Roman Polanski makes pregnancy and everyday interference frightening, with Mia Farrow giving Rosemary’s anxiety a painful human weight. There are slow patches, but we would recommend it even to those who usually avoid horror.
At 138 minutes, Rosemary’s Baby gives uncertainty plenty of time to become unbearable. Roman Polanski’s adaptation of Ira Levin’s novel is a frightening, patient film that earns the attention it demands. Pregnancy supplies the ordinary worries, and the people around Rosemary Woodhouse make those worries difficult to separate from suspicion. The film understands how exhausting it can be to explain a fear to someone who has already decided it is unreasonable.
Mia Farrow gives that exhaustion a human scale. We can follow Rosemary’s attempts to understand what is happening without feeling that the performance has settled every question for us. She holds our attention through doubts that could easily become tedious, and makes the question of who gets to decide what happens to her feel urgent. Her vulnerability never reduces her to someone we are simply waiting to see frightened again.
Ruth Gordon makes Minnie Castevet funny without giving us a comfortable break from the anxiety. We laughed at Minnie, then felt uneasy about how much we had excused because she was amusing. The eccentricity is entertaining enough to distract us from Rosemary’s need to be heard, and that distraction matters. John Cassavetes, as Guy Woodhouse, adds a harder quality; beside him, Mia Farrow’s uncertainty can seem painfully exposed, though his performance sometimes presses the unease more firmly than it needs to.
William A. Fraker’s cinematography makes us want to inspect the frame for something we have missed. Richard Sylbert’s production design feels close enough to ordinary life that we keep scrutinising surroundings which ought to be reassuring. Their work encourages this nervous attention without making the setting more interesting than the people. We find ourselves watching Rosemary and watching what is around her, unsure which deserves more of our attention.
Editors Bob Wyman and Sam O’Steen allow time for that unease to develop. The measured pace makes us sit with doubts instead of treating each one as a problem to be disposed of before the next scene. Krzysztof Komeda’s music feels tender in a way we cannot quite welcome. It suits the discomfort of a film about pregnancy in which apparent care can feel intrusive, and it avoids making the fear seem grander than the woman experiencing it.
That patience has a cost. Some passages prolong uncertainty after we have understood why Rosemary cannot easily make herself believed, and the waiting starts to feel a little managed. The script occasionally seems too pleased with its ability to keep us undecided. It is a small limitation, but a real one: at this length, another turn of the same doubt does not always deepen our concern.
As pregnancy horror, the film is particularly alert to how readily concern can become permission to interfere. We would recommend it to people who usually avoid supernatural stories, with a warning that its attention to a woman’s loss of control can be difficult company. Allow it the time it asks for. Anyone hoping that familiar faces and ordinary manners will provide reassurance should choose something else.