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Son of Rosemary: The Second Worst Sequel Book I’ve Ever Read
Fiction Affliction #5: Son of Rosemary, by Ira Levin
A novelist’s career is a strange thing. You can have “it” for a number of years/books, and then suddenly lose “it.” Maybe sometime later you get “it” back. Or maybe you never get “it” again.
What is “it” exactly? The good stuff. The spark. Creative synergy. Your finger on the pulse of the zeitgeist. The muse’s lips whsipering in your ear. Austin Power’s mojo.
You know, “it.”
Whatever “it” is, Ira Levin had it in abundance for the first half of his career. Starting with his global best-sellerA Kiss Before Dying. A book he wrote when he was all of 24. Then his play Deathtrap, which became the longest running thriller in Broadway history. His book Rosemary’s Baby became a smash sensation. He followed that up with classics The Boys from Brazil and The Stepford Wives. And cemented his legacy with This Perfect Day, a dystopian novel which I’ve written about previously.
The man had “it” in abundance. Everything he wrote turned to gold, or became household vernacular. To be a “Stepford Wife” meant to be a compliant Barbie doll, a terrifying prospect for any self-respecting feminist.
