Editorials
‘Cube’ – Surviving the Canadian Original and Its Japanese Remake [Revenge of the Remakes]
I’m thirty-plus entries into Revenge of the Remakes and have finally reached an original/remake pair where neither is American. Vincenzo Natali’s Cube (1997) is a maple-scented product of Canada’s independent filmmaking scene, while Yasuhiko Shimizu’s 2021 remake hails from Japan. You’re free of rants about stale Americanizations and Hollywood’s sometimes shortsighted approach to horror remakes. Welcome to a wholly international edition of my column that’s, in comparison, outside the box. I’m honestly surprised Japan beat us to a Cube remake in a post-Platinum Dunes world — although Bloody Disgusting’s Brad Miska reported Lionsgate was taking new Cube pitches as of May 2022. Don’t be surprised if a domestic project surfaces soon.
It’s a tale of two geometrical prisons influenced by cultural horror norms. Natali aligns with genre-bending Canadian minds like David Cronenberg, whereas Shimizu leans toward more operatic and soapy Japanese storytelling. One incorporates flashbacks that break free from the titular Cube’s containment, and the other seals characters in a meticulously measured tomb. They’re two distinct approaches, but unfortunately, in my humble opinion, one outpaces the other. Natali’s original has a serrated edge that Shimizu’s remake lacks, which is disappointingly apparent when watched in quick order.
The Approach
‘Cube’ (1997)
Shimizu and writer Koji Tokuo fixate on the Cube’s functionality and grand purpose more than Natali’s open-ended character study. Natali’s many script iterations alongside co-writers André Bijelic and Graeme Manson — one reportedly involving a cannibal, another a roaming cube monster — eventually boil down to a volatile combination of personalities that fracture under duress. Tokuo dials back the elevated psychosis and magnifies moral elements about sinners having to atone for their actions. The Japanese remake invests in meandering relationship drama and human sympathies; Natali provokes individuals until they’re at one another’s throats with far more nihilism.
The first half of 2021’s Cube doesn’t veer too far off course. A cast of captives congregate in a steely sci-fi-freaky room with no reason for their predicament and must traverse a maze of chambers that are eventually understood to be in motion. Characters resemble those of Natali’s crew, from Masaki Suda’s 29-year-old engineer Yuichi Goto (based on David Worth) to Hikaru Tashiro’s 13-year-old middle school student with autism, Chiharu Uno (based on Kazan). Removed shoes are used to trigger hidden traps, and mathematics prolong survival, but then Shimizu and Tokuo’s differences start to appear when characters begin remembering (through flashbacks) what could have earned them a place in synthetic purgatory.
There’s a stark contrast between the philosophical hopelessness of Natali’s original and Shimizu’s brand of divine reclamation. Natali provokes claustrophobic mania through close-up shots and a panting score, whereas Shimizu sanitizes the experience with brighter appeal. Both are undoubtedly horror movies, as indicated by each stage-setting death, but the Japanese remake comes in a distant second when measuring follow-throughs. Shimizu and Tokuo devolve the situational anxiety that Natali so violently unleashes as the original’s power struggle ensues, limply pushing these new, not-as-interesting explorers through a coldly designed maze that feels repetitive after a while.
Does It Work?
![Cube Remake SCREAMBOX Original [Trailer]](https://i0.wp.com/bloody-disgusting.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/03/Sub_1.jpg?resize=740%2C481&ssl=1)
‘Cube’ (2021)
You know we talk about SPOILERS here, right? If not, here’s your chance to turn back because I’m about to reveal the “big twist” of Cube (2021).
Tokuo’s story drags Natali’s concept kicking and screaming into the future, basing the overlord concept on artificial intelligence. Cutaways to amoeba-like digital particles at random moments assure viewers there’s something bigger at play, but the rationale adds nothing of substance. Anne Watanabe, as Asako Kai, is revealed to be an agent of the system, perceived from her introduction as robotic, but again, the rationale adds nothing of substance. Natali does a fantastic job of questioning the frivolity of his characters’ escape attempts as human nature turns despicably irredeemable, which doesn’t translate in the Japanese iteration. Supercomputer upgrades are surface value tweaks that dampen horror vibes in addition to the film’s listlessly introspective social dilemmas.
