I read Carrie by Stephen King a long time ago, when I was still young. And the Carrie I remember was delicate, insecure, timid — a quiet girl, crushed by her fanatical mother and mocked by those around her. Her powers weren’t a sign of strength, but an expression of deep, buried pain.
The image I see now — a blood-soaked warrior, determined, almost like a female Sylvester Stallone — has little to do with that character. It feels like a complete misunderstanding of the story.
Carrie wasn’t an action hero. She was a tragedy.
