‘Babygirl’ is not about sex, despite what some people think
In recent years, sex has become a topic of contention on the internet, with people debating its relevance in film and younger audiences expressing a desire to see less of it on screen. This is hardly surprising given the general climate around dating, with young people having less sex as a result of the commercialisation of intimacy through dating apps and the internet, leading us to become disillusioned with its meaning. It has led to an interesting public reckoning with the purpose of cinema in general, with some cinema-goers remaining firm in their view that sex does not belong on screen – it is a private experience that should remain in private spaces, with film lovers reiterating the idea that sex is a part of life, and cinema is a reflection of life.
Some people see film as a form of escapism and therefore don’t want to see anything that resembles real life, with our generation becoming weirdly prudish about authentic portrayals of sex despite having glaring addictions to pornography and unrealistic ideas about physical intimacy that would seem counter-productive to this philosophy — but I digress. But it was for this reason that the discourse around Babygirl both fascinated and disturbed me, with the film sparking widely differing opinions on the dynamic between the main characters that reveals how far we have removed ourselves from the vulnerability and emotional core at the heart of sexual relationships.
Babygirl follows a high-flying CEO called Romy, who is entrenched in her duties as a wife, mother and businesswoman, living a carefully controlled life seemingly perfect from the outside. However, when a life is so tightly held together, something has to snap, and Romy soon begins an affair with her twenty-something office intern that slowly disrupts her image.
The film is interesting given the fact that it has been able to appeal to both arthouse and commercial audiences, with the story making a splash at the Venice Film Festival and being cleverly marketed through an erotic lens that became hard to ignore. It is rare for an independent film with such charged subject matter to reach wide audiences, and in doing so, it has opened up a strange and sorely misunderstood conversation about female desire, power dynamics and sex in general, sparking a limiting and rather non-empathetic understanding of the story.
The criticism of Babygirl has ranged from people claiming that it isn’t sexy enough to containing too much sex. What’s happening here highlights an interesting clash that I believe is missing the meaning in the middle ground – Babygirl is less about sex but more about repression, shame and the healing power of play, which just happens to manifest in the form of sex.
During Romy and Samuel’s first sexual encounter in a grimy New York hotel room, we see her desperately trying to fight against her urges and place her image before her own needs/desires. We learn that her relationship, while caring and loving, is not sexually fulfilling for her, and this part of her life has taken a backburner over the last seventeen years. As well as this, she has limited her sexual fantasies and desires in order to conform and be accepted, afraid to reveal who she truly is in front of her partner for fear of being judged/shamed.
It is because of this that I found the hotel scene particularly moving, with Romy flashing through a wide spectrum of emotions as she tries to rationalise her way out of desire, despite the fact that Samuel awakens a dormant part of her identity that she has desperately wanted to be seen.
Romy eventually gives in to this all-consuming desire, allowing herself to be touched and seen in a way that finally reaches this repressed part of herself, with a long and uncomfortably close shot as we watch this happen. She hides her face, trying to shy away from her shame, before eventually being reduced to tears and sobbing in Samuel’s arms. It’s devastating to watch, and I found myself feeling saddened by the people who couldn’t relate to the deeply humanistic core of this interaction – someone who is overwhelmed by the shame of acknowledging her desire and a sense of relief at finally being seen, opening herself up to a side of herself that she has repressed for so long.
While their subsequent encounters are fairly unconventional within the realm of erotic drama given that we don’t actually see them have sex, I found this to be far more powerful, despite the fact that it ‘wasn’t sexy enough’. Through the freeing power of self-expression, intimacy and the safety offered by being truly seen by someone, Romy is able to heal her wounds and face the fears that she has held about herself for her entire life, creating an image of perfection as an antidote to her shame.
During another hotel scene, Romy reluctantly undresses in front of Samuel and hides her face in her hands, trying to look away from her vulnerability and crying when told that she is beautiful. It is heart-breaking to see her flinch at this compliment, feeling ugly on the inside and unable to comprehend that someone could see past how she views herself.
Babygirl is a complicated but deeply moving portrait of how limiting our perception of ourselves can be and the healing power of another person who expands our definition of these limitations, validating a part of yourself that you thought you’d always carry with shame. The widespread misinterpretations of Babygirl show a stark lack of understanding of the innately complex and psychological heart of sex itself.
By reducing it to a physical act and the erotic qualities it should bear on screen, people forget that sex is also an emotional act with the power to transform and heal. If you cannot be moved by a woman breaking down when told she is beautiful and confronting her darkest insecurities about herself, something that has restricted her experience of life and the joys of being human, then I don’t know what more to say. Babygirl is not about sex, and perhaps our reduction of its meaning only points towards a less fulfilling sexual future for this generation as a whole; disturbed by a lack of sexiness which only points at our own hollow relationship with sex itself.
