Rent Rosemary's Baby (1968)

Devil of a good movie - Rosemary's Baby review by AS

No hands coming through walls, no faces melting, no insects pouring out of ears, no hooded figures in the corner. But this is a very disturbing movie. Mia Farrow grows increasingly paranoid over the actions of her neighbours. Are they really just cosy elderly folk? Is she actually going nuts? This was the one that led the way, spawning a thousand rip-offs, send-ups and copies; some of them good, most of them rubbish. Polanski, as always, shows the art of subtle directing. Classic.

Arthouse Horror (spoiler). - Rosemary's Baby review by Steve

The film that spawned a decade of horrors about the birth of an antichrist. It draws on the classic premise of psychological terror, that you can never be sure whether the horrific events are actually happening or if they are the dubious fantasies of a vulnerable, disintegrating mind.

Rosemary (Mia Farrow) and her actor husband (John Cassavetes) move into an apartment intending to start a family. He falls in with the elderly kooks next door (Ruth Gordon and Sidney Blackmer) just as his career starts to turn around. When Rosemary conceives, she suspects that the neighbours are satanists and her husband has sold them her reproductive capacity.

This was Roman Polanski's American debut. He is faithful to Ira Levin's novel which is a problem as the set up is slow and there is a lot of exposition. But once baby is on board, is suspenseful and psychologically twisted. The coven is a support cast of old Hollywood faces. You know Rosemary is in trouble when even Ralph Bellamy is in league with the devil!

Cassavetes is terrifically oppressive as the ambitious, mercenary husband. Mia is well cast as the fragile, neurotic mum-to-be. In the end, we are persuaded that this is really happening and Rosemary has been raped by satan. Which makes it very dark indeed. Especially when she eventually shows interest in nurturing the demon baby.

Cradle to Gaslight - Rosemary's Baby review by griggs

This genuinely rattled me. I’d expected cults and devilish twists—but hadn’t realised just how quietly insidious it all is. It’s not the horror of blood or demons that got to me, but the slow, steady erosion of control. Every smile feels like a trap, every act of kindness like a setup.

What struck me most was how isolated she becomes—not through violence, but through niceness. Mia Farrow is phenomenal, all sharp cheekbones and growing unease. You want to shout at the screen as everyone around her—especially her husband—treats her like a child in her own life.

It’s a horror film, yes, but also a razor-sharp portrait of what it’s like to be disbelieved, dismissed, and domesticated. The fear creeps in like a draught you can’t quite place. By the time it all comes together, I wasn’t shocked—I was furious. And that, I think, is the point.