studios refuse to inspect their own methods: “The studios need to stop complaining that TV is stealing their audience,” said another colleague, who represents filmmakers. “White Lotus is [here]. If you want to lure us to the theater, make something we can care about as much.”

I discussed this with Reijn, who seemed tickled to be asked about business instead of art, but always intended the film to be funny, as well as a commercial success. “There’s a saying in Germany: “a good theater in an empty theater,’ which means my art is so great that no one should understand it,” she said. But she leaned instead into an axiom from her frequent collaborator, the Belgian theater director Ivo van Hove: “We’re never going to adjust our product, but we’re going to sell out everywhere we go.” They first cut a conventional trailer, framing it as a fresh take on an erotic thriller, and then a second, with a cheeky soundtrack and the message that the film was a gift the audience could unwrap for Christmas. It opens up viewers to the possibility that there might be a fresh discovery to be made. “[A24] believes uniqueness is marketable,” she says, and that’s not just a gesture to be supportive of her art - it’s because there’s a financial upside for them as well. “They also understand the culture, and what makes an iconic image,” she says, referring to the online chatter - the dance memes, the milk drinking. They know their core audience, and they know how to engage with them. “It makes me feel safe,” she concludes. And as a viewer, this specificity, the feeling that they care about my viewing experience, makes me feel appreciated, and seen.

Savvy marketing aside, Reijn has also given us an offering that sparks conversation. In positing a version of sensuous womanhood, motherhood, boss-lady hood, that doesn’t end in a way you’d expect. It’s a comedy of manners, and an exercise in empathy. Reijn refers to her DP, Jasper Wolf treating every character as a hero, which is reflected in her own writing, and allows the film to be discussed from endless angles and lenses. And when the audience you’re trying to peel away from their TVs is drowning in a sea of extreme opinions, in an increasingly violent world, maybe we no longer want to sit back, passively tolerating another noisy explosion-fest. Maybe we need more meaningful, deeper work, presented to us by people who have faith in the impact of art. Maybe it’s delusional to hope for a theatrical future with no good guys or bad guys, no morality plays, no vengeance or gun violence or property destruction. One with more tender, sharp, thoughtful portraits of our intersecting humanity, drawn by a team of assured artists. But we don’t get what we don’t ask for.

As my friend Kerry and I left the theater after the film, we were passionately yapping about the craftsmanship, the music, the taut dialogue, how deftly it had touched upon so many themes, and the see-saw of duty and desire. It’s not about the sex, I told her. It’s about the roles we all assume in order to manage our lives, and the freedom we feel when anyone sees through the performance and relieves us of them. The way Samuel sees Romy is the way the movie sees its audience – it makes fun of us, and our expectations, and the result is a relief and instant intimacy. It’s the opposite of the bland, spoonfed mush we’ve come to expect in theaters. Kerry agreed, and so did her Oura ring, which thought she was taking a nap, that’s how blissed out she was. But what if… it’s also about the sex, she said. I thought back on the sumptuous lighting, the tasteful nudity, the Father Figure dance sequence that George Michael himself would have approved as a music video, the rave where they spin like two giddy children in a bubble of joy. It’s a sexy film, absolutely. But that’s the twelfth best thing about it.

I’m reluctant to go back to the language of traditional analysis, but it’s worth noting that Babygirl has recouped triple its budget, was re-released theatrically for Valentine’s Day, word of mouth has been excellent, and anecdotally I have had upward of forty conversations with people who wanted to see it a second time in the theater. The sea of happy viewers wondering what Reijn will do next is growing. It might not be an overnight billion in box office receipts, and the Oscars might have gotten it profoundly wrong this time, but that kind of engagement is technically a marketer’s dream, and an indicator of a filmmaker’s continued success.

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Priyanka Mattoo, a filmmaker and former talent agent, is the author of the memoir Bird Milk & Mosquito Bones (Knopf 2024) and an upcoming book of essays on duty and desire.