Rosemary's Caveman

 

On slow nights when Ms. Muse and I are not taking dance lessons in Pasadena or closing down the Buc in bucolic, but sometimes rollicking, Sierra Madre, we will stream a movie. Can't say I'm hep to all the new releases coming out, but have always considered myself up to snuff on movies of my era.

Turns out I was wrong. 

When she found out I had never seen Rosemary's Baby, the decision of what to watch that night had instantly been made. It should be noted I've never been a fan of horror movies. But I do fancy films that have dark undercurrents, especially when they are related to Satan and/or religion. 

There's something intriguing about tales of evil and their attribution to some god-like figure who rules the Underworld. I can't figure out how the mapless, goat-herders of 3000 years ago squared the circle when they claimed God was the creator and Master of All. And yet somehow he is in a constant battle with Lucifer/Beelzebub/ Baphomet, et al. Who, apparently he cannot slay with exhalation of of his lordly omnipotent nostrils.

Nevertheless, the movie is considered a classic and it was directed by fellow landsman Roman Polanski. So we gave it a shot.

And I actually found it interesting. The acting was a bit broad, yeah I'm looking at you Ruth Gordon, but the movie had slyly captured the feel and grit of NYC in the 60s/70s. I particularly enjoyed the non-linear psychotic dream sequences, which were both freaky and had a certain student film motif about them.

As the end credits rolled, I found myself pleasantly surprised. I don't know why it had taken me that long to sit down and cross this one off my must-see movies list. But I did. And then quickly found myself checking out Polanski's filmography, where I discovered he had also directed The Ninth Gate. 

Another satanic movie that I had seen a long time ago. It starred Johnny Depp, the pretentious self important actor/spokesperson for Savage cologne. According to Rotten Tomatoes, it has a 43% rating. 

Not good.

That got me wondering. How, I wondered, could an accomplished film director who gave us iconic films like Rosemary's Baby, The Pianist, and Chinatown, put out a such drek.

Then I had a pre-milleneum flashback. And the time our client, homestore.com, flush with embezzled cash from their shareholders, commanded us to make a 60-second Super Bowl epic spot with Joe Pytka. Literally. 

"If you want to make your stupid little documentary about people living in weird homes, you've got to give us something we can get buzz about."

And so we did. 

I don't blame Pytka at all, but it was not his best work. Mostly because it was not ours. The script sucked. And was uneven. And contrived, at best.

Thankfully, no one saw it. Or will remember it.

Not even the Internet.

Maybe the 8 sad people who still read Ad Age.