If you’ve ever wanted to experience a two-hour pregnancy-induced anxiety attack sponsored by your local coven, Rosemary’s Baby is the movie for you. Roman Polanski’s 1968 psychological horror classic is less “edge-of-your-seat” and more “I-hope-this-seat-has-a-trapdoor.” It’s a slow-burn descent into prenatal paranoia, gentrified Satanism, and the kind of passive-aggressive gaslighting that makes you long for a good old-fashioned exorcism.
It’s Not a Baby, It’s a Red Flag in a Bonnet
From the moment Rosemary moves into the Bramford—a building with the ambiance of a haunted pancreas—you know she’s doomed. Everyone is suspicious, including the nosy neighbors, the chocolate mousse, and, frankly, her husband, who sells her uterus for a Broadway credit. (Yes, Guy, you landed the part, but at what cost? Oh right, your soul. And Rosemary’s womb. Minor stuff.)
By the time the demonic pregnancy kicks in, the film shifts from “slice of Manhattan life” to “pregnancy paranoia as interpreted by Kafka with a Ouija board.” Rosemary gets thinner, paler, and starts looking like she’s trying to smuggle Satan’s offspring past an HMO.
And let’s not forget the real horror: no one listens to her. Not the doctors. Not her husband. Not her so-called friends. She could scream “I think my neighbors are witches who drugged me and let Satan copulate with me during a papal parade,” and everyone would just offer her another prenatal vitamin and a cigarette.
Satanic Symbolism in a Sensible Dress
The film tries to pass off subversive social commentary as horror, but its feminist messaging is as subtle as a pitchfork in the ribs. Rosemary is treated like livestock with a lease. She’s gaslit by every man in her life while being fattened up like a veal calf for Beelzebub’s baby shower. The medical establishment is complicit, the Catholic Church is eerily silent, and the neighbors are one séance away from putting rosemary in Rosemary.
Sure, the ending’s iconic: Rosemary gazes into the eyes of her hellspawn and instead of screaming or leaping out the window, she rocks the cradle like a tired babysitter who’s already been paid. Because if you can’t beat ’em, you might as well co-parent with the Devil and lean into the chaos.
Final Verdict: Subversive, Yes—But Also Tedious, Toothless, and Terrifyingly Slow
Rosemary’s Baby is what happens when you take women’s very real fears about pregnancy, autonomy, and institutional betrayal… and turn it into a stylish, two-hour gaslighting tutorial directed by a guy with enough red flags to start his own Vatican-sponsored cult.
It’s a film that asks the bold question: “What if motherhood, but make it Satanic?” And then whispers, “Also, you don’t get to make any decisions.”
At the end of the day, Rosemary’s Baby is a cautionary tale about trusting your neighbors, your doctor, your husband… or any man who insists you eat a mousse with an “undertaste.” Because chances are, they’re all just trying to get you knocked up with the Antichrist so they can collect frequent flyer miles to Hell.
One star, and that’s only because Satan showed up and somehow still wasn’t the most evil man in the movie.