Shimizu’s remake is more culturally resonant between old and young Japanese characters’ generational commentaries while touching on a grief-stricken, unaliving subplot. There’s an insinuation that Kōtarō Yoshida as 62-year-old Kazumasa Ando is intertwined in the lives of his youthful counterparts, who they see as a symbol of the abusive, dismissive, calloused breed of elder-aged Japanese patriarchs. Shimizu oversees his Cube as a sobering family drama that bleeds into otherwise suffocating genre entrapment, which is a choice that will divide audiences. Natali makes mention of character backstories through dialogue only, where Shimizu and Tokuo over-explain (verbally and visually) in a way that disservices the killer labyrinth machination of it all.
The Result
‘Cube’ (2021)
From square one, something seems amiss. Natali chops Julian Richings into itty-bitty flesh steaks with a wire grate like a vegetable pressed into one of those tabletop container cutters (which looks awesome). Shimizu lasers a square out of his opening victim’s stomach that plops down all jiggly like the animated stomach plug in Kung Pow! Enter the Fist (regrettably not awesome). Natali’s atmosphere favors this horror-forward, I’d say Clive Barker-influenced, shrouded-in-darkness vibe that’s bleakness incarnate, while Shimizu has trouble separating one metallic monochrome room from the next. Reds, greens, and auburn-y oranges all pop in Natali’s original, where Shimizu’s production feels like the drab laboratory equivalent of an alien race’s research experiment. Shimizu robs audiences of the pleasure of theorizing alongside “military-industrial complex” blamers and tells us precisely what his Cube is used for, and that’s a bummer when considering the film’s overall lackluster presentation.
Everything hits softer, no matter what example you pull. Kazumasa Ando as a sorta stand-in for Maurice Dean Wint’s original bastard Quentin McNeil is no contest, one infinitely more imposing than the other (noting altered traits). Production design feels less confining and infinitely less detailed — the Japanese set feels like a neatly sealed lunchbox. In contrast, the Canadian set is designed like characters are trapped inside the Lament Configuration. Shimizu stays true to significant plot points like the importance of Cartesian coordinates and prime numbers but loses the deepest-rooted sensations of mania that drive Natali’s cast insane. Even the traps are less fulfilling in their mostly computer-animated states, none more representative than the sound-activated slicer Natali expertly uses to render us anxiously silent. It’s just another scene in Shimizu’s rinse and repeat cycle — a frustration that never plagues Natali’s vision.
Japan’s Cube speaks in wordy platitudes, whereas Canada’s Cube descends into anarchistic madness. Shimizu’s God Cube makes choices for the scurrying Japanese prisoners, versus how Quentin influences his squad’s demise in the original, which is a far more frightening outcome. Natali’s script is far wittier and quirkier (that “Worth, worth worth” line [laughs]), which threads a darkly comedic underline through an absurdly evil scenario, where Tokuo’s adventurous spin with a hero’s journey plays with formulaic blandness. There’s more control and level-headedness in the remake, which becomes a tonal mismatch within the architectural deathtrap.
The Lesson
‘Cube’ (2021)
American remakes get a bad rap because they’re the most prevalent. The success of any remake is wholly dependent on the production itself. There’s no generalized failure across an entire market. Shimizu approaches his Cube with the correct mindset of reinterpreting Natali’s core concept for a different country, in a different period, under different societal circumstances — as a remake, the Japanese Cube achieves the goal of creative originality. Quality, unfortunately, will always be another question (and in the eye of each beholder).
So What Did We Learn?
● Remake culture expands beyond our domestic borders — not just our obsession.
● One’s trash is another’s treasure, as I know others who love the different directions of Shimizu’s Cube.
● Atmosphere is so important when establishing horror, as exemplified by both Cube films.
● You’re probably in trouble if your 2020s movie utilizes weaker effects than any 1990s predecessor.
I’ll confess, Cube is probably my oddest instance of seeing the remake before the original. I saw the Japanese remake not even on SCREAMBOX, but because of my subscription to Terror Vision’s Blu-ray club (who released Shimizu’s on physical media) before I ever watched Natali’s highly-acclaimed original. This is who I am; embrace the chaos. Heaven knows I did a long, LONG time ago. Don’t be ashamed of the order you watch movies or your blind spots; more importantly, don’t let others shame you for the same reason. There are too many movies!
Your journey is yours alone to curate and celebrate.
Five decades ago, Stephen King published the story of a bullied girl with telekinetic powers and forever changed the world of horror.
