INTRODUCTION: BLOOD, ANGST, AND A PROM TO FORGET
There are few films as enshrined in the horror canon as Carrie (1976), Brian De Palma’s adaptation of Stephen King’s debut novel. It’s often credited as a masterpiece of psychological horror, a landmark teen tragedy, and a breakthrough for several actors, particularly Sissy Spacek. And for a certain kind of viewer—those who saw it at the right age, under the right conditions—Carrie still packs a punch. But upon rewatching this once-revered film decades later, it’s hard not to feel that it has aged poorly, with uneven performances, blunt metaphors, and an aesthetic that now feels more campy than chilling.
Carrie isn’t a bad film, but it is an overrated one. It’s a movie that feels unsure of its tone, heavy-handed in its themes, and haphazard in its execution. Beneath its prom-night climax and buckets of pig’s blood lies a story that could have been more—more psychologically layered, more nuanced in its depiction of trauma, more daring in its treatment of revenge. Instead, Carrie coasts on spectacle and stylization, offering a film that feels more like a director’s showcase reel than a cohesive emotional narrative.
THE PLOT: FROM GYM SHOWERS TO MASS MURDER
Carrie White (Sissy Spacek) is a shy, socially awkward high school girl living under the oppressive rule of her fanatically religious mother Margaret (Piper Laurie). Carrie is an outcast—teased by her classmates, emotionally and physically abused at home, and oblivious to basic biological facts (her period, which kicks off the plot, is treated like a Lovecraftian horror).
When Carrie begins to develop telekinetic powers, it’s not framed as a curious discovery or a metaphor for female power—at least not consistently. Her powers are underwritten until they’re suddenly needed for a third-act slaughter. Meanwhile, Sue Snell (Amy Irving), a remorseful popular girl, persuades her boyfriend Tommy Ross (William Katt) to take Carrie to the prom in an attempt to make amends. But another group of students, led by the cruel Chris (Nancy Allen) and her dopey boyfriend Billy Nolan (John Travolta), plot to humiliate Carrie by dumping pig’s blood on her during the prom.
This leads to one of the most famous scenes in horror history: Carrie, soaked in blood, snapping emotionally and psychically, unleashes destruction upon her classmates and school with telekinetic fury. It’s a moment meant to be terrifying and tragic, but in retrospect, it’s also over-the-top and tonally discordant.
SISSY SPACEK: HAUNTED BUT HOLLOW
Sissy Spacek’s performance as Carrie White is often praised as the film’s emotional anchor. She plays the character with wide-eyed vulnerability, her pale face and spindly frame creating a striking visual metaphor for innocence corrupted. But Spacek’s interpretation veers so far into vacant submission that she becomes difficult to connect with. She’s not so much a person as she is a symbol, a vessel for pain who rarely fights back in any emotionally meaningful way.
Carrie is a passive protagonist, even as the world crumbles around her. Her telekinesis—meant to be a metaphor for repressed rage or latent power—is barely developed. It flickers on and off like a malfunctioning special effect. She moves objects with her mind, yes, but we rarely see her feel anything about that. There’s no arc of self-discovery, no real exploration of empowerment. The closest the film comes to showing Carrie enjoy her powers is when she practices in front of a mirror—and even that feels restrained, as though De Palma is afraid to let her smile too long.
By the time the prom massacre arrives, we’re meant to see her transformation into a vengeful force as both tragic and justified. But it feels more like a director showing off his split-screen chops than a moment of emotional catharsis.
PIPER LAURIE: MOTHER, MONSTER, MELODRAMA
If Spacek is a little too restrained, Piper Laurie goes entirely in the opposite direction. As Margaret White, she delivers a performance so drenched in theatricality it borders on self-parody. Whether she’s rambling about “dirty pillows” or wielding a butcher knife in a white nightgown, Laurie plays Margaret as a cartoon of religious mania rather than a believable character.
That’s not to say she isn’t entertaining—she is—but every moment she’s on screen, you’re aware you’re watching actingwith a capital A. There’s no subtlety to her villainy. She’s terrifying, yes, but also ridiculous. Her monologues feel like they were lifted from an unproduced Tennessee Williams play, and her physicality—hunched, whispering, then shrieking—is more horror camp than psychological realism.
The film doesn’t explore the roots of her madness or the impact of grief, trauma, or fundamentalism in any meaningful way. Margaret isn’t a cautionary tale. She’s a walking, screaming obstacle meant to push Carrie to her breaking point.
