Film Review: Rosemary's Baby (1968)

The late 19th and early 20th centuries witnessed a profound cultural counter-movements against the relentless march of industrialisation, science, and technological progress. This reaction manifested in artistic and literary trends that idealised nature, tradition, and, crucially, the irrational, as humanity grappled with the dehumanising effects of modernity. By the 1960s, a decade synonymous with optimism fuelled by rapid technological advancements—from space exploration to medical breakthroughs—this pendulum swing toward the irrational found renewed expression in a resurgence of supernatural horror. This genre, which would dominate the following decade, found its apex in Roman Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby (1968). A landmark in horror cinema, the film remains a towering achievement, blending psychological tension with cosmic dread to create an atmosphere of paranoia that lingers long after the screen fades.

Adapted from Ira Levin’s 1967 bestseller, Rosemary’s Baby transposes its source material’s claustrophobic dread onto the big screen with devastating precision. Levin, a writer whose works (including The Boys from Brazil and The Stepford Wives) would later inspire numerous film adaptations, crafted a tale that marries suburban domesticity with occult terror. The plot follows Rosemary Woodehouse (Mia Farrow), a young wife whose life unravels after she and her actor husband, Guy (John Casevettes), move into the Bramford, a decaying New York City apartment building steeped in macabre legend. Their enigmatic neighbours, Roman (Sidney Blackmaller) and Minnie Castavet (Ruth Gordon), soon insinuate themselves into the couple’s lives, offering friendship and advice. Yet as Guy’s career takes an unexpected turn—securing a role after a fellow actor’s mysterious blinding—and Rosemary’s pregnancy becomes increasingly fraught, the Castavets’ benevolence curdles into manipulation. Dr. Sapirstein (Ralph Bellamy), their recommended physician, exacerbates Rosemary’s suffering, while cryptic clues from an occultist acquaintance, Hutch (Maurice Evans), suggest a sinister conspiracy: the Castavets are members of a Satanic cult, and Rosemary’s unborn child is the chosen vessel for the Devil. The film’s climax, in which Rosemary discovers her son’s true identity, is one of cinema’s most chilling twists, encapsulating the film’s central theme of cosmic insignificance in the face of ancient evil.

The film’s success was no accident. Produced by William Castle, a master of low-budget horror gimmicks, Rosemary’s Baby was elevated by the vision of Robert Evans, the newly appointed head of Paramount Pictures. Evans, a central figure in the New Hollywood movement, sought to redefine studio filmmaking by courting European auteurs. His decision to bring Polanski—a director known for the bleak realism of Knife in the Water (1962)—to Hollywood was a gamble. Equally daring was casting Mia Farrow, then a relative unknown with a waifish, almost androgynous beauty, as Rosemary. Farrow’s vulnerability and wide-eyed innocence were pivotal to the film’s psychological core, rendering her helplessness palpable. The gamble paid off spectacularly: the film grossed over $45 million domestically, a staggering figure for the time, and earned Ruth Gordon an Academy Award for her performance as Minnie Castavet.

Polanski’s genius lies in his ability to immerse the audience in Rosemary’s subjective experience. The director employs a steady escalation of unease, using subtle cues to destabilise the viewer’s grasp on reality. Early scenes, such as Rosemary’s uneasy interactions with the Castavets or her husband’s sudden career boost, are imbued with a creeping discomfort. The film’s lack of overt violence—a stark contrast to the exploitation horror of the era—heightens its tension, relying instead on psychological manipulation and the slow erosion of trust. Polanski’s exploitation of the Production Code’s loosening standards allowed for moments of nudity and sexuality that serve the narrative rather than titillation. The infamous “demonic rape” sequence, in which Rosemary is seduced by forces beyond her comprehension, is rendered through implication rather than explicitness, leaving its horror to linger in the viewer’s imagination.

Farrow’s performance is the film’s emotional linchpin. Her portrayal of Rosemary—a woman whose naivety and optimism are stripped away—captivates through subtle shifts in expression, from hopeful to petrified. John Cassavetes, though better known for gritty character roles, delivers a chillingly plausible turn as Guy, whose ambition blinds him to the cult’s machinations. His slow transformation from loving partner to complicit collaborator is one of the film’s most disturbing elements. Ruth Gordon, while deserving her Oscar, occasionally teeters into caricature as Minnie, her performance leaning into the “crazed witch” archetype. Yet her chemistry with Sidney Blackmer’s Roman—charmingly sinister and paternalistic—anchors the duo’s menace.

Krzysztof Komeda, Polanski’s frequent collaborator, provides a haunting score that amplifies the film’s dread. The melancholic ballad played at the film’s beginning and end, underscores Rosemary’s isolation and the inescapable fate of her child. The music, paired with the stark, claustrophobic cinematography of interiors and the oppressive weight of the Bramford’s architecture, creates an environment where the supernatural feels both immanent and inevitable.

Unlike Gothic horror’s reliance on remote, timeless settings, Rosemary’s Baby is rooted in the contemporary urban landscape of 1960s New York. This choice was revolutionary: the film’s Satanic cult operates not in a Transylvanian castle but in a modern apartment block, surrounded by the trappings of secularism and progress. The inclusion of real-world references—a poster for Time magazine’s “Is God Dead?” issue (1966), the Pope’s 1965 visit—anchors the horror in a world that prides itself on rationality. Even the film’s interplay with celebrity culture—such as Terry Gionoffro, a character mistaken for model Victoria Vetri (who actually plays her)—reflects the era’s fascination with fame and the porous boundary between public and private life. This modernity amplifies the film’s terror: evil, the movie suggests, thrives not in the dark corners of the past but in the heart of civilisation itself.

Rosemary’s Baby pioneered a subgenre of “modern horror,” inspiring classics like The Exorcist (1973) and The Omen (1976). Yet its influence extends beyond cinema. Ira Levin later expressed ambivalence toward his creation, arguing that the film inadvertently legitimised Satanic panic in the 1980s, which fuelled the rise of the Religious Right. The irony is stark: a story born from secular anxiety about modernity’s excesses became a catalyst for conservative religious revival.

The film’s shadow deepened through the tragic events that followed its release. Mia Farrow’s divorce from Frank Sinatra during production, composer Komeda’s accidental death, and Polanski’s personal trauma—his wife Sharon Tate’s murder by the Manson Family—added layers of real-world horror to the film’s mythos. The Bramford’s exterior, the Dakota building, later became infamous as the site of John Lennon’s assassination in 1980, cementing the film’s status as a cultural omen.

Despite its stature, Rosemary’s Baby has spawned few memorable derivatives. The 1976 TV sequel Look What’s Happened to Rosemary’s Baby, the 2014 miniseries, and the 2024 prequel Apartment 7A (starring Julia Garner) all pale in comparison. These attempts often reduce the original’s nuance, focusing on shock rather than psychological depth.

Rosemary’s Baby is as a masterpiece because it transcends its genre. It is a meditation on power, complicity, and the fragility of belief in a world where rationality cannot shield one from existential terror. Polanski’s film asks uncomfortable questions: Can we trust our senses? Who are the true monsters in a society that worships progress? Fifty years later, its answers remain as unsettling as ever, a testament to the enduring power of art that refuses to look away from the darkness. In an age of technological marvels and existential uncertainty, Rosemary’s Baby reminds us that the Devil may indeed be in the details—and the details, as Rosemary discovers, are always written in blood.

RATING: 8/10 (+++)

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