Over the holidays, Babygirl had audiences blushing, giggling nervously, and perhaps questioning what it is they desire, really desire, and why it’s so hard to ask for it—even with their long-term, loving partners.
In tandem with exploring a sensuous relationship seeped in power dynamics between a high-powered executive and her younger subordinate, Babygirl investigates how desire and intimacy are approached in long-term partnerships.
To the onlooker, Romy (Nicole Kidman) has a stable marriage with her husband, Jacob (played by Antonio Banderas). Both are outliers in their respective professional fields, the couple is financially well-off, and the pair have two children together. The relationship is amicable and supportive, and the sex is frequent.
All is mostly well in the marriage, except that Romy has never had an orgasm with Jacob—and Jacob is none the wiser, as his wife could give a masterclass on faking it. (Cue nervous laughter from the straight women in the audience.) In fact, Romy’s dissatisfaction is at first only evident to the audience, who witness (in pin-drop silence) Romy masturbates to BDSM porn on the floor after Jacob has fallen asleep.
The intensity of the orgasm Romy gives herself in this scene is subdued by a hand to the mouth, which might be the obvious thing to do in this clandestine scenario. However, the visual of this gesture hints at a woman who is deeply uncomfortable manifesting her desire.
This theme also comes up again during another sexual encounter between Romy and Jacob. The pair are in bed, and Jacob initiates sex. Romy’s character giggles, almost childishly, in playful attempts to evade him and avoid the interaction altogether. A decision is made that she will try and ask her husband for the kind of sexual intimacy she would like, but to ask this, Romy covers her entire body with a bed sheet. She looks a bit like a child putting on a simple ghost costume for Halloween, which feels especially uncomfortable and silly to someone who ordinarily carries an outward demeanor of self-possession and power.
The tableau is striking and poignant because it illustrates the internal struggle Romy faces in voicing her desires—she will turn herself into a ghost before she lets herself, and her wants, be seen, even by the people closest to her. It also demonstrates that having a caring partnership is not a precursor or guarantor for sexual fulfillment, no matter how much we may wish it so.
The scene between Romy and Jacob is tender, awkward, loving, frustrating, playful, sad, and intimate, and encapsulates the inner conflict Romy is facing as she works to bring her unspoken desires to the surface. It is a jolting reminder that knowing what you want and knowing how to ask for it are not the same and that you may be your greatest adversary in attempting the latter.