Mike Flanagan‘s Carrie is a gentle, alluring take that finally lets us meet the title character. This time, for a new generation. Which is fitting, as Flanagan is one of the greatest horror storytellers of our time.
When you’re adapting work such as this, it can be hard to accommodate, especially for us long time fans (constant readers), But, it handles Stephen King‘s original work with genuine care while moving it into our modern world. It may not deliver the horror of Brian De Palma‘s incredible film or of the novel, but it ruminates on the tragedy and the pain, and it always brings us back to Carrie and the people around her. It’s a deeply felt foray that only someone like Flanagan could pull off.
I respect the lengths this goes to. His is clearly driven by a deep love for King‘s work, and he builds on one of the author’s shortest novels with careful, creative ease. The novel thrived on its gaps, the things we never learn, and for many readers that was enough. Flanagan breaks down those walls, extending the origin by creating and expanding within the cracks.
Turning Carrie into a series, the first of its kind despite several previous adaptations (De Palma‘s gets plenty of nods along the way), is a bold step forward. We’ve usually seen this story through other people’s perceptions and its big, inescapable moments and the tales told over time in the community. This version takes in the smaller ones: the slow build, the histories behind the characters, the why and the how, the small details that add up to a choice. Albeit: a bad one. But nonetheless, a choice, or… to be clearer: choices.
It builds lore, motive and, most importantly, a human story, even when it’s supernatural.
“People love to see a woman fall.”
The longer format allows a deeper exploration of these people. It strips away our preconceptions and asks us to accept that everyone has a story, whether parent, child or bully. Nobody in this town is born cruel. Cruelty is built, one fear, one pressure, one small choice at a time, and Flanagan takes the time to show us the construction.
At its core, Carrie has always been a tale of youth, femininity and the cruelty of others. It’s about learning who you are while the world judges you, and regardless of the era, that still sticks. But Flanagan‘s Carrie is thrust into an even harsher reality: metal detectors, active-shooter drills, and the power and terror of the internet. The modern setting changes the physics of her isolation. Bullying isn’t confined to the locker room anymore; it’s a 24/7 digital claustrophobia that follows her behind closed doors. Her telekinetic outbursts work beautifully as a visceral reaction to a world where she’s constantly tracked, filmed and trapped. That it still feels so relatable is the triumph here. This isn’t a story bound to its time. It can evolve and grow because it’s universal.
The series doesn’t dive into the horror as much, and that’s okay. When you understand how a “monster” is made, some of that fear naturally falls away, and something sadder takes its place. It’s what Guillermo del Toro does so well: humanity can be the monstrous.
Flanagan has a real talent for human emotion and connection; he thrives on it. I loved Carrie for some many reasons but one in particular is the moment where the guidance counselor and her are quoting books back and forth. It may seem small, but it speaks volumes, and so much of this show works that way: minimal, seemingly minor moments that build into something resonant.
“Carrie is a child.”
Extending limited source material means embellishment. Things get stretched and changed; that’s the creator’s stamp. We all carry our own internal adaptations of what we read, and in bringing his to life, Flanagan leans into the edges of the narrative, the places we only assume we know. Building on the documentary-style framework of King’s novel, he expands the supernatural blueprint. The cold opens, which show other women throughout history experiencing similar telekinetic awakenings, are a masterful touch. They also let Kate Siegel narrate as a kind of bookend, which was a lovely touch.
They prove that Carrie isn’t an isolated anomaly; she’s potentially part of a tragic, generational lineage. That makes the lore feel far larger while keeping her deeply human story at the center.
The series also paints a painfully detailed picture of high school from a complete outsider’s perspective. It’s refreshing and terrifying at once, stirring childhood fear and adult regret equally well. We get to know the adults and teens alike: everyone is complicated, and no one is immune to pain. This adaptation yearns for understanding as much as redemption and… of course, revenge.
And there’s plenty of that.
