The Relevance of Ringu: Lingering Horrors of Modern Japan
Director: Hideo Nakata
Cast: Nanako Matsushima, Hiroyuki Sanada, Miki Nakatani, Yûko Takeuchi
Studio: Rasen Production Committee
Year: 1998
Verdict: 4/6
Ringu wasn’t the first J-horror film, but none were more significant. By the time it premiered in 1998, the horror genre had lost its edge, often reduced to predictable tropes and unintentional laughs. Ringu changed all that, introducing the world to a new kind of terror.
It wasn’t graphic or stuffed with cheap thrills. Instead, it blended Hitchcockian suspense and Robert Wise-like atmospheric dread with classic Japanese ghost story tropes. The result? A film that creeped out audiences far beyond Japan’s borders.
J-horror gained international acclaim in the following years, inspiring a wave of inventive and chilling horror films worldwide. In short, Ringu didn’t just reinvigorate a genre; it reshaped it. Its influence still lingers like a shadow in the corner of the room.
But how did such a low-key, dialogue-heavy film leave an indelible mark on horror? Was it timing, or did it tap into something more profound?
Could the answer lie with the spine-tingling Sadako herself? Was she more than a vengeful ghost, perhaps reflecting our unease with technology, our buried societal fears, or something even more primal? Let’s find out!
Contents:
Ringu Plot | Ancient Evils and Modern Fears
At its core, Ringu tells the story of a cursed videotape that dooms anyone who watches it to an untimely death. The premise might sound absurd, but the film’s measured storytelling transforms it into something deeply unsettling.
Beneath the tape’s curse lies a darker tale about a woman and her daughter, both shunned and mistreated by their community. This narrative thread gives Ringu weight, pulling it beyond a typical ghost story into something more layered, a supernatural mystery laced with psychological tension.
At first, Reiko, a journalist investigating the urban myth, dismisses the cursed tape as a prank. But her search for answers leads her to a web of cryptic clues, eerie coincidences, and unsettling truths about the tape’s origins.
As the mystery deepens, the supernatural edges closer, drawing her ex-husband, Ryuji, and their young son, Yoichi, into its fold. Both possess psychic sensitivities that make them acutely aware of the curse’s presence, amplifying the stakes and the dread.
Their involvement broadens the scope of the mystery and makes it painfully personal as the curse threatens to unravel everything Reiko holds dear.
Who is Sadako? The Hidden Face of True Fear
Few characters in modern horror are as iconic as Sadako Yamamura. A product of ancient folklore and a reflection of contemporary fears, her tale is one of pain, betrayal, and vengeance.
Born with psychic abilities, she was feared and ostracized, turning her festering anguish into malevolence. From this pain, a cursed videotape somehow came into existence.
Her iconic appearance is burned into viewers' memories worldwide. As she emerges from a television screen with jerky, unnatural movements, she embodies primal fear and the dread of the unknown.
With its grainy, surreal imagery, the cursed videotape feels like a message from a forgotten world—a bridge between her restless spirit and a modern society too quick to dismiss the past.
Mythological Roots: The Onryō and Yūrei Tradition
Nakata drew inspiration from several classic ghost stories, particularly Yotsuya Kaidan. This Edo-period tale centers on a peasant-turned-samurai who murders his wife, Oiwa, after suspecting her of infidelity.
Poisoned and disfigured, her ghost, along with that of her alleged lover, returns to exact revenge. The legend is tied to a location in Tokyo, Yotsuya, where strange events are said to have occurred, adding an unsettling layer of realism to the folklore.
Sadako’s story also echoes the tragic figure of Okiku from Banchô Sarayashiki (The Dish Mansion), who was wrongfully accused of theft, murdered, and thrown into a well.
Her imagery—long, disheveled black hair and a white garment—evokes the archetype of the yûrei, traditional Japanese ghosts who embody grief, rage, and unresolved pain.
These folkloric influences, coupled with Nakata’s modern reinterpretation, root Sadako firmly in Japan’s cultural psyche. Whether emerging from a well or a television screen, her presence is an unrelenting reminder: the past never truly dies, and some spirits cannot rest.
Related article: Jigoku: Exploring the Cultural Ties of Nakagawa’s Vision of Hell
Ringu Analysis Part 1: The Wrath of the Silent Majority
Sadako Yamamura isn’t just a ghost. She symbolizes all the anger, pain, and injustice that comes from being silenced, a story deeply rooted in Japan’s onryô (怨霊) tradition.
Onryô are vengeful spirits, almost always women, who aren’t inherently evil but return because society wronged them. In Ringu, Sadako’s rage isn’t mindless; it’s a response to betrayal, isolation, and the cruelty of a system that discarded her.
Her story resonates with the challenges women still face in Japan today. While more women in are stepping away from traditional family roles and forging independent paths, systemic inequality still casts a long shadow.
Leadership positions remain out of reach for many, and wage gaps persist. Like Ringu’s protagonist, Reiko, single mothers often find themselves juggling impossible demands, torn between societal expectations and the struggle to make ends meet.
Reiko clearly loves her son but struggles to find time to be present in his life. Much of their communication happens over the phone, and she relies on him to manage many things on his own.
