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A review by jvanfleet
Rosemary's Baby by Ira Levin
5.0
Forget the ending you know through cultural osmosis or via the excellent filmed adaptation, this is a riveting read that unfolds with precise escalation. What reading the book clarifies in ways the movie couldn’t (due to the film’s third-person denying us access to Rosemary’s innermost thoughts) is how little of this is actually demonic and how much of it is doubling down on the dread of “Gaslight.” Rosemary hangs on by dear life to the rational answers given by the liars around her, in part because she’s surrounded, in part because she secretly needs to believe everything is all right, so badly does she want a child. What results is horrific in its dramatic irony but more importantly its tragedy— any jackass can write a story that concludes with “and then the worst thing possible happened.” Much, much rarer is endearing us so much to the tragic character that the unfolding events make us scream “get out! you have to get out!” even as we know she can’t, because that’s simply, horribly not the kind of story she’s in.
Reading this also clarifies something else that I struggled to put into words while watching the film— there’s a fascinating *tackiness* to the devil worshipers, especially Minnie Castavet. Minnie, like Rosemary, traded the quiet Midwest for bright lights big city, and her braying tone, persistent nosiness (you get the feeling she’s this insufferable with all her neighbors), and smaller details emphasize this. (Her calming drink for Rosemary at the end isn’t anything high-end, it’s Lipton Iced Tea with extra sugar.) Is she meant to be a dark mirror to Rosemary, who’s dazzled by the hunky Guy in the same way Minnie loves her silky-smooth Roman? Maybe. And what’s the significance of a gaudy woman like Minnie and her cadre of petulant followers being the type of people to bring forth such hideous developments? Maybe it’s simply a feint by Levin— these aren’t the suave movers and shakers we’d associate with devil worship, so maybe it *is* all in Rosemary’s mind. Regardless, it’s a peculiarity that gives the story some extra texture.
Reading this also clarifies something else that I struggled to put into words while watching the film— there’s a fascinating *tackiness* to the devil worshipers, especially Minnie Castavet. Minnie, like Rosemary, traded the quiet Midwest for bright lights big city, and her braying tone, persistent nosiness (you get the feeling she’s this insufferable with all her neighbors), and smaller details emphasize this. (Her calming drink for Rosemary at the end isn’t anything high-end, it’s Lipton Iced Tea with extra sugar.) Is she meant to be a dark mirror to Rosemary, who’s dazzled by the hunky Guy in the same way Minnie loves her silky-smooth Roman? Maybe. And what’s the significance of a gaudy woman like Minnie and her cadre of petulant followers being the type of people to bring forth such hideous developments? Maybe it’s simply a feint by Levin— these aren’t the suave movers and shakers we’d associate with devil worship, so maybe it *is* all in Rosemary’s mind. Regardless, it’s a peculiarity that gives the story some extra texture.