Over the past few years, Japanese horror cinema has pumped out an increasingly high-octane brand of nightmare fuel, from the Lynchian Ny-Quil fugue of Uzumaki, to Audition‘s trachea-blistering misery date. Grand champion of them all, though, might be 1998’s Ring, a creepingly effective slab of techno-horror that smashed native box office records, burned out a multitude of nightlights, and spawned a fetid tidal wave of speedy imitators. Never given an official release in the US, it retains its shuddery, nerve-burning power through even the mangiest of bootlegs. That an American studio would snatch up the remake rights comes as no surprise. The true shock here is that the glossy, big-dollared rehash proves to be a damned effective phantasmagoria in its own right.
The plot has the dreamily simplistic hook of the best campfire stories or fever dreams: A Seattle-based single mother/ reporter (Mulholland Drive‘s Naomi Watts), begins investigating a quick-sprouting urban legend about a mysterious videotape reputed to kill its foolhardy watcher exactly seven days after viewing. Suffice it to say that the “Play” button soon gets a workout, with mountingly surreal, increasingly seat-moistening results.
Director Gore Verbinski (The Mexican) and writer Ehren Kruger stay shot-by-shot faithful to the original film in many instances, yet prove fully capable of conjuring up molar-grinding moments of their own invention. Refreshingly, the filmmakers go light on cheap scares of the spring-loaded-cat or sneaking-neighbor variety, concentrating instead on revving up an almost-tangible aura of malevolent inevitability. When they finally choose to let fly, the climactic imagery is one for the ages.
A few plot imperfections and the occasionally pokey pacing may mar the final results by a degree or two, but why quibble with something so purely adept at making the short hairs stand straight up?