Carrie follows a high school misfit who seeks revenge for a hideous prank by psychically destroying her senior prom. The name Carrie White has become synonymous with the concept of a formal dance thanks to a flawless adaptation from Brian De Palma. Now fifty years after the film’s release, Mike Flanagan is putting his own stamp on the troubling story.
Rather than a feature film, the writer/director will expand King’s relatively slim debut novel into an eight-episode miniseries for Amazon Prime set to premiere on October 7.
Flanagan is no stranger to the world of Stephen King. A long-time Constant Reader, he first made waves with his daring adaptation of Gerald’s Game (2017), a novel many fans considered un-filmable. His underrated Doctor Sleep merges the disparate plot of Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining with King’s original source material, and his 2024 genre-bending tearjerker The Life of Chuck faithfully executes one of the author’s most metaphysical novellas.
He’s currently mired in pre-production for an expansive adaptation of The Dark Tower series, keystone to King’s connected universe, and Warner Bros. recently announced that Flanagan will helm a new version of The Mist, King’s 1980 novella which sees a small Maine town overrun by otherworldly monsters.
Considering the vast array of the author’s previously unadapted material, an obvious question arises. Why reimagine Carrie in 2026? Noting the timeless nature of the content, Flanagan expressed his desire to bring the story of a bullied girl into modern times, mirroring his approach to Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House and Edgar Allan Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher. He explained, “The only way to approach it was to build something new out of the ingredients of Carrie. Otherwise, there’s really no purpose in trying to retread ground that’s been so beautifully walked before.”
His miniseries will maintain the novel’s bloody bookends while delivering “big surprises” along the way.
A New Prom Night Nightmare
The roughly 60-second teaser introduces Summer H. Howell as Carrie White just before the moment of catastrophe. Standing in a prom dress, she smiles at her applauding classmates with an ominous crown perched upon her head. Moments later, Carrie unleashes a rage-filled scream into the night air while promgoers rush for the exit doors. But careful examination of this scene shows Carrie wearing a different, albeit dirty dress as she seems to telekinetically punish her peers.
In an exclusive first look with Entertainment Weekly, Flanagan explains that in his version of the story, “the events of that prom are going to be completely different.” An open trunk emitting a crimson glow does hint at the pig’s blood dumped on Carrie’s head, but it’s likely Flanagan’s formal dance will be a different kind of horror altogether. Despite these changes, the series may end with the widespread destruction outlined in the source material. Unlike any previous adaptations, King’s novel ends with the near-total destruction of Chamberlain, Maine. A flaming street in Flanagan’s trailer promises similar carnage no matter what prank sparks Carrie’s deadly revenge.
The Monstrous Addition of Social Media
On the opposite end of this fiery conclusion is an extreme act of bullying that brings together the story’s main cast. King’s novel begins as Carrie gets her first period while showering in the girls’ locker room. Completely unaware of the concept of menstruation, the sheltered girl thinks she’s bleeding to death. Her classmates respond with vitriolic rage. Led by ultra-mean girl Chris Hargensen (Alison Thornton), they mock the terrified teen while pelting her with tampons. Glimpses of this disturbing event reveal that Flanagan has excised the scene’s nudity while adding a seismic update. As Carrie sobs in the shower stall, Chris and her friends film the breakdown with their phones.
Other scenes note the presence of social media, bringing King’s fifty-year-old story into the digital age.
Flanagan’s adaptation promises to explore the destructive power of social media, an often invisible entity with a potential for harm rivaling Carrie’s own powers. While King’s tormented heroine suffers in front of a small group of girls, Flanagan’s version of the incident will likely become a viral video, potentially circling the globe on social media. Similar to Katt Shea’s criminally underrated The Rage: Carrie 2, which includes elements of revenge porn exploitation, Flanagan’s modern retelling will distinguish itself by exploring the nebulous cruelty of online bullying, a force ten times more powerful than the irl pranks King first envisioned.
A Completely Reimagined White Family
In addition to modernizing these canon events, Flanagan hints at updates to Carrie’s oppressive upbringing at the hands of her mother, Margaret White (Samantha Sloyan). Dead before the novel begins, we never meet Carrie’s domineering father Ralph, known to carry a bible alongside his gun. Flanagan’s White household will be an altogether different beast. In his version of the story, Carrie and her mother have been hidden away in the unassuming home, forced out of hiding by Ralph’s unexpected death. Perhaps we will finally meet this elusive man whose shadow hangs over his wife and child. Considering the White family’s fundamentalist lifestyle, this reimagining hints at tradwife culture and a home ruled by staunch patriarchal control.
