Malgré les conseils de leur ami Hutch, Guy et sa femme, enceinte, s’installent dans un vieil immeuble new-yorkais considéré comme une demeure maléfique. Aussitôt, leurs voisins, les Castevet, imposent leur amitié et leurs services. Si Guy accepte facilement ce voisinage, Rosemary s’en inquiète.
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Polanski, for all his insanity about women and sexuality, nailed the putrid plight of the twentieth century woman, and, let’s face it, 21st century women too. Besides its unparalleled aesthetics–young Farrow alone!–that liberationist rage is why I clamor to the film again and again.
It’s one of my favorite horror movies, and probably one of yours, too, though it now seems much closer to 60s/70s paranoia thrillers than it does to today’s horror flicks. This also means Rosemary’s Baby faces the obstacle that all paranoia thrillers face: namely, we figure out what’s going on long before the hero(ine), and then have to wait for them to catch up. But that’s just the raw framework, and Rosemary’s Baby hangs on it a richly detailed story
It’s like being stuck in a satanic vortex of mansplaining where you’re going to have to accept your devil child or run far, far away just to get these people to stop talking AT YOU… Well, for Rosemary, the love of the child supersedes devil worshipers, the medical profession and her terrible husband, and she will accept her newborn, no matter what they’ve done to his eyes. It’s, in the end, heartbreaking and extremely touching.