If it is difficult to imagine Carrie being made today—and I shudder to think of Brian De Palma making Carrie today—it is in part because the popular cinema has become both more knowing and less honest about the female body. No contemporary movie would begin with the ethereal shower menstruation and spiteful tampon pelting that opens Carrie and gives its final inferno meaning. Strangely, that first Sissy Spacek shock seems innocent now, with a pubescent mystery and terror that bridges the dichotomy that now gapes between Teeth and High School Musical. Laurelhurst.