The easiest way to create chaos among horror fans? Utter the word “remake” in their presence. It’s the equivalent of throwing a Molotov Cocktail into a crowded bar. Or worse, wearing a Dallas Cowboys jersey in the middle of Philadelphia.
It’s not uncommon for some fans to treat the movies and television they love as sacred text that should remain untouched until the end of time. Even Stevie Wonder can see why we are often emotionally attached to characters, and our first iteration of said characters. Just like a horror movie that shakes one to the core, rarely does anything top “the first time.” So it’s understandable that one word causes so much friction, especially in a media landscape where “intellectual property” is every executive’s favorite phrase as they scour libraries for anything that might make them a quick buck or two hundred million.
That fear and cynicism ignore the role remakes, reboots, and adaptations play. They harken back to the oldest form of word-of-mouth storytelling, where humans passed down stories through oral traditions. Telling tales from one generation to the next reframes them for modern relevance. The details may change, and new elements may appear, but when done well, they ensure the spirit of the story–no pun intended–outlives us all.
Any effective remake connects with a modern audience. No matter the changes, it must find thematic resonance with the audience. Christian Nyby’s The Thing from Another World and John Carpenter’s The Thing both adapt John W. Campbell Jr.‘s novella. Both movies honor Campbell’s work by sticking to the author’s general ideas, but they approach the specifics very differently, with Nyby and Carpenter speaking to different eras. The America of 1951 and the America of 1982 are not in the same ballpark. They’re more like comparing golf and bowling in that they’re not even the same sport.
Nyby’s flick reflected a country leery of scientists, while Carpenter’s lived in a world where regular citizens grew weary of trusting each other. The ‘82 film, smartly, isn’t a carbon copy of the original adaptation. Carpenter infused modern sensibilities and other thematic elements germane to his time. He answered the question every storyteller should ask themselves when they embark upon the thorny road of retelling: Why this story and why now?
“Why now” is the most interesting half of that equation. Newer audiences might find some barriers to entry for older movies. Not saying it’s definite, but it can happen, especially if said movie has what they consider dated effects, anachronistic character types, or passé cultural moods. Marcus Nispel’s The Texas Chainsaw Massacre turned Tobe Hooper’s Vietnam-era original into something befitting a generation still in the throes of the 9/11 attacks, which included the start of a war. With all of that in mind, Nispel made Hooper’s implied violence extremely overt. He matched the violence of war seen on television, along with the fearful mood pulsating through teens around the United States as war became a very real thing and not just something depicted in entertainment.
The context became the “why.” In the same vein came Nia DaCosta’s Candyman. The remake/sequel is centered on a gentrified Chicago where the Cabrini Green projects are no more, and a bellowing outcry against police brutality echoed from Black neighborhoods to every part of the country. The 2021 Candyman engages with the idea from the ‘92 original that this Black man would haunt and antagonize people who look like him through the movie’s victims and, more importantly, why they became victims. Fittingly, DaCosta’s movie touts the importance of retelling stories to keep legends alive, but does so in a way that speaks to now and honors the past without becoming a slave to it.
On the flip side, remakes like When a Stranger Calls, Martyrs, A Nightmare on Elm Street, or Salem’s Lot do the exact opposite. They’re not only slavish to moments in hopes of becoming no more than a collection of Leonardo DiCaprio pointing memes, but they never establish a personality or reason for being. They’re genre exercises that amount to running in place, in part because they have nothing new to add to an existing legacy. They become so infatuated with recreating moments fans expect that they ignore the emotional context in which those moments exist.
Freddy Kreuger’s hand popping up like a perverted Jack-in-the-Box during Nancy’s bath wasn’t just a money shot for Wes Craven’s original, but that’s exactly what it was in Samuel Bayer’s 2010 remake. It’s a Pavlov’s Dog experiment designed to make devotees salivate rather than provide anything new to digest. Craven’s scene deepened Nancy’s fears and paranoia, while Bayer seemingly put it there out of obligation. Moments like that illustrate how easy it is to fall into traps when retelling any story in any medium.
A modern version of any story can’t be so afraid of its own shadow that it doesn’t reinvent or interrogate. Mike Flanagan’s output crystallizes this. The man practically bathes in adapting older stories for modern eyes. The Haunting of Hill House uses Shirley Jackson’s story and Robert Wise’s The Haunting for the germ of an idea that spreads into a meditation on family, loss, trauma, grief, and how it feels when one is haunted by their past. He transformed Edgar Allen Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher from a story about two people into an epic focused on an entire lineage haunted by choices made before they were even born, much less thought of. Both of these adaptations find emotional hooks to expand on their initial ideas rather than repeat narrative beats to check a box.
Flanagan’s Carrie, the latest entry on a list longer than a CVS receipt, places Carrie White’s story firmly in the present. Bullying isn’t a new thing, and Stephen King’s belief that “high school is hell” still rings true. How bullying looks and which circle in hell high school resides in differs from the ‘70s, the late ‘90s, the early 2000s, and the early 2010s. Social media, COVID trauma, school shootings, and a seemingly less empathetic society overall are just a few things affecting today’s teenagers. How does someone like Carrie survive in this world? How do all of those outside forces affect her notoriously conservative and overprotective mother? King’s novel is an evergreen for retellings and reshapings because of its subject matter.
So long as high school remains a thing and teenagers exist, someone will always identify with Carrie. The rub, as they say, goes back to how one grounds the story in a world that feels familiar to its target audience. Adhering to the spirit of the text is more important than being slavish to the letter of the text.
Remakes, reboots, requels, adaptations, or whatever lingo studios use to call them fulfill a basic function of storytelling that existed long before any of us. They perpetuate our myths and, when done right, put fresh breath into our cautionary tales. Regaling a crowd with scary stories is one of the world’s oldest traditions. It’s not enough to rely on the past to make those tales effective; one must find ways to enthrall each new generation. That’s how the genre creates new lifelong fans who then spread the gospel as far as they can for as long as they can. And maybe, just maybe, their “first time” will become a sacred memory that inspires an updated version of a timeless story.
