Photograph via Reddit
Few stories in horror are as iconic as Stephen King’s Carrie. The image of Carrie White, drenched in blood on prom night, has haunted popular culture for decades, inspiring countless parodies from The Simpsons to Adam Sandler. Now, acclaimed horror director Mike Flanagan brings his own vision to King’s classic with a new eight-part series on Prime Video. For the first time since Brian De Palma’s 1976 film, an adaptation has arrived that truly stands alongside the original.
Flanagan’s adaptation succeeds by tapping into what has made King’s story resonate for nearly fifty years. Beneath the supernatural horror and infamous bloodshed, Carrie is ultimately an intimate and unsettling exploration of womanhood and the tumultuous transition to adulthood. The series magnifies a universal fear: that growing up, especially as a young woman, is often met with punishment and scrutiny. Flanagan invites viewers to confront why this narrative captivates us, urging reflection on our collective fascination with Carrie’s downfall.
The fear begins almost immediately. In the iconic opening scene of King’s novel,
In one of the novel’s most harrowing moments, Carrie experiences her first period in her high school locker room—completely unprepared due to her mother’s religious fanaticism. Her mother refers to menstruation as the “curse of blood,” a mark of sin and supposed promiscuity. As Carrie panics, convinced she is dying, her classmates torment her, pelting her with sanitary products and chanting “plug it up.” The cruelty of the scene is shocking, yet its emotional core is universally understood.
Carrie (2026), Prime Video.
A 1975 study by Lynn Whisnant and Leonard Zegans, published just a year after King’s novel, explored the expectations and realities of menarche—the onset of a girl’s first period. The researchers noted, “We prescribe no ritual; the girl continues on a round of school or work, but she is constantly confronted by a mysterious apprehensiveness on the part of her parents and guardians.” Many girls likened menarche to a cut or wound. Carrie’s terror in the locker room powerfully embodies these findings, as she interprets the blood as a sign of mortal danger.
This pivotal moment signals the start of Carrie’s tragic journey. To her mother, Carrie’s period is evidence of monstrous transformation; to her classmates, it’s fuel for relentless bullying over her shyness and supposed strangeness. Although Carrie is seemingly set up to fail, King empowers her: coming of age is not just about menarche, but about discovering telekinesis and, with it, agency. Both De Palma and Flanagan depict her growing independence, as Carrie distances herself from her oppressive mother and glimpses hope for a better future.
De Palma’s film depicts Tommy Ross inviting Carrie to prom at the behest of his girlfriend, Sue, who’s wracked with guilt over Carrie’s mistreatment. Flanagan, however, reimagines Tommy as genuinely kind—he asks Carrie out sincerely, assuring her, “I didn’t ask you out of charity.” This significant departure from the original narrative lends greater authenticity and emotional weight to their relationship.
Carrie (1976), United Artists.
Carrie’s burgeoning friendship with Tommy, her newfound assertiveness with her mother, and the expulsion of mean-girl Chris Hargensen collectively foster a sense of hope. Yet, this optimism only heightens the tragedy. Despite her growth and the acceptance she finally receives—standing as prom queen, radiant and wanted—her fate is sealed. The dreamlike, almost surreal, prom scene is shattered as Chris exacts her revenge, dousing Carrie in pig’s blood. The moment quickly descends from stunned silence to ridicule as the entire gym erupts in laughter, cementing Carrie’s humiliation.
The true tragedy of Carrie is cyclical: no matter how much she achieves, she is always pulled back to the same place of public humiliation and despair. Her efforts and triumphs collapse in an instant, exposing her to the ridicule of her peers. De Palma’s film leans into this horror, visually amplifying Carrie’s anguish as her mother’s taunting words—“they’re all gonna laugh at you!”—echo in her mind. Overwhelmed, Carrie unleashes her powers, turning the gymnasium into a scene of chaos and destruction before stumbling home, traumatized.
Flanagan’s adaptation introduces a new layer of tragedy. Here, the destruction at prom is not wholly Carrie’s doing; instead, a sinister shadow—an external malevolent force—possesses her at the height of her rage. This entity manipulates her powers, making the devastation feel both inevitable and out of her control. It’s only after Carrie kills Hargensen that she regains awareness, horrified by her actions. While this shift makes Carrie more sympathetic, it also strips her of the agency she fought so hard to claim throughout the series.
Carrie (2026), Prime Video.
In both adaptations, Carrie’s rampage ends with her desperate return home, seeking comfort from her mother. Margaret White initially offers solace and urges Carrie to pray for forgiveness, but in a shocking turn, she attacks her daughter. In self-defense, Carrie kills her mother, a final act that breaks her spirit. Overcome by grief, Carrie uses her powers to bring the house down, dying as she clings to her mother’s body—an ending as haunting as it is inevitable.
At its core, Carrie is not just a horror story but a poignant tragedy—a dramatized, yet painfully recognizable, tale of coming of age as a young woman. Carrie’s journey begins and ends in blood, with her powers manifesting alongside her first period, as though her very transformation is what makes her dangerous. These powers grant her agency, allowing her to rise above her circumstances. Flanagan’s adaptation is the most empathetic yet, offering depth and complexity to nearly every character. His Carrie is not a pitiable victim, but a relatable, kind, and strong young woman. This makes her downfall all the more heartbreaking, as her hard-won sense of belonging is so cruelly ripped away.
“People love to watch a woman fall,” observes the narrator in Flanagan’s series. When the blood pours down, we, the viewers, are complicit—silent witnesses to her humiliation. We may not participate in the laughter or the cruelty, but we do not turn away. For five decades, Carrie’s lowest moment has become a cultural touchstone, immortalized in costumes and jokes. Flanagan’s series, while not flawless, forces us to reckon with that complicity. By inviting us to truly know Carrie before her fall, he transforms our experience from passive spectatorship to genuine empathy.
