Director: Natalie Erika James
Screenplay: Natalie Erika James, Christian White, Skylar James
Main Cast: Julia Garner as Terry Gionoffrio, Dianne Wiest as Minnie Castevet, Kevin McNally as Roman Castevet
Runtime: 1 hour 47 minutes
Genres: Horror, Suspense, Fantasy
Composer: Isobel Waller-Bridge
Cinematography: Arnau Valls Colomer
Production Companies: Paramount Players, Sunday Night Productions, Platinum Dunes
Distributor: Paramount Pictures
Visual Style: Blends an oppressive atmosphere with desaturated tones and 1960s-inspired visual elements, reimagined through a contemporary horror lens. The film employs dim lighting, worn interiors, and cold colors, evoking a city apathetic to the terror unfolding within.
Inspiration: A prequel to Rosemary’s Baby (1968), based on Ira Levin’s novel of the same name. It delves into the origins of the Castevets and the dark legacy of the Bramford building, maintaining a dialogue with the psychological horror of the original.
The Dakota was always more than just a building; its walls seem to hold a haunting echo, a constant whisper that renews itself over time. Now, decades after that dark pact that redefined psychological horror, a new story emerges, seeking to recapture the chilling spirit of the past and project it into a contemporary context. This effort to continue the legacy of Rosemary's Baby is not merely an homage; it also aims to redefine how we experience fear in an age where the visible and the immediate seem to have overshadowed ambiguity and suggestion.
The plot centres on a character who arrives at the iconic building seeking refuge but gradually becomes entangled in a game of power and manipulation that echoes the same torment Rosemary endured years before. The narrative not only delves into the aftermath of that initial event but goes a step further by exploring how evil can reinvent itself and adapt, always finding new ways to infiltrate human vulnerabilities.
New Premises: Loneliness in a Hyperconnected World
In the 1960s, horror was intimate and claustrophobic, woven around Rosemary's disconnection in an environment that pretended to offer her support. Now, the film introduces a new paradox: isolation within a hyperconnected world. The building's neighbours, though more diverse in their motivations and representations, share an air of complicit secrecy reminiscent of the Castevets of old. However, the fear is heightened by a cold modernity, where the protagonist grapples not only with the suspicion of those around her but also with doubts about her own memories and perceptions.
The visual design reinforces this sensation. While Polanski unintentionally achieved a Christmas-like effect in Rosemary's Baby through the warmth of the interiors contrasted with the hostility of human relationships, this film opts for more desaturated tones, incorporating flickering neon lights that suggest a city indifferent to the horror unfolding within it. The Christmas atmosphere persists, though reimagined, with the loneliness of the festive season emerging as an emotional fissure in the protagonist.
Technique: Between the Visual and the Narrative
In terms of technique, the film adopts a more explicit approach than its predecessor, a choice that may divide audiences. Moments of horror are not confined to the implicit or suggested but occasionally become graphically disturbing. While this decision might alienate purists who appreciate Polanski’s subtlety, it also aligns with contemporary visual language, which demands striking imagery to maintain the attention of an increasingly desensitised audience.
On a sonic level, the film achieves a balance between the old and the new. The musical compositions evoke the melancholy of carols, twisted into scores that mimic the chill of a broken lullaby. Meanwhile, the environmental sounds—creaking doors, the hum of a faulty radiator—create a vivid texture reminiscent of the original, while also adding a modern dimension that avoids mere recycling.
A Confluence of Eras: Fear as Tradition
The most compelling aspect of this new entry is its ability to establish a dialogue between past and present. The patriarchal oppression, so overt in the 1960s classic, finds new ways to manifest—less obvious but equally suffocating. The protagonist faces not only an external threat but also her own internal demons, drawing a parallel with Rosemary, yet approached from a more individualistic and modern perspective.
Without revealing more of the plot, what this new instalment contributes to the legacy is a conceptual expansion: it’s not about repetition, but adaptation. The references to the classic are present, but they function more as a mirror reflecting how our collective anxieties have evolved. Christmas, which in the original film was a subtle yet persistent backdrop, here becomes a symbol of the emotional paradox defining the characters: the hope of belonging, juxtaposed with the terror of being consumed by something larger and more terrifying.
Ultimately, the film doesn’t aim to replace or surpass Polanski’s classic but rather to carve out a place alongside it, serving as a complementary piece in the puzzle of psychological horror. It is imperfect, yes, but courageous in its attempt to keep alive a myth that, like the Bramford, seems to have no intention of fading away.
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