Whereas King’s Carrie has been tormented by her classmates since Kindergarten, Flanagan’s Carrie will be a wide-eyed newcomer to public school, eager to make friends and engage with her peers. We glimpse Carrie cozying up to Chris and the equally popular Sue Snell (Siena Agudong) as she navigates a new social scene. Of course, we know this kindness is part of an elaborate plot designed to lull Carrie into a false sense of camaraderie, setting up an atrocious act of public humiliation. These brief moments of feigned compassion put Sue’s own complicity into question. Will Flanagan’s version of the character find the courage to defend Carrie from vicious bullies or will she succumb to peer pressure and join in the mob mentality?
Perhaps the biggest deviation from King’s original text is the relationship between Carrie and her mother. King’s Margaret White is a horrifically abusive religious zealot whose worldview has been hardened by internalized misogyny. She shames Carrie for menstruating, locks her in a closet to “pray,” and regrets not killing her child in infancy. She’s also responsible for Carrie’s social ostracization. Known to berate her neighbors for their “sins,” Margaret forces her daughter to live by an extreme code of conduct and disallows any potential friends lest they corrupt the girl with their worldly ways.
Flanagan’s version of the character is perhaps just as much a victim as Carrie herself. Also trapped inside her home, his Margaret is overly vigilant, her own trauma manifesting as strict control. Describing a more sympathetic depiction of the iconic villain, Flanagan explains, “Our Margaret White is a woman who fiercely loves her daughter and wants to protect her from this world … [She] doesn’t know how to do that and thinks the way to protect her is to close her off; not punitively, but to create this private utopia.”
Despite this potential softening, Sloyan’s Margaret may still have a sharp edge. Though she has appeared in many Flanagan projects, from Hush (2016) to The Fall of the House of Usher (2023), she is best known for her role as the abhorrent Bev Keane in the poignant saga Midnight Mass (2021). Perhaps inspired by King’s Margaret White, Bev is pious and sadistic, willing to punish anyone who does not adhere to her warped approximation of Catholicism.
Flanagan specifically wrote Margaret with Sloyan in mind, likely remembering the actress’s eerie ability to create deceptive empathy and shift our allegiances on a dime.
Expanding Stephen King’s Telekinetic Universe
While most of King’s story deals with an unthinkable prom night in Chamberlain, Maine, large sections of the semi-epistolary novel see experts debating the nature of telekinesis. Do Carrie’s frightening abilities represent a new phase in human evolution or is the prom night carnage merely a fluke? King settles the debate with a shocking denouement in which a young mother recounts her infant daughter’s ability to dangle her crib toys in midair. We’re left to wonder if she will become another tormented girl who surprises the world with metaphysical strength.
Flanagan plans to build out this brief scene while amplifying themes of female empowerment. After introducing our main cast of characters, episode two will open with an unrelated story in which we meet another girl with the TK gene. Each subsequent chapter will expand this world, building out a roster of telekinetic young women. Considering King’s fondness for stories about powerful kids, often described as possessing “the shining,” Constant Readers will no doubt have their eyes peeled for various Easter Eggs nodding to the author’s vast catalogue.
Giving Carrie Her Own Voice
Perhaps the most striking distinction in Flanagan’s new trailer is the extent to which we hear Carrie’s voice. The sneak peek is fully narrated by the titular prom queen as she demands accountability. “I want to know why,” she explains while detailing Chris’ elaborate plan. Aside from the aforementioned coda, King’s book essentially ends with the aftermath of the prom night tragedy, leaving little time for Carrie to reflect. His shifting narrative does bring the reader into her fragile mind, though not before she’s been cowed by relentless cruelty. We watch Carrie sink into bloodthirsty revenge, but never hear a considered desire for justice or repair.
Flanagan’s original monologue allows Carrie to voice her pain and mourn the life she could have had. We’re also treated to a mug shot-style photo of Chris with a bruised and bandaged face, implying that the mean girl will have to answer for her senseless sadism.
Flanagan is known for filling his series adaptations with heartwrenching speeches that cut to the heart of his thematic intentions, and this teaser seems to follow suit. After years of fans, critics, and scholars analyzing Carrie’s pain, perhaps his modern retelling will offer the titular anti-hero a chance to finally speak for herself.
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