In many respects, Norio Tsuruta’s prequel to Hideo Nakata’s Ringu films trumps his predecessor as he provides a very coherent, though complex, elucidation of the figure of Sadako, the evil menace of the previous entries in the franchise. However, unlike the previous installment, Ringu 2, Ringu Ø retains audience interest as it not only creeps patiently forward to its pathos-inducing, revelatory finale, but does so in a visually–as well as narratively–rewarding manner as we are issued an Eastern version of Brian De Palma’s Carrie. We watch as our tragic hero, much in the same vein as her Ancient forefathers, discovers her own history as Tsuruta character’s multifaceted psychology is interlaced with Christian mythology told with Faulknerian breadth and range.

Sadako Yamamura (Yukie Nakama) is an introverted understudy who, after the death of the leading actress, Aiko Hazuki (Kaoru Okunuki), in the upcoming play “The Mask,” is granted the starring role. However, other cast and crew members begin dying once they begin exhibiting jealousy of Sadako’s newfound success. However, the sound technician, Hiroshi Tôyama (Seiichi Tanabe), senses there is more to Sadako than meets the eye. Circumstances become exacerbated when reporter Akiko Miyaji (Yoshiko Tanaka) reveals that the actress has a haunted past as Sadako is brought back to her father, Heihachirô Ikuma (Daisuke Ban), who unveils a hidden secret concerning his daughter.

The metaphor of the figure of Sadako as being literally torn between her desire to be an average individual in pursuit of her dreams of becoming an actress and her ominous heritage (which is symbolized early in the film as something or someone literally standing behind her which no one, not even the viewer or Sadako herself, is quite able to discern)–which involves her mother who, like her daughter, possesses extrasensory perception–is made manifest in Tsuruta’s clever presentation of a doppelganger. In a manner reminiscent of William Faulkner’s inescapable past and family histories which plague his characters, Ringu Ø becomes a mystery for all involved in that Sadako is unable to explain why those around her continue to die as her friend, Toyama, attempts to reveal that it is Sadako’s alter ego which is, however ironical, jealously thwarting her efforts toward normalcy and social integration.

Aside from the clever formulation that Sadako is literally haunted by her past as Tsuruta brings forth an examination of human psychology as the Freudian id and the superego manifest themselves onscreen, he further crosses Eastern and Western thought to a stunningly poignant degree by having the play itself serve as a running commentary to the events within the film, thus echoing the Greek choruses of the Ancient playwrights as well as creating a metatheatrical atmosphere for his viewer. Furthermore, and a mere feather in the director’s cap at this point, is his recasting of the figure of Ikuma–not as a guilt-ridden murderer in pursuit of a sinless scapegoat as Nakata’s film had him–but rather as a sympathetic protector who reluctantly succumbs to killing his adopted daughter in hopes of alleviating a child’s suffering, prompted by his singular knowledge of Sadako’s true lineage (thus implying that her father was “otherworldly”). What results is that Sadako becomes a martyr (we even see her, in a fleeing moment of narrative didacticism, cure a cripple) who must inevitably suffer for the sins of the “Other” (which is ultimately her own Original Sin of being born with the gift of extrasensory perception). Lastly, and punctually effective in its philosophical and psychological import, is the inclusion of Rupert Julian’s The Phantom of the Opera as Sadako appears on stage, her plight mimicking that of Lon Chaney’s Erik, in a partial, white mask.

The only complaint which I initially had with the feature is that it was obvious from the opening that Tsuruta had contended himself with beginning his tale shortly before Sadako’s decent into her famed watery sarcophagus and, as such, he should have pulled his historical camera further back in order for us to witness the origins, not only of Sadako, but of Shizuko as well. However, by the climax of the film (which, for gratuitous horror fans, will find that Tsuruta also usurped Nakata’s famed “creep out” sequence in the original), it becomes apparent that Tsuruta was steadfastly focused in his narrative resolution to restrict his story in order to present as much as possible in the time allotted. To have done otherwise would have diluted and, in the manner in which the director navigates through Sadako’s story, would have otherwise distilled the film’s harrowing effectiveness.

Remarkable in its depth and courage to explore the nether regions of the mind without hesitancy, Norio Tsuruta’s Ringu Ø does so with daunting style as he calls forth the history of the arts in which to weave a prequel which, like few of its ilk, has the ability–not only to stand on its own as a singular narrative–but supercedes its predecessors in every respect. Whereas Hideo Nakata’s original scathingly indicted the advent of technology in a simple metaphorical narrative, and his sequel tried too hard to surpass its paterfamilias and failed in so doing, Tsuruta’s story not only plausibly elucidates preceding plots as a prequel should, but posits a revelatory surprise which–never forced or artificial–sheds light on what came before while positing a masterful exploration into the psychology of an outcast and the thoughts and reactions of the masses to such an individual. Never brash or assuming, Ringu Ø: Bâsudei is the most solid film in the Ringu series and, by itself, is one of the most impressive films in not only Japanese horror, or the genre itself, but of cinema.

-Egregious Gurnow