Why Revisit Carrie? Mike Flanagan’s Bold Gamble and Its Uneven Payoff
When I first heard about Mike Flanagan’s Carrie series, my initial reaction mirrored his own: “Why?” It’s a question that lingers throughout the show, not just as a critique but as a challenge. Carrie is one of those stories so deeply embedded in pop culture that its imagery—the blood-soaked prom dress, the telekinetic wrath—feels almost untouchable. Brian De Palma’s 1976 film is a masterpiece, and every subsequent adaptation has struggled to escape its shadow. So, what makes Flanagan think he can succeed where others have faltered?
Personally, I think the answer lies in Flanagan’s willingness to take risks. His track record with The Haunting of Hill House and Midnight Mass proves he’s not afraid to reimagine familiar stories. But Carrie is different. It’s not just a horror icon; it’s a cultural touchstone. What makes this particularly fascinating is Flanagan’s decision to expand the narrative, not just retell it. He’s not content with the “why”—he’s obsessed with the “how” and the “what if.”
A Fresh Take on a Familiar Tale
One thing that immediately stands out is Flanagan’s approach to Carrie White herself. Summer H. Howell’s portrayal is less of a victim and more of a fragile, blossoming figure. This Carrie isn’t defined by years of torment; she’s a blank slate, radiating an innocence that feels almost otherworldly. It’s a bold choice, one that shifts the focus from her inevitable breakdown to her potential for joy. What many people don’t realize is that this reinterpretation humanizes Carrie in a way previous versions haven’t. She’s not just a vessel for rage; she’s a girl who could have thrived under different circumstances.
Margaret White, too, gets a nuanced makeover. Samantha Sloyan’s performance strips away the caricature of the religious fanatic and replaces it with a woman driven by fear, love, and a twisted sense of protection. Her paranoia isn’t just religious zealotry; it’s a symptom of a deeper, more complicated trauma. This raises a deeper question: What does it mean to love someone when your love is rooted in control?
The Toxicity of Chamberlain: A Microcosm of Modern Society
Flanagan’s Chamberlain isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a character in its own right. The town’s unease predates Carrie’s arrival, and its toxicity is amplified by the lens of social media. Chris Hargensen’s Instagram account isn’t just a plot device—it’s a commentary on the way we weaponize platforms to tear each other down. Alison Thornton’s Chris is a standout, not just for her cruelty but for the vulnerability that drives it. She’s a bully, yes, but she’s also a victim of her own insecurities.
What this really suggests is that Flanagan isn’t just retelling Carrie; he’s using it to explore broader themes of isolation, power, and the cost of cruelty. The show’s vignettes about historical women with extraordinary abilities feel like a stretch, though. While they aim to contextualize Carrie’s story, they often come across as disjointed and unnecessary. If you take a step back and think about it, these additions feel more like a distraction than a deepening of the narrative.
The Emotional Core: Where Carrie Shines
Where the series truly excels is in its emotional arcs. The relationships between Carrie, Sue, Chris, and Margaret are raw and authentic. Siena Agudong’s Sue is the heart of the show, a character grappling with guilt and the realization that her actions have consequences. Josie Totah’s Tina, meanwhile, is a revelation—a character who oscillates between comic relief and chilling malice.
The prom scene, while inevitable, feels almost anticlimactic after the emotional buildup. Flanagan’s choice to focus on the characters’ journeys rather than the spectacle pays off, but it also leaves the finale feeling somewhat rushed. This raises a deeper question: Did Flanagan bite off more than he could chew? His ambition to expand the story is admirable, but it sometimes comes at the expense of cohesion.
The Bigger Picture: Carrie in 2026
From my perspective, Flanagan’s Carrie is both a triumph and a missed opportunity. It’s a show that dares to ask why we keep returning to this story, even as it struggles to justify its own existence. The performances are stellar, the emotional beats are powerful, and the commentary on modern toxicity is timely. But the narrative sprawl and uneven pacing make it feel like a work in progress rather than a complete vision.
What makes this particularly fascinating is Flanagan’s suggestion that Carrie’s powers aren’t just fueled by rage but by joy. It’s a detail that I find especially interesting—a reminder that even in darkness, there’s potential for light. But it also feels like a missed opportunity, a theme that could have been explored more deeply if the show hadn’t been so preoccupied with its own expansion.
Final Thoughts: A Worthy Attempt, but Not a Home Run
In the end, Flanagan’s Carrie is a show that demands to be seen, if only for its ambition. It’s not perfect, but it’s never boring. Personally, I think it’s a testament to Flanagan’s talent that he can take a story as well-worn as Carrie and make it feel fresh. But it’s also a reminder that sometimes, less is more. If Flanagan’s dream of three seasons comes to fruition, I hope he takes the time to refine his vision. Because as it stands, Carrie has power—it just doesn’t quite stick the landing.
All episodes of Carrie hit Prime Video on October 7. If you’re a Flanagan fan, it’s a must-watch. Just don’t expect it to replace De Palma’s version in your heart. Some classics are untouchable, and maybe that’s okay.
