Editorials
The Incomprehensible Horror of ‘Dead Space’
Horror comes in many guises and forms, with many takes on the genre feeding off of our own personal fears and aversions. From the guts and gore of splatter cinema to eerie tellings of the paranormal, there’s plenty of ways to harvest the screams of fear-loving fans. There is, however, one guaranteed method of unnerving even the most hardened terror enthusiasts – by presenting them with a threat that they can’t quite figure out.
The 2008 survival horror game Dead Space may draw influence from various other space-fueled fright-fests, but it also gave birth to one of the most horrifying creatures to inhabit the stars above, in the form of the Necromorph. While many might simply interpret Dead Space’s gaggle of grotesque hostiles to be mere alien zombies, the true nature of the Necromorph is obscured by its disconcerting disposition, comprising of incomprehensible body horror and a fear of the unknown.
We’ve all been there, seemingly safe within the confines of our bed before opening our eyes to a weird entity in the corner of the room. Sure, there’s nothing scary about a jacket draped over a chair, apart from potentially your fashion sense, but when your brain is drowning in darkness and deprived of visual information, that chair is a threat. This kind of sensory trepidation is exactly what the Necromorph thrives upon, inhibiting your brain from attaching a schema to the horror that it witnesses.
Horror monsters are usually very easy to describe, mostly due to the fact that their factual influence and fictional lore has been preconceived. Our old friends – the vampire, werewolf, and extraterrestrial – might not always walk around playing an intimidating version of The Name Game, but there’s usually enough information present to inform us of what’s trying to munch us. Even some of the genre’s more obscure beings, such as Xenomorphs, are labeled by the title of the film they reside within. Alternatively, Necromorphs illustrate themselves through mutilation, creating difficulty when it comes to perceiving its barely humanoid form.
At a glance, a Necromorph appears to be a figure of pulverized flesh and twisted bone, that is until your eyes begin to adjust to the deadly details. As you count the extra limbs and notice the creature’s fondness for scythe-like appendages, it becomes ever clearer that this isn’t just a reanimated corpse. Just like the visual panic experienced with a night terror, it’s hard to digest the dangers before you, with the caveat this time being that you’re not just seeing things. There is no rhyme or reason to the makeup of the Necromorph, with it being less of a species and more of a bastardized use of the previously living.
Despite the Necromorph not belonging to the natural world, the creature does wield the ability to implement its own twisted version of Darwinism. There’s a variety of flavors of Necromorph lurking within Dead Space; from the sharp vanilla of the welcoming party to the sickly aftertaste of encountering a necrotic infant, you’re sure to be spoiled for choice. The fact that the Necromorph has multiple manifestations adds to the angst of deciphering what they are, especially when morbid curiosity is lost within the sheer panic of survival.
In typical video game fashion, Dead Space is complicit in instructing you on how to fight off its in-game nasties. This is usually something that would solicit comfort in players, as after all – if it bleeds, we can kill it. Unfortunately, this mantra falls flat when it comes to Necromorphs, as the destruction of their blood-soaked bodies contradicts everything that we know about fighting the undead. The blood-smeared advice telling us to “Cut off their limbs” is simultaneously helpful and harrowing, as the well-aimed headshot you’re accustomed to will likely this time lead to your demise.
The Necromorph might go against conventional game mechanics, but visceral degradation being at the core of an antagonist is a recurring theme within various pieces of cinema. It’s common knowledge that Dead Space creator, Glen Schofield, was heavily influenced by the likes of Event Horizon, a film that features the mutilation of a crew after boarding a corrupted spacecraft, due to the fact it went to Hell for a day trip. The diabolical dread of Event Horizon imbues itself with the idea of science beyond our comprehension, a theme which is tightly shared with the narrative of Dead Space as a whole. While witnessing beloved dino-doctor Sam Neil gouge his eyes out is unmistakable body horror, it perhaps isn’t as close to what is portrayed in Dead Space as we’d like to think.
There’s a bounty of comparisons that can be drawn between Event Horizon and Dead Space, with plenty to explore in terms of the horrors of being entrapped and driven to insanity within deep space. However, when it comes to the Necromorph, there are various pockets of influential body horror that better fit the bill. Of course, when it comes to horrific transformations, it’d be foolish to omit the work of Cronenberg and his stomach-churning remake of The Fly, as it is one of the truest forms of body horror within the world of cinema. Yet, The Fly still seems to fall outside the realms of what is on display in Dead Space, as even though vomit-inducing, viewers are still aware that they’re gazing upon a Goldblum-bluebottle hybrid.
The key to finding an appropriate comparative when it comes to the Necromorph is found within the theme of incomprehension. This is when it becomes more appropriate to compare the likes of John Carpenter’s The Thing, which features a shape-shifting lifeform that absorbs its victims. As the film title suggests, this creature is a non-descript abomination that makes identifying it near impossible through obscurity. The Thing’s tactic of warping the DNA of others and using their reconstructed flesh as a weapon bears a close resemblance to the Necromorph, with both placing an emphasis on the aggressive use of transformation.
Sticking with the theme of the incomprehensible, various works of Lovecraft-inspired fiction also bear resemblance to the horrors found within Dead Space. Cult classics such as From Beyond perfectly illustrate the merged worlds of eldritch horror and the folly of tampering with unknown science. After using a resonator device, in an attempt to see beyond our reality, two scientists find themselves under attack from otherworldly beings, resulting in degradation of both their sanity and the physical form. With character Dr Edward Pretorius serving as this flick’s antagonist, we see his body transition into something unnatural, complete with tentacles and extended limbs. The type of transformation found within From Beyond is perhaps a bit more complex than with our Necromorph friends, yet retains the same visually indecipherable results.
Another great example of Lovecraft-influenced fiction that’s comparable with Dead Space is the work of Junji Ito, who has penned various manga novels that feature perverse body horror and grueling art style. The transformations featured in these books are unnerving to look at, with the result again leading to the reader struggling to comprehend the creature on the page. Ito’s work may not be based on sci-fi, yet the book Spiral features a plague-like pandemic that distorts both the bodies and minds of a small town, which is something of a dead ringer when compared to the events that take place in Dead Space.
You’d expect most comparative examples to the Necromorph to be morbid and gritty, yet one of the strongest body horror resemblances can be found in Slither, a black comedy horror by James Gunn. While the film does have a humorous overtone throughout, this tale of a small community being infected by alien slugs features some of the most putrid examples of body horror in existence. From glutenous bloating to slime-coated masses of tentacles, Slither demonstrates a similar variety in its monstrosities that Dead Space facilitates with its own gnarly nasties.
For many, the Necromorph is always going to just simply be an intergalactic zombie, but if you’re willing to look past the vague tropes that horror sometimes presents us with, they’re much worse. The Necromorph’s incomprehensible nature is crucial to the impactful horror that Dead Space wishes to bestow upon its players, using its unsettling composition as a weapon. Just like the other horror creatures that they’re akin to, Necromorphs represent a disturbing sub-type of threat, one that leaves you little time to decipher before tearing into your flesh. When paired with the already horrifying ordeal of navigating the derelict USG Ishimura, Necromorph’s become one of the most iconic horror video game enemies of all time – even though their sense of style will put you off your dinner.
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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