ROSEMARY'S BABY
As a writer of fantasy, I cannot conceive of any way in which Rosemary's Baby could be improved. It is, for this reviewer, one of the very finest fantasy films ever made. The promise of Roman Polanski remains undimmed. The talent he displayed with Repulsion is more controlled, more adroit, certainly more impressive here. The acting is beyond reproach: not only Mia Farrow and John Cassavetes, who are so right they ring like finest crystal, but a cast of the most exemplary character actors working at the top of their form; to be treated to the likes of Ruth Gordon, Sidney Blackmer (oh, that glorious professional!), Ralph Bellamy, Maurice Evans, Patsy Kelly and (unparalleled joy!) Elisha Cook, all in one film, all working, is to know up front that the vehicle rolls on the safest treads.
I will not deal with the plot. For those who read Ira Levin's masterful novel (the best contemporary fantasy since Fritz Leiber's Conjure Wife), be apprised it is followed faithfully. Polanski, who both scripted and directed, is a friend to the often-ignored novelist whose work is sold to films and then masticated so thoroughly that even Shakespeare had "additional dialogue." For this alone Polanski deserves hosannahs.
For those who have not read the book, and have not had the film's puzzle explained to them by blathering reviewers who should know better (lop off their hands!), best you go to it fresh and unsullied. For those who have heard descriptions of what it's all about, merely this: the film is about a girl named Rosemary who gives birth to a child, and is not happy about it, for reasons no one could consider anything less than horrendous.
It is difficult for me not to rush into the streets to sing the praises of this remarkable and compelling film, a darkling vision of unforgettable tension. It is the sort of film Hitchcock would be making today, had he not grown old along about The Man Who Knew Too Much. Polanski has not taken on the Old Master's mantle, he has created his own, with the warp and woof of black magic, danger, the essence of fear and a sinister simplicity that is like all great Art—so deceptively simple-looking, until one tries to take it apart and find out why it functions as well as it does, without any moving parts.
It would have been incredibly easy for a director as brash as Polanski—who would have had to be infinitely less talented—to muck this film up. All the elements for cheap sensationalism are there. But with the lean, hard scripting (idiomatically so American one wonders how Polanski managed such a flawless translation . . . until one considers Nabokov) and the fiercely underplayed acting, Polanski has spun out his tale dualistically—both as story of growing suspense and as study of young girl going psychopathically paranoid. It can be enjoyed thoroughly from the first moment, with none of the fantasy elements yet making their appearance, simply as an interesting mainstream story of a young married couple; evocative testament to the excellence of Miss Farrow's and Mr. Cassavetes's sturdy, craftsmanlike, entirely engrossing performances. A word more about Miss Farrow later.
Polanski. Jesus, the man is good! Let me tell you a thing: in all the canon of fantasy writing, the very hardest job of all is the creation of a contemporary fantasy, using the elements of ancient myth or folklore—gnomes, witches, demonology, dragons, dryads, mermaids—in such a way that the old horrors have relevance for our times. The new demons are with us, yet they are merely manifestations of the old deities. Today we tremble before the wrath of the gods of Neon, Smog, Freeway, Street Violence; the God of Machines and the Paingod, the God in the slot machine and that most jealous of Gods who needs to be worshipped daily, The All-Seeing Eye of the Teevee. These gods and demons can frighten us out of our minds where vampires and werewolves cannot. Polanski knows this. He has been constructing with his last three films a modern grimoire utilizing these ancient, dust-and-hoar-covered legends in their modern settings. And he has become a master at it. This is a task of great rigor, but Polanski has somewhichway tapped into the bubbling lava of fear down in the gut of all of us.
Additionally, the film is filled with a thousand goodies: the dichotomous artificiality of the apartment settings in which Miss Farrow and Mr. Cassavetes play out their nightmare. The rooms seem to be setups for House Beautiful; nothing could be more apple pie American in this day and age of materialism. Decorator furniture, mentions of Vidal Sassoon, Lipton Tea, the Reader's Digest: against which a crawling horror takes hideous shape. Even the usually detrimental use of a publicized pretty (in this case the 1967 Playboy Playmate of the Year, the staggeringly attractive Angela Dorian) works to full advantage. Miss Dorian underplays and acts, seeming at once winsome and touching. Her exit from the film has genuine impact, extraordinary for the brief space of time she is actually onscreen.
But it is Mia Farrow who carries the production. No mean feat working chockablock with such inveterate and splendidly adept scene-stealers as Ruth Gordon, Blackmer and Bellamy. She is the exhibitor of a kind of tensile strength that I have seldom seen in recent years. Her characterization is fleshed-out completely. There will be no man in the audience who could doubt her selection by the father of the baby as his mate. What she never seemed to possess on television, even at her best, presence, she exhibits here with controlled passion. There can be no doubt after this film: Mia Farrow is an actress.
For those who need specific statements, who have not yet been able to grasp that this reviewer was knocked out by Rosemary's Baby, let me conclude by saying quite boldly: this film will be looked back upon with growing recognition as the years pass. It is in every way and by every standard of critical judgment, a classic of that most intriguing of genres, the film of fear.
Cinema/Fall 1968