Its take on social media and our current societal stressors is especially sharp. We’re all aware of the brutal potential of the digital age, but set within the framework of King‘s novel, it’s a perfect, timely fit. The music is equally on point, driving a fury and passion that’s never overt, only felt.
Ultimately, the series brings a humanity to Carrie White that feels new. She was always understandable and sympathetic, but, also quite scary. Here she’s fully defined, even in her darkest moments.
The story builds carefully through the surrounding community, stringing together events and reactions that make the final disaster feel all the more inevitable. And seen.
Flanagan‘s ability to craft not just a moment but a feeling is unmatched. A fog builds over every interaction, adding to an all-encompassing unease. He’s remarkably effective at giving King‘s work visual life, unraveling this story in a way that’s both unique and authentic.
What an Ensemble Cast
The series is a fantastic showcase for new and seasoned talent alike. Many of his regular players are here, but several newcomers leave a lasting mark.
The performances are phenomenal. Newcomer Summer H. Howell is perfect and truly riveting as Carrie. Sissy Spacek is hard to rival, and Howell’s performance is both connected to and distinct from the character we know, in the best possible way.
Samantha Sloyan is also astounding as Carrie’s insufferable mother, Margaret. She was one of the biggest and best surprises here. What makes her Margaret so terrifying isn’t just religious mania but how Flanagan filters her abuse through a distorted sense of maternal protection and societal miscomprehension. The horror isn’t born of pure malice but of a desperate, warped need to shield her daughter from a cruel world. It grounds their dynamic in an intergenerational trauma that makes their inevitable collision all the more devastating. It’s anything but a simple portrayal, and the slow burn is masterfully executed. She truly deserves an Emmy.
Early in episode two, someone says, “Everyone’s worth a story.” I believe that to my bones, and I see it realized here. That’s why we keep coming back to movies and television and literature.
This story is relevant and important. Even the “villains” are more tragic than villainous. Margaret is the clearest example, but she isn’t the only one. The show recognizes the humanity that leads people into cruelty, and it never lets us forget that someone taught them how.
The supporting cast gives the town real weight. Matthew Lillard (please more of these for him) is utterly fantastic as the principal, and it’s refreshing to see him in this kind of role. Amber Midthunder is equally compelling and perfectly cast. Siena Agudong is incredible as Sue Snell; I loved her perspective, her instincts and the natural connection she forms with Carrie. Alison Thornton plays Chris Hargensen with a sharp edge, and Arthur Conti brings equal malice to her boyfriend, Billy Nolan. They’re villains, no question. But the show gives Chris real opportunities for understanding, moments where she could choose differently. That she doesn’t is what makes her cruelty so unsettling: it’s a choice, not a given. Rahul Kohli, a common Flanagan collaborator, is also exceptional. Thalia Dudek, in her mysterious role is also mesmerizing. Each character plays a part and they are so vital to its message.
An underlying terror builds throughout, fed by time, ache and our current culture. It’s sinister in a curious way, and no episode felt like it dragged or was unnecessary. I was entirely enthralled, anticipating the next. And the assortment of female directors taking on episodes? Brava.
“It Can Manifest in Many Number of Ways.”
This isn’t a simple retelling steeped only in blood and cruelty. It’s a nuanced exploration that touches on human beauty as much as ugliness, and love as much as hate, and how easily one curdles into the other. Howell and Sloyan are the standouts, with visceral performances meant to leave us transfixed and transformed.
With Stephen King himself serving as an executive producer, Flanagan proves once again that he’s a worthy keeper and interpreter of King‘s sacred crypt.
And damn, the easter eggs rock.
A lot has changed, and some viewers may be put off by the biggest departures. It may not revel in horror the way the novel or De Palma‘s film does, but it creates a world and, most importantly, a girl. You can love all the variations, and I think you should. They’re just different shades of a singular bleed. And this one is very Carrie.
I loved to love to fear it.
Carrie is currently streaming on Amazon Prime.
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