Content Warning: sexual assault.
Last week, I read Ira Levin’s masterfully suspenseful Rosemary’s Baby (1967) which dabbles in the Satanic, the witchy, and the downright disturbing aspects of domesticity. It’s often cited as one of the greatest thrillers of all time while Levin’s The Stepford Wives is recognised as his most feminist work. However, Rosemary’s Baby picks apart the patriarchy in a soul-crushing way, revealing the ever-present dangers of living under it.
Rosemary’s Baby plunges us into the bustling heart of 1960s New York City where the young Rosemary Woodhouse and her struggling-actor husband, Guy, move into a stunning apartment in a notorious building with a dark history known as The Bramford. Once the moving boxes are in, it doesn’t take long for the mundane tasks of unpacking and redecorating to become embroiled with more sinister events. As it happens, the Woodhouses have moved into a building that is home to a Satanic cult who want to bring about the birth of Satan’s child. All they need is a mother.
Rosemary’s Baby by Ira Levin (Corsair, UK, 2011)
Like much of Levin’s work, there is a lot to pick apart in Rosemary’s Baby, layering a simple concept with rich subtext which is a thrill to untangle. But perhaps the strongest thread is that of gender politics which reveals the everyday horror of disempowerment and domestic trappings.
Originally from Omaha, Rosemary was filled with ambition in her younger years, moving to NYC with a friend and only $85, gifted to her by her only supportive family member, her brother Brian. She studied philosophy at NYU thanks to her friend Hutch’s aid and got a secretarial job at CBS. When she married Guy, she became estranged from her devout Catholic family for marrying a Protestant. By all accounts, Rosemary was happy to buck trends in pursuit of her own happiness.
When we first meet Rosemary, she is a picture of traditional domestic bliss. She gushes over The Bram apartment during a viewing, imagining the perfect décor for the perfect home, and eyes a pregnant woman with mild envy as the couple sit in a café to discuss the move. All the while, she exudes bubbly enthusiasm about the prospects of Guy’s career, fully confident that one day he will move from sporadic commercial work to film, giving them a picket-fence dream life in California filled with many children. You see, Guy is reluctant to have children until he has his big break—and Rosemary wants nothing more than to be a mother.
While she isn’t quite as independent as Joanna Eberhart in Levin’s The Stepford Wives, often relying on fatherly figures or supportive friends, there’s a comforting cosiness to Rosemary. She’s kind-hearted with a generous spirit and a goofy, quick wit which makes her very likeable. Her bright-eyed optimism is excruciating to watch fizzle out as the story progresses.
As soon as Rosemary moves into The Bram, irregularities begin to intrude on her idyllic new home. It begins with the noisy Castavets in the apartment next door, the cartoonish Minnie hollering at her husband Roman to bring her root beer late at night. The elderly neighbours soon attach themselves to the Woodhouses, becoming frequent visitors, imposing themselves on Rosemary’s life. Minnie gifts Rosemary a necklace stuffed with a mysterious herb called tannis root, which is so strongly scented she eventually wraps it in tin foil and stuffs it in a drawer.
Gifts turn to dinner invitations, which turn to regular visits offering food, which turn to bringing other neighbours around uninvited for a night of sewing, to simply barging in when Rosemary has visitors from outside The Bram. (As an introvert, the unannounced visits were perhaps one of the most horrifying aspects of the story.)
This is attention Rosemary didn’t ask for and is too polite to reject—at first. Yet she finds herself increasingly obligated to please the Castavets. Her power and independence are slowly stripped away as the elderly couple force their ideas, plans, medicines, and parties onto Rosemary. The start of this gradual build is reminiscent of catcalling: we’re told to brush off the behaviour as a well-meaning compliment, despite being a show of power which makes the recipient feel uncomfortable. But we all know Minnie’s “kind gesture” chocolate mousse was laced with a chalky-tasting drug intended to knock Rosemary out cold. Seemingly harmless actions often leave people feeling unsafe in places where they should be secure.
The Bram itself is an imposing building, its towering structure almost looming off the page thanks to Levin’s detailed descriptions. The frequent return to the sunny yellow and white nursery wallpaper as Rosemary’s concerns grow reminded me of the perceived unwinding of the central character’s sanity in Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper; another classic that explores isolation and control.
Then, of course, there’s the sexual assault. Rosemary passes out and dreams a demonic creature rapes her. When she awakes, she finds scratches across her body. Guy explains this away by saying he didn’t want to miss “baby night” and blames a rough hangnail for the markings. It’s worth noting that marital rape only became outlawed in the US in 1993 and became illegal in the UK in 1991. By conflating Guy with Satan himself and demonstrating Rosemary’s clear discomfort with the violation, it’s not difficult to guess Levin’s view on the issue when writing the book in the late Sixties.
While the reader quickly comes to realise the Castavets have used Rosemary’s body to incubate Satan’s baby, our protagonist continues to find her life being controlled by her overbearing neighbours. Her choice of doctor is quickly replaced by friend of the Castavets, Dr Abe Saperstein. Warned against taking vitamins and reading baby books, Minnie Castavet provides Rosemary with a suspicious drink and cake every day—openly hinting that she’s constantly aware of Rosemary’s whereabouts: “‘I heard you come in,’ she said.” The reveal of a hidden door connecting the Castavet’s apartment to the Woodhouse home further emphasises the intrusion of privacy and imposition on personal space. As Rosemary’s pregnancy progresses, the claustrophobia surrounding The Bram worsens. And while she’s never alone, she’s entirely isolated.
