"Apartment 7A" serves as a sort of haunting prologue to the iconic chiller "Rosemary's Baby," a cinematic masterpiece that still chills spines with its depiction of the ultimate loss of bodily autonomy. Set in the fictional enclave of Bramford, a sprawling Manhattan apartment block shrouded in mystery and whispers of demonic worship, the 1968 horror classic introduced viewers to Guy and Rosemary Woodhouse (portrayed by John Cassavetes and Mia Farrow), a fresh-faced couple who stumbled upon a troubled soul in their laundry room – Terry Gionoffrio. And in "Apartment 7A," we delve into the untold tale of this enigmatic woman.
Julia Garner, a consistent standout, embodies Terry, a Nebraska native with stars in her eyes who ventured to the bright lights of New York City, dreaming of her name illuminating a Broadway marquee. Her aspirations as a dancer, however, are cruelly dashed when a catastrophic onstage injury sidelines her career and labels her as "the girl who fell." Months later, desperation drives her back into the fray, only to stumble at an audition for a glittering new show helmed by Broadway producer Alan Marchand (Jim Sturgess).
With her back against the wall, Terry turns to the Bramford, where Marchand resides. Her encounter with him falls flat, but fate intervenes in the form of Roman and Minnie Castevet (Kevin McNally and Dianne Wiest), an odd yet benevolent elderly couple offering her a sanctuary in their vacant apartment – a temporary haven until she can reclaim her footing.
From this point on, the narrative trajectory becomes all too familiar, particularly for those who've traversed the labyrinthine halls of "Rosemary's Baby." The two films intertwine in eerie familiarity, their narratives mirroring each other to a degree that robs "Apartment 7A" of its potential for novelty. For most viewers, the endgame is already etched in stone, as characters from the original film reappear, their fates predetermined. The screenplay, crafted by Natalie Erika James, Christian White, and Skylar James, struggles to introduce fresh horrors or unexpected twists.
This is where "Apartment 7A" stumbles. Despite Natalie Erika James' competent direction, which imbues the film with a passable sense of unease, it fails to fulfill the promise of a captivating prequel. A successful prequel illuminates new facets of its predecessor, expanding our understanding or complicating the narrative. Instead, "Apartment 7A" feels like a rote replay, its conceptual core equally predictable.
While "Rosemary's Baby" garnered fame for its Satanic underpinnings and the specter of a devil's child, its true brilliance lay in the fundamental terror of inhabiting a young, fertile female body. The constant scrutiny, control, and dismissal of women's feelings – particularly during pregnancy – formed the crux of its chilling narrative. For much of the film, Rosemary grappled with the question of whether her paranoia was mere imagination or a genuine threat. Was she surrounded by conspirators, or was it merely the turmoil of hormones? Was she just another hysterical woman?
These same fundamental queries drive "Apartment 7A," albeit with a contemporary spin on women's ambition and the stigma of abortion. Terry endures countless absurdities – the intrusive Castevets, bizarre occurrences, and unsettling noises in the night – fueled by her relentless pursuit of success and a seasoned resilience forged in the cutthroat world of show business.
Yet, the film lacks the spark to transcend its predecessor, offering little in terms of surprise or delight. It's as if "Rosemary's Baby" has been repackaged for a solo career-driven heroine, with the end result feeling more like a rehash than a fresh exploration.
