After interviewing the principals involved in “Rosemary’s Baby,” one might conclude that the birth of Lucifer’s heir on earth was nothing more than the whimsical result of goodhearted people working inadvertently at cross purposes: a wacky snafu, a regrettable cock-up, the archetypical, well-paved road to hell. Whatever it was – and here the interviewee might shrug, wave around his or her cigarette, lean back to blow a lazy smoke ring – it certainly wasn’t their fault, “unless it’s a sin nowadays to be too much in love, too generous, too good a neighbor or spouse, or too devoted to Satan. Blame the amoral sixties zeitgeist with its permissive sex, drugs and bell-bottoms culture, or the blasphemous fads and cults of a self-indulgent Western society. Blame an entertainment industry glutted with debasement. Hell, I don’t care, just don’t blame it on me.”
Considering all the differing versions of events, they could have called the movie “Rashomon’s Baby.”
Due to previous commitments, the Prince of Damnation could not be interviewed, but issued the following statement: “On the evening of October 4th, 1965, I was summoned to a conclave being held by a local chapter of hell-worshipers at The Bramford Apartments in New York. Upon my arrival in the usual dark, smoky, crepe-hung room filled with the customary coven of fat, naked seniors, I briefly ravished a young woman strapped down upon a desecrated altar, deposited my unholy seed, and then, after working the crowd for a few minutes, departed for my next appointment. Bing bang boom, exactly like a million other press-the-flesh events. Not being much of a moviegoer, I did not recognize Ms. Farrow, nor did I have any reason to suspect her participation to be anything but willing and wholehearted, nor, indeed, that an unwelcome pregnancy might result. (After the aeons of childlessness, my urologist said I was sterile, something to do with my underwear being too tight.) Despite the fact that it was I who had been manipulated, I acknowledged the mongrel brat as my own and paid such support as stipulated by the Municipal Court. No one regrets the resulting media circus more than me, but in light of the circumstances, I find it absurd to be blamed for Ms. Farrow’s subsequent divorce from Mr. Sinatra, her later unpleasantness with Mr. Allen, or the upcoming thousand year Reign of Hell on earth. And now I wish for nothing more than to be left in peace.”
The White House confirmed that the President is against marriage between women and demonic incubi, but does not oppose civil unions or temporary possessions. President Bush has been quoted as saying that “the Church of Shaitan is filled with good folk, people of faith, patriotic Americans whose votes I’d be proud to receive in November.”
The following is an excerpt from a 1980’s interview with John Cassavettes. Before becoming a famous director, Mr. Cassavettes played the role of Ms. Farrow’s spouse in “Rosemary’s Baby:” “Look, you want to crucify somebody, ok, go ahead and crucify me. I mean, it’s always the husband’s fault, right? It doesn’t matter that at the time the film was made, I was hustling my ass off, barely scraping by on a few lousy, waterbed-emporium commercials, or that though Mia wouldn’t consider working herself – oh no, certainly not – she still wanted the big, fancy apartment, the expensive clothes and extravagant evenings out on the town. And, of course, the nagging and whining for a baby never stopped. Well, maybe I wasn’t ready to have a baby, maybe I needed to focus on my art right then. So, anyway, when the Castavets, the elderly Satanists next door, made their pitch to have Old Bogy impregnate Mia, I thought, ‘Christ, this is too good to be true.’ Mia gets her damned baby, the Castavets gets their Antichrist, and I get a little, well-deserved voodoo to nudge along a floundering career. Everybody wins. Plus I’m off the hook for any child support down the road, cause any blood test will show the kid ain’t mine! Ok, granted, the details are a little grotesque: drugging, stripping and strapping Mia down, the blood sprinkling, the chanting, and other macabre mumbo jumbo. And, honestly, watching my wife being shtupped by the big scaly dude – stinking of sulfur and ugly as sin – was a bit hard to take. Frankly, it put me off my meat, if you know what I mean. What? Yeah, sure, there were also the rival actor who was blinded by the black arts, the girl disemboweled and thrown off the roof, and the murder of Mia’s best friend, Hutch. But look, I’m not sure where you come from, paisán, but in the Big Apple, you’re not going to make it without breaking a few eggs. Anyway, everything turned to shit, and – surprise, surprise – Mia blamed it all on me.”
Ms. Farrow declined to be interviewed. Her publicist said that it had been “a very traumatic time,” and that, like any mother, her client “missed the little devil terribly.” The actress also "regretted" the “naked, living-room-floor sex scene,” initiated with her now legendary line, “Hey, let’s make love!” Under questioning, the spokeswoman confirmed that Ms. Farrow and Mr. Beelzebub have not reconciled in the forty years since the events in question: “The Beast never writes, never calls.”
Roman Castavet, aging hipster and self-styled "Grand Poobah of Belial," was unrepentant to the end (“Can you dig it? God is dead! Let’s party with the Fiend!”), and burned at the stake not long after the events in question during an uneasy period of neighborhood gentrification. Ruth Gordon, who played Mr. Castavet’s better half, Minnie, committed suicide a few years later during the movie “Harold & Maude.” Friends suggest she never really forgave herself for her small part in the unhallowed proceedings. (She put the roofie in Mia’s chocolate mousse, helped tie her down and then filmed the proceedings for an NBC sitcom that never got off the ground.)
And who got lost in the box-office numbers, the excuses, the finger pointing, the Pilate-like washing of hands? Only the accursed, little monster with the velvety horn buds, cloven hooves and flat, dead, yellow eyes of a goat (“his father’s eyes”). Once the Academy Awards were over, he disappeared into the sad, twilight world of the unwanted demon-child. But wherever he ended up, he couldn’t have had an easy time of it in the high school lavatory and locker room. And that can twist a fellow. Believe me, I know.
By Henry E. Panky
A Roaring Possum Among Humorists
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