Spoiler in this review!
I never thought I would see the day when I would recommend a movie over a book. Since the movie did a pretty darned good job of creeping me out years back, I figured the book would be even more unsettling. Instead, it came across as borderline silly. Rosemary was such a meek wife that it became frustrating. She could be talked out of every logical thought in her head. I kept trying to put the book into context; was my frustration with Rosemary thanks to the date of the book’s publication? In 1967, it was clearly ok to give endless details regarding how a housewife kept herself busy by shopping and cooking… it was ok to celebrate a pregnancy by «bringing out the ashtrays…» and it was ok to refer to every African American character as «a Negro.» I tried continuously to put the book’s…
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