Directed by Roman Polanski
Starring Mia Farrow, John Cassavetes, Ruth Gordon, Sidney Blackmer, Maurice Evans, Ralph Bellamy and Angela Dorian
a.k.a. Netflix Part 2.
This is one of those movies that is in weird Exorcist/Evil Dead territory with me. I can't say that I HATE the movies, per se, but I also don't see why everyone else thinks they're so awesome. I should also point out that it's taken me three tries over a period of 17 years to watch this entire film, the last of those attempts taking place just last week via Netflix streaming. Folks, it was a struggle.
For whatever reason, this movie just doesn't grab me. More specifically, the characters don't. A significant chunk of the success of a movie like this depends on the strength of your bond with the characters. The situation itself is such a slow burn that you're spending LARGE amounts of time with them, and if they aren't a good hook, your movie is toast. This flick was an enormous hit in 1968 when it was released and is ranked #9 on the AFI's best thrillers of all time list, and for good reason, because it's got some great sequences of dread and tension combined with director Roman Polanski's soul-crushing atmosphere, but those characters...man. With that, let's get to some glorious plot description.
Rosemary Woodhouse (Farrow) and her husband Guy (Cassevetes) are at a crossroads in their life. Guy is an actor struggling to make it, and it's time to move into a new apartment. Despite the misgivings of one of their friends, they decide to take a room at this ancient old place in the heart of New York City despite its troubled past. The first act of the film focuses on setting things up, as all movies should, with plenty of dialogue cluing us in as to Guy's acting career and his insecurities about making it. We also meet the majority of the young couple's neighbors, including a young drug addict who throws herself to her death shortly after being introduced. Yikes. There's also a drenching scene where Rosemary wakes up in the middle of the night and hears curious chanting coming from the next room (and I just realized that the phrase "curious chanting" sounds like something from a Goosebumps book), all of which meant to establish that there are things not quite right with this apartment building.
To be sure, Mia Farrow is quite excellent in the title role, a little mousy and occasionally playful enough to qualify as moderately likable. She was also very nice to look at in her 1968 form, which never hurts. Cassavetes is the weak link in my mind, although plenty of other people slather on the praise for this guy's silent intensity. Acting-wise, I give the leads a B+.
The relationship that really defines the movie is our main characters' connection to the Castevets, Minnie (Gordon) and Roman (Blackmer). Upon learning that the Woodhouses want to have a child, they take an active interest, giving our young heroine a cup of chocolate mousse. Great idea alert. After drinking it, she passes out and has a strange dream where she is raped by a demonic presence with Guy and other apartment tenants also present in the room. It's some sequence, accompanied by dreadful dreary music that ups that Polanski atmosphere quotient to unseen levels. Unfortunately, after this, we're right back to Rosemary and Guy relationship drama alert.
You know, every time that I've tried to watch this movie (and even last week when I finished it), this is where the movie loses me. It's got a pretty nifty setup...but, I don't know, from this point on I just expected something grander than the actor husband kinda-sorta selling out for advancement in his acting career. The script (and by proxy the novel that it's based on, which Polanski supposedly cribbed from almost word-for-word) piles on the curious pregnancy story from this point on, with the Castevets convincing Rosemary to consume a daily drink called Tannis Root and to see a doctor that they recommend very strongly. And the movie loses me a bit more. There's a heavy amount of exposition as Rosemary discovers the Castevets' connections to Satanism via the use of anagrams, and I start to think about those neglected dishes about 20 feet away. It's really something. I know I'm supposed to be interested here, but...I'm not. And by the time the wholly expected downer ending arrives, I'm just past the point of caring.
Depressing review, huh?
Don't get me wrong. There's a lot that I admire about this flick, both way back when during my initial viewing with the legendary Joe Bob Briggs and just last week as a slightly stuffy and more-than-a-little-annoying 32-year-old. Farrow is both a sight and sound to behold, Polanski's camera work and atmosphere are amazing, and the soundtrack (as sparse as it is) is the stuff of nightmares. It's in a lot of the actual story content that I just can't connect with Rosemary's Baby the way I should.
I don't know. As awesome as Polanski is, I think it's pretty clear that he's a WAY better director than screenwriter. This movie, and his alleged page-by-page rewrite of the book is the proof. Chinatown, his Patrick Bateman-esque undisputed masterpiece, had skilled script guru Robert Towne backing him up. I think this is one of those books that probably could have used some dressing up, because following books TO THE LETTER...sometimes, it just isn't the best way to go. And the proof of that lies with Steven Spielberg and a little movie called Jaws, a film that differs greatly from its source novel and is about 10 times as effective. What did Spielberg change? He made the characters more quirky and likable. Funny how that worked out.
** 1/2 out of ****. It's got atmosphere, acting, and some occasional scares, but the characters are weak sauce. I'm not quite as harsh on it as that 2/5 Netflix rating (seriously), but I can confidently say "avoid."
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