Rosemary's Baby

Released:  June 12^th, 1968

Rated:  R

Distributor:  Paramount Pictures

Starring:  Mia Farrow, John Cassavetes, Ruth Gordon, Sidney Blackmer, Maurice Evans, Ralph Bellamy, Angela Dorian

Directed by:  Roman Polanski

Written by:  Roman Polanski

Personal Bias Alert:  hyperaware of sexism, likes chillers over straight horror

7 of 10

            1968’s Rosemary’s Baby is the classic tale of a woman who’s raped either by her husband or the devil.  Okay, so it’s not a very common story, but it is rooted in common anxieties about marriage and child-rearing as Rosemary (Mia Farrow) becomes pregnant after the encounter.  Whether the baby will be man or beast eats at Rosemary, who’s nagging suspicion about her future child is on par with the uneasy feeling Eva has about her son in We Need to Talk About Kevin.  These are real, age-old anxieties that have proven ripe feeding grounds for horror, especially for slow-burn thrillers like Rosemary’s Baby, as pregnancy involves a long gestation period where the woman can never escape the thing growing in her stomach.

            It’s charming how modern horror tropes can be seen even in this nearly 50-year-old piece, as the setup is all about the unexplained oddities in Rosemary and her husband Guy’s (John Cassavetes) new apartment and an ominous warning about the building from an older friend.  If the couple were heading to a cabin in the woods instead of a new apartment, then the setup would fit right in with modern slasher films, complete with an early and unnecessary jump scare.  However, there are stark differences once the film takes off, as the pacing of movies have changed quite significantly since the film’s release.  Things moved a bit slower in the ‘60s, and it was already intended to be a deliberate pot brewer.  That writer/director Roman Polanski’s adaption is notoriously faithful to the book doesn’t help the pacing, either.  A lot of padding has been left in this film, and the feverish quality it’s going for would be helped by a leaner script.

            Polanski does about everything else right, though, turning what sounds like a low-brow concept into what some consider a horror masterpiece.  In sticking close to the novel, he paid meticulous attention to the wardrobe and settings, giving Cassavetes, Farrow, and the camera much to work with in his version of New York City’s dark underbelly.  These rich surroundings allowed Polanski to play with the camerawork, often filming long sequences in one shot and once putting his life (and Farrow’s) in real danger by walking into NYC traffic.  This is all subtle work, something you don’t have to notice to appreciate the movie, but the steady tension this filming style adds is essential to making the whole thing work.

            Farrow is the other lynchpin to this film’s success, as she appears in nearly every scene and must single-handedly portray the sense of horror growing in her gut.  She handles the arc well and never overplays her anxieties about her odd neighbors, her husband’s distance, or her doctor’s dismissive care.  She goes big when she must, but mostly she plays her character as a simmering pot that’s moving ever closer to boiling over.  It’s a fine performance, and it’s no wonder it spring boarded her acting career (who needs Frank Sinatra, anyway?).

            As a relatively young, modern audience member, I can’t help noting things that I assume are more indicative of late ‘60s cinema than of this particular film.  There’s far more nudity than I expected, but it was approved by the MPAA upon its release (the film predates the ratings system by a few months), so it must not have been too risqué for the time.  What was actually distressing and, admittedly, is something that inordinately bothers me, is the prevalent thread of sexism that runs through the piece.  Obviously, Rosemary doesn’t have a job and never discusses getting one, despite her husband being a sporadically employed actor.  She’s also loudly criticized for cutting her hair short, with two men saying to her face how ugly the style.  But the nail on this annoying coffin is when her doctor tells her not to read books.  While this makes sense in the plot, the justification he gives is downright ludicrous, making it seem that women will believe anything they read and jump to hysterics if they fill their brain with information.  It’s laughably offensive how this exchange plays out, and the fact that Rosemary acts like it’s a perfectly acceptable conversation to have is just deflating.

            While I complain about them, these sorts of things are forgivable, as a film shouldn’t be dismissed simply because the culture around it has changed.  It’s the film’s length that is a real drawback, allowing the middle section to linger on so long that momentum is partially lost.  Its positives, though, make it easy to see why Rosemary’s Baby is held in such high regard.  It’s meticulously well-crafted, and Farrow gives a star-making turn that rightly went down in horror history.

Other Notes:

Ø  One of my favorite things about this film is that it doesn’t try to be scary but instead wants to be truly horrifying.

Ø  Is it supposed to be a bit ambiguous about if it’s all in her head or not?  It seemed pretty obvious to me.

Ø  If something smells bad, there’s no way I’d wear it around my neck.