The beauty of Rosemary’s Baby is that, while it acknowledges Satanists are living among us trying to overthrow the established order, we really have nothing to fear. Sure, they did succeed in getting the Lord of the Underworld his first, the best opportunity to send a spawn into our world, but when you’re a gang of geriatrics, buffoons, and comical stereotypes, it’s never really in doubt which side will prevail in the end. Year Zero may indeed start things anew, right there in the Dakota of all places, but who among us thinks it stands a chance when the likes of Ruth Gordon come knocking?
And then there is Laura-Louise. Fat, silly, and perhaps the least mature member of the Devil’s squad, she is also the most fascinating of the group. Given her almost pathological insistence on being loud and obnoxious, it’s a mental hurdle of the highest order to imagine how and why she was ever recruited to begin with. So undisciplined and lax she can’t help but be startled at the slightest noise, it’s impossible to believe the inherent evil of the Satanic arts attracted her in the least. Was it the Castevet’s cooking that won her over? The prospect of being naked among friends and not being the lumpiest in the room? Simple, garden variety loneliness and the need for a Canasta partner? A prequel, even at this late date, might not be a bad idea.
Rosemary’s Baby is a masterpiece of the era for any number of reasons. For one, we believe wholeheartedly that a man with the uber-vanity of John Cassavetes would in fact sell his soul for a motorcycle commercial at 2am, let alone the chance at a Broadway smash. Neighbors are this nosy, especially in New York. The horror of the everyday is always more illuminating than effects and gore and the fantastical. Here, it doesn’t at all seem unlikely that Satan himself would pay a visit. It’s just as unlikely he’d be singled out as a threat. It’s the big city, whaddaya gonna do? Evil often comes bearing gifts, so why not a pair of overdressed blue hairs with desserts in hand? And who hasn’t been driven mad by a pregnant woman? And since when did Mia Farrow need to be expecting to lose her ever-loving mind?
Laura-Louise is simply an extension of how ordinary this all is. She’s not special, nor gifted, nor likely to give anyone a fright. If anything, you invite her in, macramé and all, and she’s made herself at home before the coffee is finished brewing. You let your guard down because she’s not a threat to anyone. Sure, she barrels in and asks inappropriate questions (oh yeah, and she’s a typical over-sharer), but who on earth could foresee her presence at a ritualized rape? Hell, she’s so simple, a lie barely escapes her lips before she’s exposed as a fraud. If this is your global conspiracy, perhaps Laura-Louise should be kept under wraps. At the very least, keep her busy mimeographing pamphlets. Were she in charge, she’d give the Devil the wrong damn directions, and he’d end up in Queens.
In the end, Laura-Louise steals the show (not easy when Ms. Gordon is busy walking off with an Oscar) because she’s undeniably likeable. We see her and immediately say, if I were going to join a Satanic book club, that’s how I’d behave. We too would stumble and bumble and damn near blow the whole thing because we don’t have an explanation for saving extraneous milk. Being childless and likely as sexually experienced as your average nun, we too might rock a baby with too much force, or not have a clue what to do in the face of cries and tears. She’s the true Everywoman, lost in a cause she long ago stopped trying to understand; devoted, yes, and determined to play out the string, but always at risk of expulsion. A warrior for wickedness, without the heart to go all the way.
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