Released in October 2002 (and directed by Gore Verbinski), The Ring was more than just a horror movie; it was a cultural sensation. Aside from grossing roughly five times its budget and receiving mostly positive reviews, its word-of-mouth hype made it the must-see cinematic experience of that Halloween season. As Valerie Wee noted in her book Japanese Horror Films and Their American Remakes, it also “marked the beginning of a significant trend in the . . . early 2000s of American adaptations of Asian horror films.”
To be sure, its retooling of Hideo Nakata’s 1998 film Ring (or Ringu) led to numerous other attempts by Hollywood to cash in on the craze. Sadly, the vast majority of them — 2004’s The Grudge, 2005’s Dark Water, 2006’s Pulse, and 2008’s One Missed Call and Shutter — are noticeably inferior to their inspirations and Verbinski’s pioneering prototype.
Thus, The Ring survives not only as the superlative horror retelling of its era, but also as one of the greatest genre makeovers of all time. It may have kickstarted a decade-long trend of schlocky imitators, but its complex acting, powerful drama, emotional heft, and lasting sorrow and scares still runs circles around the competition.
Of course, it’s worth noting why so many copycats emerged after The Ring’s success. In 2017, Vice’s Zac Thompson argued that part of the reason was that American moviegoers wanted something “irresistibly new and strange” after suffering through dozens of Scream imitators.
That necessitated a crop of new “horror movies that were unique in their approach to [narrative] structure, story, [sound design], and [personal] themes.” Put another way, the trend tempted audiences with reinvigorating tricks and topics unlike anything they’d seen before.
As for why The Ring is so singular, well, there’s a lot to discuss. For one thing, its main portrayals and relationships are generally superior to both those in Ringu as well as other stateside Asian remakes. Namely, Naomi Watts and Martin Henderson (as protagonists/ex-lovers Rachel Keller and Noah Clay, respectively) feel extremely genuine and multilayered; their failed romance gives their interactions depth and nuance, enhancing their journey and history. As showcased by this scene in Noah’s apartment, they clearly care about each other, and as a result viewers care about them.
Fortunately, they continue to strengthen their complicated bond as The Ring progresses. In addition, their son, Aidan — played by David Dorfman — is adorably inquisitive and prophetic, if also a tad creepy. He’s granted substantial prominence and personality, especially when interacting with his parents: Just look at how he questions Noah on his absence, as well as how he and Rachel bond before attending Katie Embry’s funeral. Throw in Brian Cox (who, like Watts, is among the top actors of his generation) as the wicked Richard Morgan, and you have some truly superb performances.
Meanwhile, virtually none of the other previously mentioned American adaptations feature lead actors and characters as accomplished and intricate. That’s particularly true for Shutter’s Joshua Jackson and Rachael Taylor; Pulse’s Kristen Bell and Ian Somerhalder; and One Missed Call’s Shannyn Sossamon. They aren’t out-and-out terrible — and they could only be as good as the writing and direction they were given — but they lack humanity and subtlety when juxtaposed against Watts, Henderson, Dorfman, and Cox. Even the most celebrated players (such as Jennifer Connelly, Tim Roth, and John C. Reilly in Dark Water) are done a disservice by the studios and creators with whom they worked.
Beyond that, Verbinski’s movie is more atmospheric, scenic, and patient than its rivals, while there’s little imagination or substance to how One Missed Call, Mirrors, Shutter, and Pulse look: Okay, they occasionally dish out some weird imagery and otherworldly monsters, but in just about every instance, it’s either too bland or too bogus.
Plus, there’s rarely anything done to make their metropolitan locations seem special, and their reliance on speedy editing (not to mention popular music soundtracks) instantly turns them into dated and perfunctory products of their time.
Alternatively, The Ring is shrouded in moody green/blue shades and torrential downpours that imbue its Seattle setting with cold isolation and suffocating dread. What’s more, there are several breathtaking nature collages that, coupled with some exquisite uses of color and lighting, resulting in a perpetually vibrant, upsetting, and dynamic presentation. (Reportedly, production designer Tom Duffield was influenced by the dreary Regionalist style of Andrew Wyeth.)
Even when some of the other films establish palpable moodiness (as Dark Water and The Grudge do), they lack legitimate terror, dread, and/or emotional resonance. Specifically, they play it safe with shallow tactics (namely, cheap jump scares and shoddy CGI) that — alongside the weak characterizations — offer quick and cliché jolts, without any profound consequences or implications. Many of these movies (e.g., The Grudge, One Missed Call, and Shutter) choose instead to serve up one last glimpse at the evil for a superficially shocking tease.
On the other hand, The Ring is consistently eerie and meditative. Primarily, villain Samara’s infamous videotape is markedly cryptic, bizarre, and foreboding (even when juxtaposed with Sadako’s footage in Ringu). The downright disturbing glimpses at bugs, bodily harm, spinning objects, and death can’t help but get under your skin, especially with the accompanying scary soundtrack.
Admittedly, the aftermath of Katie and Noah’s murders — as well as Samara emerging from Noah’s TV — could also be categorized as CGI-riddled jump scares; that said, they’re effective because they’re earned and not egregious. There’s something elusively unsettling about the two victims’ faces that makes their respective reveals startling and troubling rather than silly. However unrealistic Samara’s arrival seems, it’s built up so well (and we’re so invested in Noah, Rachel, and Aidan’s resolution as a family) that it absolutely works, too.
Then there’s The Ring’s ending, which improves upon its predecessor’s climax — and trumps the finales of its followers — in at least two major ways (both of which involve Aidan).
Ringu wraps up with Reiko driving to her father’s house to pass the spell and videotape onto him. That’s plenty distressing, but in the remake, it’s even worse to see Aidan helping Rachel produce copies of the cursed clip (especially since she’s finally redeemed herself as a neglectful mother). He even asks her, “What about the person we show it to? What happens to them?” and she doesn’t answer.
Prior to that, Verbinski creates a false sense of closure and relief for them (and us) by having Rachel tell Aidan that she “set [Samara] free.” Instead of celebrating, Aidan sits up and asks, “Why did you do that? You weren’t supposed to help her. Don’t you understand, Rachel? She never sleeps.”
It’s a creepily clever twist that implies that Samara’s reign of terror is just getting started. Instead of popping up at the audience herself (as The Ring’s lesser proteges likely would’ve had her do), she turns a compassionate mother and son into her lackies.
In a 2002 interview archived by Curse of the Ring, the director asserted that “it is not necessarily the case that in adapting [a] film for a new audience, you betray those who are already familiar with it.” Indeed, Verbinski’s vision struck a perfect balance between faithfulness and freshness, thereby adding intricacy, emotion, scares, and ingenuity to an already meaningful and alarming tale.
If only its numerous impersonators could’ve copied those attributes, too.
The Ring is streaming now on Paramount+.