THE SUPPORTING CAST: STICK FIGURES AND CARICATURES
The rest of the cast oscillates between barely serviceable and laughably broad. Amy Irving’s Sue Snell is well-meaning but blank—her face frozen in that earnest mid-’70s softness that says “I’m trying” without ever convincing us she’s changed. William Katt as Tommy is little more than a haircut with a tuxedo. His sudden kindness toward Carrie never fully registers. Is he doing it for Sue? Is he starting to like Carrie? Is he just going along with things? The movie doesn’t know, and neither do we.
Nancy Allen, as Chris Hargensen, plays the villain with mean-girl sass dialed up to 11. She’s more interested in looking hot and chewing gum than expressing any believable motivation. Her hatred of Carrie is never examined—it’s just a given. And John Travolta, in an early role, delivers one of the most inexplicably stupid performances in horror history. As Billy Nolan, he mumbles, drinks, and slaps Chris with such lazy enthusiasm it’s hard to tell whether he was given direction at all.
Their relationship is more cartoonish than menacing, and their eventual scheme feels contrived, even by genre standards. Dumping pig’s blood on a prom queen isn’t just cruel—it’s implausibly elaborate, relying on so many coincidental factors it becomes almost comical.
DE PALMA’S DIRECTION: STYLE OVER SUBSTANCE
Brian De Palma is nothing if not stylish. And in Carrie, that style is on full display: slow-motion sequences, disorienting camera zooms, split-screens during the prom massacre, and voyeuristic tracking shots that owe more to Hitchcock than King. At times, these flourishes are effective, especially in building unease during quieter scenes. But more often, they draw attention to themselves.
The prom sequence—while visually arresting—feels like a different movie. The split-screen technique, while novel, detracts from the horror. It turns a moment of trauma into a cinematic gimmick. And when Carrie walks out of the burning gymnasium, covered in blood and bathed in orange light, the film peaks visually but empties emotionally. It’s all shock and awe, no heart.
De Palma seems more interested in how to frame a scene than why the scene matters. He crafts memorable images but forgets to ground them in character. Even the film’s final scare—Sue’s nightmare—feels tacked on for cheap shocks, a blueprint for every lame dream-sequence ending that would follow.
THEMES: THE OBVIOUS AND THE OVERDONE
The film tries to grapple with themes of bullying, female sexuality, repression, and religious extremism—but it does so with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Carrie’s period is the inciting trauma. Her mother calls her body evil. The other girls mock her. But instead of unpacking these themes, the film presents them as superficial triggers for horror.
The message seems to be: repress a girl’s sexuality, mock her at your peril, and eventually she’ll burn everything down. That’s fine on paper, but Carrie doesn’t earn it. The film never really explores Carrie’s interiority. She’s acted upon more than she acts. Her powers don’t grow from self-understanding or rage—they just happen. There’s no complexity, no tension between revenge and remorse, no time for ambiguity.
It could have been a feminist horror story. Instead, it’s a revenge fantasy wrapped in pseudo-psychological horror, too lazy to dig deeper than “look how awful high school is.”
LEGACY: INFLATED REPUTATION, DIMINISHING RETURNS
There’s no denying Carrie’s impact on horror. It launched Sissy Spacek into stardom, revitalized interest in Stephen King’s work, and laid the groundwork for a flood of teen horror that would dominate the next two decades. But legacy isn’t the same as quality.
Upon rewatch, the film’s flaws are more glaring than its virtues. It’s not scary, it’s not particularly emotional, and it fails to deliver on the promise of its premise. It looks and feels like a B-movie wearing an A-movie costume. And the fact that it’s been remade, rebooted, and referenced countless times speaks more to its iconography than its storytelling.
CONCLUSION: CARRIE—A CROWN OF BLOOD ON SHAKY SHOULDERS
Carrie (1976) is a film with powerful moments, iconic visuals, and a legendary finale—but it’s also a clumsy, uneven narrative that squanders its potential. It mistakes spectacle for suspense, melodrama for meaning, and style for substance. Its characters are either exaggerated or empty, its themes undercooked, and its scares more theatrical than psychological.
While fans will continue to praise it for nostalgia or legacy, the film itself doesn’t hold up to scrutiny. What was once bold now feels basic. What was once shocking now feels silly. And what was once a landmark now feels like a relic.
Score: 5/10 – Iconic, yes. But ultimately a stylish disappointment with more blood than brains.
