THE RING (Gore Verbinski, 2002) R

Reviewed: October 2nd, 2002

Like a beautiful, framed photograph marred by an inappropriately long expository plaque underneath, Gore Verbinski's The Ring (a remake of the 1998 Japanese film Ringu) is best experienced towel-like. Soak up the stunning, Fincheresque, high contrast, monochromatic images (by cinematographer Bojan Bazelli). Absorb Naomi Watts's uncanny ability to--in much the same fashion as her fellow Aussie/close friend Nicole Kidman did in The Others last year--turn a paper-thin-on-the-page character into one of weight and lasting impression. Marvel at the production-designed, SFXed grandeur of the (sometimes, nothing short of) apocalyptic compositions. Let yourself get wrapped up in the gloomy dampness of it all. Oh, yeah: and try to be scared (note: I am not clever enough to figure out what a towel has to do with marveling or being scared; cut me a break, I can only get only so much mileage out of one simile).

I mean, you're supposed to be scared. This is a horror film, after all, yes? But while a lot of The Ring manages to unsettle by virtue of sheer directorly/actorly force, by the 65% completion mark, plot machinations felt glib. I could see the film's exhaust pipe sputtering and The Ring began to remind me of one those people who reveal their poker hand before the final betting round has even ended, overeager, so confident they're gonna win. This movie forgets that it is the slyest fox whom always catches his prey.

Thus one day later, it's not the exposition that sticks with me, but the near-still frames: Naomi bolting from her lonely cabin, Naomi in CU, hair windswept, eyes apartment-gazing, the sudden trickle of blood, the little boy with his raincoat and umbrella, the aqua horse.

I am reminded of what a notable September 11th photographer wrote when asked to compliment his devastating photos with some text: "I don't trust words."

Indeed, I advise going into The Ring keeping in mind you're gonna have to ignore some clumsy bits of screenwriting (by quality-schizophrenic Arlington Road [good]/Scream 3 [unwatchable]/Reindeer Games [unwatchable] scribe Ehren Kruger). For the first half of The Ring Kruger writes with admirable restraint, generating a palpable tension and moving odd scenes along as just the right clip. But then the explanation deluge hits (as does a severe bout of lethargy; the second half of this film is ssslllooowww) and it's too standard to be anything other than a letdown (though I must applaud the dark, unforgiving nature of this high-profile, big studio release in general; "props" to Dreamworks for not sanitizing).

Watts (who anyone with half a brain recognizes gave either the best or second best female performance last year in her x2 Mulholland Drive turn; the only comparable 2001 female performance was Charlotte Rampling's in Under the Sand and the Academy robbing both Watts and Rampling of even nominations is one of their biggest oversights of all time) is quickly cementing her status as one of the best under-40 actresses working. She's in nearly every scene of The Ring and her stellar presence (quietly frantic, dime-turning to tears or desperation, tender, ballsy) carries the film. Unfortunately the same cannot be said for Martin Henderson, her costar. Hey Henderson, Ed Burns called: He wants his face, gait and disposition back.

The Ring almost redeems its flawed second half via its last, few, stomach-jabbing minutes. They make for an impressively visceral smack, but sadly their resonance drains when you start to contemplate their implications.

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