On Samuel’s sloppy suits in 'Babygirl'

Dare I say they are sexy as hell

Babygirl doesn’t let us in on much about Samuel, the 25-year-old intern who becomes his boss Romy’s dom. We’re not privy to his home life or granted access to his inner thoughts. We don’t even learn his last name. But from the jump, the film makes one thing about him undeniably clear: He knows not how to dress for the office.

Watching their illicit affair unfold at an antiseptic tech company setting, I was tickled by the ill-fitted look of his corporate outfits. His pant legs puddle at his ankles. His ties sling loosely around his collar. His button-downs are carelessly tucked in, as though he ran out the door without even a cursory glance in the mirror.

Samuel (Harris Dickinson) dresses nothing like the workplace doms we’ve often seen in pop culture. He’s not the CEO with well-tailored suits like Christian Grey (and thank GOD for that) or the demanding off-kilter boss like James Spader in The Secretary. He’s not dressing like he owns the place. Nay, he’s the lowest on the hierarchy; devoid of corporate power and wearing clothes that reflect just that. There’s an irreverence to how he presents himself; that’s what captivates Romy.

This is clear from the first time she sees him, taming a dog by sneaking it a cookie on the New York City sidewalk. Oversized and undone, he has the kind of lived-in jacket where a rogue cookie would be stored. The crumby mess inside his pockets could send shivers down my spine, and the image of his flaccid backpack grazing the damp public pavement is equally troubling — but it only adds to his nonchalant magnetism. An always-polished Romy watches on, amazed.

Later at the office, when Romy interrogates him about storing cookies on his person, he sexily retorts: “Why, you want one?” Samuel doesn’t care if he comes across as messy, and that’s precisely his charm.

Take the scene when he’s dancing at the work party early in his internship. Swept up in the music, he undoes his tie and throws it on the ground. Romy is immediately intrigued. The next morning, she fishes it from a pile of swept-up post-party garbage. Back in the privacy of her office, she smushes it against her nose and inhales deeply, devouring the essence of his uninhibitedness.

To Romy, clothes are part of a performance; a means of maintaining control while she stifles her deepest desires. To Samuel, clothes are just clothes. Costume designer Bart Mueller told The Ringer part of this approach was about playing up his boyishness. “It’s kind of like, ‘Oh, I need a suit for work. Where am I going to get the suit?’” he said. “Maybe it’s from his uncle, maybe it’s a thrift store suit. It definitely doesn’t fit him.” Samuel’s suits do not have the tailoring caché of, say, a baggy ’80s-era Armani design. They’re saggy — soggy, even. They are not so oversized that it feels intentional, they’re earnest in their wrongness. They exude spontaneity and laxness, which couldn’t be more at odds with Romy.

When he follows her out onto the street after she’s been ignoring him, their aesthetic incongruence (= sexual tension) is in full effect. Her Max Mara trench is tightly cinched with a double-knotted tie. His bulky black shoes clomp beneath rumpled pants. As he speed walks down the sidewalk, his open greige blazer reveals a wrinkled dress shirt and a poorly-fastened tie. It’s not a good outfit, but that doesn’t damper his desirability. If anything, his lack of concern over wearing the right thing leaves space for more nuance.

On Vogue’s The Run-Through podcast, Harris Dickinson said director Halina Reijn wanted to hone in on Samuel’s struggle with his own identity. “It was this idea of a young guy coming up against a version of himself that he was still grappling to understand,” he said. What makes Babygirl so good is the shared vulnerability between Samuel and Romy. It’s in the little moments when the performance cracks and care needs are communicated. Like when he bursts out laughing during their first rendezvous at the motel, unsure of whether to take himself seriously as he instructs her to get on her hands and knees. Or when he breaks down in the car, feeling hurt by her and explaining why.

Samuel is not an all-knowing authority; he, too, is learning new things. He’s tender and at times uncertain. He serves a delicious cocktail of unapologetic bluntness and sweet sensitivity — right down to his clumsy self-styling. Samuel’s suits are honest, awkward and confidently imperfect. There’s kind of nothing hotter.