B

Mike Flanagan’s darker, riskier Carrie adaptation takes a few too many detours

Summer H. Howell and Samantha Sloyan lead an unsettling horror series that soars—until its dubious end.

Mike Flanagan’s darker, riskier Carrie adaptation takes a few too many detours

The teen protagonist of Prime Video’s Carrie is quite different from that of its source material. Creator Mike Flanagan still envisions Carietta “Carrie” White as an oddball outsider—but unlike in Stephen King’s seminal 1974 novel or Brian De Palma’s 1976 film adaptation, this doesn’t stem from Carrie being bullied at school or emotionally abused at home. In Flanagan’s telling, she’s a doe-eyed, earnest, candid girl yearning to become her own person. After being stuck inside her Chamberlain, ME, home for her entire life, Carrie attends Ewen High, makes friends and enemies, develops hobbies (she loves computers!), attends a party, gets high, and learns about the pitfalls of Instagram. It’s an early sign that Flanagan isn’t remaking a classic, but rather giving Carrie a modern makeover befitting our digital age and proving the enduring themes of King’s book.  

Flanagan successfully brings his signature flair—moving soliloquies, slow-building psychological dread, vivid imagery, a few jump scares, additional literary inspirations—to this series, his third project based on a King story after Gerald’s Game, Doctor Sleep, and The Life Of Chuck. Carrie relentlessly portrays teenage anxieties, bullying, and institutional oppression (consider this a trigger warning) because they remain as relevant to today’s kids as they did to those of half a century ago—perhaps more so due to the internet. Naturally, one of the biggest horrors for this Carrie the corrosive influence of social media. Think of the series as Gossip Girl meets X-Men, with hints of other King works like The Institute and Firestarter that could help extend the series’ run to multiple seasons—a move that robs Carrie of its singular coming-of-ages motifs to become something else entirely. 

Still, in season one, Carrie is wisely given more dimensions—and she’s not alone in this. Her fanatically religious mother, Margaret (Samantha Sloyan, close to reaching her Midnight Mass levels of excellence here), gets a rich arc that allows the writers to dig into why she behaves so venomously at times. Margaret actually shares a surprisingly close bond with Carrie; in the show, their kinship is both strengthened and threatened after White family patriarch Ralph (Tahmoh Penikett) dies in the opening minutes of the first episode. Left without income or life insurance, Margaret and Carrie are forced to venture outside for the first time in 15 years—Margaret gets a job she loathes at a supermarket, while Carrie enrolls in a school that she approaches with a totally open heart. 

Carrie’s affection for new pals like Sue Snell (Siena Agudong) and Emaline West (Thalia Dudek), and helpful teachers like Rita Desjardin (Amber Midthunder) derails her complicated, tight-knit bond with Margaret, who can’t fathom why her teen must learn about school shootings, sex education, or menstruation—Flanagan and team make a lot of changes, but they keep the traumatizing event of an uninformed Carrie getting her first period in the girls’ locker room. It partly leads to frequently entertaining clashes between a stone-faced, determined Margaret (who also turns to social media to boost her agenda) and a wisecracking high-school principal (played by Matthew Lillard). At the same time, Carrie is exposed to more cruelty in the form of targeted harassment from incensed classmate Christine “Chris” Hargensen (Alison Thornton) and a gossipy Deuxmoi-esque account posting under Carrie’s name that leads to disastrous consequences even before an ill-fated prom night. 

So much of this is a departure from the novel, which runs a tightly paced 200 or so pages. To fill out the space of eight 45-minute episodes, the writers invent subplots for supporting characters; Some of them add meaningful twists, like Chris’ dire family history that turn her from a ruthless mean girl to a complex teen (who still can’t stop making awful choices!), or Rita’s relationship with fellow teacher Seth Peist (Rahul Kohli). Then there’s the telekinesis of it all. Carrie’s powers turn her into a Jean Grey type of character, someone who could use (and gets guidance from) a surprising source. While poignant—and a worthwhile setup for season two—this addition disappointingly takes away from Carrie’s agency in major moments. 

Carrie strikes a chord because the growing pains of adolescence—along with concepts of social isolation, peer pressure, bodily autonomy, and that feeling of otherness—are timeless,. The show filters all of this through Flanagan’s increasingly familiar but still evocative lens: grief haunts the narrative like it did in The Haunting Of Hill House and Bly Manor, as does the idea of intergenerational and communal trauma as seen in Midnight Mass, The Midnight Club, and The Fall Of The House Of Usher. It may drag in a few patches, but the creator sure knows how to make use of the episodic format, even for a brisk tale like Carrie.

Another connective thread is the reliable ensemble (including Kate Siegel, Michael Trucco, and Flanaverse newcomers like Tim Bagley), as well as the crew, notably cinematographer Michael Fimognari; the duo’s use of negative space once again helps build a slow-burn suspense. But Sloyan and Howell remain hypnotic anchors, especially the latter—Howell will make you feel the urge to wrap Carrie White in a hug to shield her (until she ignites a deadly blaze, of course). Even if Carrie stumbles along the way, it at least makes a solid case for why today’s generation could use a drama like this one. It also confirms, mostly for the better and sometimes for the worse, that Mike Flanagan and Stephen King remain a storyteller match made in heaven. 

Saloni Gajjar is The A.V. Club‘s TV critic. 

Carrie premieres October 7 on Prime Video.

 
Join the discussion...
Keep scrolling for more great stories.