"It initially started as a conversation that Amazon initiated, and they said, 'Hey, would you have any interest in Carrie?'" Flanagan told MovieWeb in a recent interview. "And I had to think about it, because my first instinct is always — why? It's been done perfectly by De Palma, it's then been done three other times after the fact. Why do it again?" He explained: "Carrie White is a story about high school violence and bullying, and that feels immediate and important today, unfortunately, even more kind of sharply relevant than I think it was when he wrote it. So there felt like a chance for some true modernization beyond just changing the time period, and to use it to talk about the issues that affect high school kids in America today. You know," elaborated Flanagan, "Carrie White walking through a metal detector is interesting to me. Carrie White with social media. The iconic scene in the locker room is very different when people have phones in their hands. So that was the first germ of an idea, like, there is room for this to actually have a lot to say that's very relevant. And I can't spoil the changes that we made in order to kind of find a story that felt like it needed to be told. But we made some pretty substantial changes."

Flanagan continued: ""When I brought it to Stephen King — because that's the other side of this, if Steve says no, he doesn't want to see it happen, we're not going to do it; I'm not about to do that in that relationship. And so when I mentioned it to him and said, 'What do you think about Carrie for TV?' He said, 'Well, why? Leave her alone . She's good, she's done. I'd rather we focus on other things.' But when I sent him kind of the layout of how I saw it could work, he really liked it," added Flanagan. "And he came back and said, 'Actually, yes, I think this is interesting, and I think this could be really relevant and could be really exciting.' And so that was when I said yeah, we should do this. I can't talk more about it, other than we're in the writers' room. We're having a great time, and I think we're going to tell a story that will be surprising and impactful, very relevant to our modern society and to issues in our country."

"My oldest son is 14 years old," explained Flanagan on a more personal note, "and I look at him as I'm working on this story, and think it's important for his generation. I think there'll be something in there that I hope will be useful to them in this world. But yeah, I'm really glad we're doing it. I'm having a blast." Flanagan concluded: "But it was a surprise to me as well that it emerged as a priority. Because my initial reaction was, why do it? Which, in fairness, I had the same reaction when we first talked about adapting The Turn of the Screw for [The Haunting of] Bly Manor . It's been done dozens of times, that thing is just worn out. Why? Why approach it? And we found an approach that made it feel like, yes, absolutely, this is a story worth telling. So, yeah, I think it's going to be very, very interesting for people, and I think it'll be surprising."

Over a pivotal three-minute sequence in his studio, we follow the meticulous mechanics of Thomas’s process: he develops the photos in the darkroom and arranges them into a fragmented storyboard. The film’s image then shifts to the photographs themselves, constructing a slideshow narrative that begins with two lovers embracing, moves to the man noticing the camera, and ends with the woman standing beside a body. The possible murder is only revealed through a series of (eponymous) blow-ups, forcing both Thomas and the viewer to interpret the truth from increasingly grainy visual fragments.

As the slideshow rolls, Antonioni also inserts the ambient sound of trees and wind to the scene—sound that doesn’t belong in Thomas’s studio but rather seems diegetic to the photographic record itself. This auditory addition complicates the relationship between the “real” and its photographic representation, questioning the reliability of Thomas’ memory and instead suggesting an intrusion of his imagination.

Despite the fact that it is over fifty years old, I will not be spoiling the film, but will nevertheless note that this conception of the recorded and truth is echoed in its final scene. As Thomas watches a group of mimes play with an imaginary tennis ball, he begins following the arc of their movements and, eventually, hears the ball’s faint bounce for himself. In that sense, truth is for Antonioni less an objective fact than a consensual illusion—a lie upon which we all agree in order to make sense of an uncertain reality—with its photographic record perhaps as mutable as perception itself.

By the mid-70s, as new intelligence technologies emerged, themes of privacy and surveillance came into the focus of (particularly American) filmmakers. Alongside films like Klute and The Parallax View, Francis Ford Coppola’s The Conversation shifts its focal apparatus from image to sound, questioning the capacity of clandestine audio recording in the search for truth. The protagonist, Harry Caul, is an expert surveillance technician, obsessed with uncovering the content of a recorded conversation yet troubled by his inability to fully understand the intentions behind what he hears.

The pivotal construction sequence is, in Coppola’s film, entirely auditory (though the audience can see flashes of the recorded scene itself). As Harry listens to fragments of the titular conversation between two people in a busy plaza—isolating words, phrases, and tonal shifts as he tweaks the audio—those occasional glimpses of the visual, presumably imagined, suggest that his record is incomplete. Harry’s surveillance, while technologically advanced, only reveals as much as his own paranoia-clouded interpretative lens permits.

This dynamic between recorded sound and its interpretation becomes central to the film’s meaning. The Conversation paints surveillance technology as both enabling and restricting: it uncovers details but inevitably imposes their observer’s anxieties and biases. While the challenge of recording in Blow-Up is centred in the ephemerality of life and consequent elusiveness of truth, the struggle of The Conversation is an internal one, rooted in the limitations of human perception (regardless of technological development).

With Blow Out, released in the wake of Watergate and the political disillusionment of the 1980s, Brian De Palma unites image and sound, referencing both Blow-Up and The Conversation (along with occasional nods to the infamous Zapruder film). His protagonist, Jack, is a sound technician who accidentally tapes a political assassination. In this film, the “construction” scene sees Jack synchronising his audio-tape with photographic footage, finally creating a coherent and indisputable record of truth.

The meaning of De Palma’s film, however, lies in its insistence that undeniable truth can nevertheless be denied. In the darkly ironic finale, Jack is symbolically silenced beneath a spectacle of fireworks and patriotic pomp, and as he listens to the scream of a victim he could not save—now a crucial sound effect in a cheap thriller he is working on—Blow Out closes with a devastating commentary on the American ethos, which prizes appearance over substance. The film’s bleak vision, illustrated by its protagonist’s impotence in the face of public deception, suggests that even the most carefully assembled record of truth is not enough to guarantee justice.

In the progression from Blow-Up through The Conversation to Blow Out, the depiction of respective recording technologies reflects changing attitudes toward truth. For Antonioni, truth is a mutable construct we collectively agree to accept; for Coppola, it is the imagined end-goal which drives paranoia, susceptible to individual misinterpretation; and for De Palma, truth is rendered futile in the face of a political apparatus that manipulates reality for its own ends. The three films join together to reveal how technology, rather than bringing us closer to an objective reality, shapes our understanding and acceptance of truth—a truth that ultimately remains as elusive as the devices used to record it.

In the full 18-minute discussion, centered around Kenny's book, The World is Yours: The Story of ‘Scarface’, Mitchell tells Kenny that he appreciates the way that the people involved in the making of Scarface really seemed to open up to him in a new way, because Kenny approached them as artists, asking them to discuss their connection to the art of the film. Kenny discusses how it took a long time to get Michelle Pfeiffer to agree to be interviewed for the book, and how her perspective on things really surprised him. Mitchell also notes how Kenny writes about the physicality of Pacino's performances as Tony Montana and Carlito Brigante, etc., and how Kenny makes the case for De Palma as an actor's director. Listen to the conversation in full by clicking the image above.