This dynamic isn’t due to neglect but to the crushing realities of her situation. Reiko’s challenges reflect the broader plight of single mothers in Japan. Their demands are as relentless as those of their salarymen husbands, yet the support is limited.
Sadako’s isolation and rejection mirror these systemic struggles. Her psychic abilities should set her apart, but they only alienate her. This mirrors how Japanese society often treats women who challenge norms. Those who pursue careers, remain unmarried, or refuse to conform are frequently marginalized, and their potential is hampered instead of celebrated.
Yet Ringu doesn’t frame Sadako as merely a victim. Her wrath is terrifying but also a powerful voice demanding to be heard. In this way, Sadako isn’t just haunting; she’s a warning. Her curse spreads uncontrollably, forcing society to confront what it tried to bury.
This is where Ringu feels particularly relevant. Sadako’s story isn’t just about supernatural vengeance—it’s about the dangers of silencing voices, particularly those of women.
While attitudes in Japan are shifting, the pace of change is slow. The issues embodied by Sadako’s curse still linger: injustices that grow stronger when ignored and demand reckoning when denied.
The real horror isn’t just in Sadako’s curse; it’s in the cracks of a society that buried her pain, only to watch it seep back through.
Related article: Osaka Elegy: Mizoguchi’s First Critique of Japanese Gender Issues
Ringu Analysis Part 2: Technology and Traditions
It’s tempting to frame Ringu as a critique of technological anxiety. After all, the cursed videotape is central to its haunting premise—a relic of its time that symbolizes how media can spread destruction.
However, claiming the story is about technological anxiety oversimplifies the film’s deeper fear: not that technology creates evil but that it amplifies the evils already present in the world.
Nakata described the television as a “passage to hell,” a channel connecting the horrors of the past to the vulnerabilities of the present. In Ringu, media doesn’t invent Sadako’s rage; it gives her pain a platform, allowing it to ripple outward, unchecked and inescapable.
The curse spreads not because VHS tapes or televisions are inherently sinister but because the systems we create are blind to the consequences of what they transmit.
This idea is pushed further in later Ringu films, where Sadako’s curse evolves onto the Internet and spreads exponentially. This shift feels disturbingly familiar today, as global connectivity amplifies not just information but also fear, anger, and malice.
In Ringu, media is a vessel, but it’s also a mirror, reflecting and magnifying the darkest aspects of human nature. And where does that leave us today? In an age where AI can evolve, learn, and make decisions, what happens when it begins to embody the flaws and fears of its creators?
Imagine a future where a system designed to connect and innovate becomes a tool to perpetuate harm—a digital Sadako, evolving with every interaction, spreading across networks faster than anyone can stop it.
Wow... Maybe I got technologically anxious after all ...
Anyway, the horror of Ringu isn’t locked in its VHS tapes; it’s in how easily our creations amplify what we might prefer to ignore. Like religion, technology is not the villain in itself but a potentially harmful conduit when corrupted by hatred or fear.
Final Verdict | Ringu Review
There is no denying that Ringu deserves its place in film history, though it's far from as shocking on repeated viewings. That said, its reliance on old-school horror techniques—eschewing flashy special effects—gives it a timeless quality that holds up well more than 25 years later.
Part of what makes Ringu so effective is its understated yet haunting cinematography and music. The film’s muted color palette and deliberate camera movements create a sense of creeping dread as if something sinister is always lurking just out of frame.
The sound design, too, deserves mention. Sparse and atmospheric, it uses silence as much as sound to ratchet up tension, while the eerie score amplifies the film’s sense of unease. Together, these elements craft an experience that feels both intimate and unnervingly vast, pulling viewers into Sadako’s shadowy world.
Nanako Matsushima and Hiroyuki Sanada (of Twilight Samurai fame) easily carry their weight, anchoring the film with performances that draw you into their unraveling nightmare.
However, while their performances are strong, they occasionally show signs of inexperience. Matsushima, in particular, verges on overacting in a few scenes, which takes some of the edge off the tension.
As such, the suspense falters at times, especially during sequences that linger too long on the investigatory angle. And then there’s the scene with the well—a pivotal moment that feels bogged down in its own logic. Spending so much time emptying it makes little sense when they could have just felt around the bottom from the start.
These minor blemishes did not diminish Ringu's overall impact, though. It thrives on atmosphere and intrigue, and when it was released, it induced the kind of nail-biting dread that redefined horror.
Today, the genre has evolved, raising the stakes with films like Hereditary and It Follows, surpassing Ringu in inventiveness and scares while still building on its legacy. These films are like the dastardly offspring of Sadako, evolving into haunting nightmares that make their mother proud.
Alongside The Blair Witch Project (1999), Ringu was a game-changer that paved the way for modern horror, inspiring a new wave of filmmakers to rethink the genre. Without it, would we have films like Sinister, The Conjuring, or Insidious? Maybe not. So, here’s to Ringu: the lurking horror that ushered in a new age of fear.
Resources
AsianMoviePulse: Film Analysis: The Many Lives of Hideo Nakata’s “Ring” (1998)
Den of Geek: How Ringu Broke an Unspoken Pact with the Audience
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