The Castavets do their best to rid Rosemary of any friends. The young woman she befriended upon moving into The Bram dies mysteriously. Hutch falls into a coma after visiting Rosemary’s apartment and asking questions. Guy cancels any plans the couple have with their young friends outside of The Bram, and when Rosemary finally throws a dinner party (to which the Castavets “are not invited … You have to be under sixty to get in.”), Guy tries to burst through the kitchen door as an overwhelmed Rosemary admits her need for help to three concerned friends.
Rosemary finds herself belittled at every turn, with no one in the cult taking her worries seriously, including Dr Saperstein. He waves off excruciating pains for months despite her severe pain, mirroring a longstanding issue some women still face today. When Rosemary’s friends recommend seeing another doctor for a second opinion as she slowly wastes away, Guy argues vehemently with her, refusing to pay. And when Rosemary finally escapes and seeks help in a place where she should feel safe, her story is shrugged off and she’s returned to her captors—completely helpless and utterly ruined.
Perhaps most disturbing of all is Guy’s involvement in the cult’s plot and his readiness to gaslight Rosemary. He is quick to dismiss her concerns about the pregnancy and their neighbours, only to reveal he has been involved all along, feeding information to the Castavets and helping them achieve their goal through any means necessary. As in real life, it is much easier to spot threats outside the home before awakening to those inside.
The charm of the budding actor soon wears away to reveal a self-absorbed phoney fuelled by his ego. Despite treating Rosemary dreadfully, he continually promises the turn of a new leaf in which he’ll be the perfect husband, though he never changes his behaviour. He befriends anyone with links to stage or screen who might serve him well, which is how Roman Castavet ensnares him in his scheme. Guy is promised an abundant career filled with fame and riches in exchange for Rosemary’s body to carry the Devil’s child. It’s a sickening twist that raises questions over the issue of control.
Control, particularly of women’s bodies, arises repeatedly: from Rosemary’s womb being offered by Guy as a vessel for the Devil’s baby, to Dr Saperstein’s treatment of the pregnancy, to Rosemary being unable to make decisions for herself. It’s a twisted symptom of abusive relationships—whether with a partner, friends, or society at large—and these conversations are still relevant today.
But perhaps Rosemary’s biggest challenge is the internalised misogyny which comes with living under an oppressive patriarchy (embodied in this instance by a power-hungry cult). A consequence of Guy’s gaslighting and encouragement to fully embrace her domestic duties as subservient wife and would-be mother, Rosemary ultimately doubts her own concerns and questions her own mind, often viewing herself as hysterical. She believes her friends are over-cautious, spurred by Saperstein’s constant reminders that every pregnancy is different. She scolds herself for being mad at Guy for marital rape: “What had he done that was so terrible? He had gotten drunk and grabbed her without saying may I. Well that was really an earth-shaking offence, now wasn’t it?”. She even feels guilty for wishing the Castavets away despite the grief they cause her.
In an odd twist in horror stories, a quiet cabin outside of the city is where Rosemary is at her strongest. Leaving Guy for a few days, she spends time thinking before returning to New York City, set to confront him about the assault and follow through on her desire to get a job so she can become self-sufficient. Inklings of independence shine through but are quickly snuffed out when she returns to The Bram as Guy knowingly points out she must be pregnant and makes grand promises of change. Instead of pushing ahead with important conversations, she too accepts fault surrounding the tension in their relationship: “On my part too. On my part as much as yours.”
It’s hardly surprising that Rosemary eventually seems to accept her duty as mother to the antichrist. She’s been so beaten down by patriarchal expectations and manipulative tactics over the course of the book that, combined with her wish to be a mother, it’s easy to see why she would settle into a role she has essentially been groomed for.
I should note that mothers and housewives are not powerless or in any way oppressed. The Stepford Wives’ Joanna Eberhart is the prime example of a strong, domestic woman—and I say more power to those who want to be homemakers and mothers, especially in our increasingly competitive and career-driven world. However, in Levin’s book, Rosemary’s complete absorption into domesticity eventually removes her autonomy. She stops calling friends, she forgets to check in on Hutch in the hospital, and she gives up on her career goals and drive to be self-sufficient. Even her rebellious reading of baby books stops. Through disempowerment, Rosemary is ultimately reliant on Guy, the Castavets and Dr Saperstein, succumbing to their demands and expectations.
Rosemary’s Baby shows Levin’s skill at revealing the chilling reality of humanity. Reading the story while devastating events unfolded in the UK no doubt made these themes stand out more clearly, as debates about control over women’s bodies and casting judgement on the “proper” behaviour women should take to avoid being assaulted or accosted continue to plague our society more than 50 years after the book was released. We routinely enter victim-blaming debates about what women can do to protect themselves instead of questioning the patriarchal systems in place and examining the flaws in our society that make violence against women and other marginalised communities such a common occurrence.
While we may try to push back against our prescribed roles in society, we fight against wider institutions that belittle our actions and concerns, desperate to hold us in place. There’s still a tight grasp of control around women: governing their bodies, their actions, their experiences. Sometimes the patriarchy wins, aided by the longstanding implementation of manipulative power structures. Rosemary’s Baby is still such a bone-chilling read because, despite the efforts to escape societal trappings and traditional structures, it’s possible we may still find ourselves locked in The Bram heading towards apocalyptic doom.