Editorials
Koji Suzuki’s Novel ‘Ring’ and Its Forgotten 1995 TV Adaptation
By now everyone should know The Ring (2002) is a remake of Ring (1998). Less known is the fact that Hideo Nakata’s momentous film was not the first on-screen appearance of the vengeful Japanese ghost who spreads her curse by video — in 1995, Fuji Television aired its own take on Sadako Yamamura’s story. Of course, this made-for-TV version has since been overshadowed and, in some circles, dismissed. Yet for all its many odd decisions, Chisui Takigawa and Jōji Iida’s collaboration still follows its source material a good deal more closely than subsequent films, particularly where its spectral antagonist is concerned.
Those new to Ring ’95 (also known as Ring: Kanzenban or Ring: The Complete Edition on home video) will immediately notice its protagonist is not a female divorcée and single mother, but rather a married man. Indeed, like in Kōji Suzuki’s ‘91 novel, the main character here is a male reporter named Kazuyuki Asakawa. It is worth noting that the TV-film’s depiction of him, who is played by Katsunori Takahashi, is expecting a child as opposed to already having a baby, like in the book. Nevertheless, Suzuki, who was apparently not content with the gender flip in Nakata’s film, wanted a positive father figure as his main character. The author felt strongly about this role, on account of his being a stay-at-home dad when he wrote Ring. Mind you, the literary Kazuyuki is a husband and parent who leaves his wife Shizu, also cursed by onryō Sadako Yamamura, in the dark for most of the story. As for why Nakata and screenwriter Hiroshi Takahashi replaced Kazuyuki Asakawa with Reiko Asakawa (played by Nanako Matsushima), one supposed reason was because there would be more tension if the two investigators were a divorced couple.
Hiroyuki Sanada was a recognized face before Ring, and his star only rose higher after playing Ryūji Takayama in the ‘98 film. Sanada’s notable portrayal of Reiko’s ex-husband, though, is a far cry from what Suzuki conceived. In some ways, he is the antithesis of the author’s ideal form of Kazuyuki. Sanada’s Takayama is not the most pleasant of fellows; he is an estranged father and tends to get short with Reiko. Meanwhile, the book’s Takayama is a unique character, charitably speaking. The reaction to Kazuyuki Asakawa’s misanthropic friend since adolescence has been divisive over the years, specifically because Takayama claims himself to be a rapist — one who has taken three victims. By the end of the first Ring novel, Suzuki revealed Takayama was lying about his crimes all along, however, for a lot of readers, the damage was already done.
Image: A Japanese-language edition of Kōji Suzuki’s Ring novel.
Night Head writer and director Jōji Iida — who would later direct Spiral (Rasen), one of two direct sequels to Nakata’s film — adjusted Takayama (Yoshio Harada) for television, but without totally scrubbing the character clean. With just roughly an hour and a half to tell its story, the TV-film had to forgo the bulk of Asakawa and Takayama’s rich dynamic from the novel. Suzuki wrote Takayama to be a fascinatingly flawed and enigmatic character, a man whose own sense of self-loathing, as it turns out, nearly surpasses readers’ antipathy for him. The ‘95 reinterpretation of said character, on the other hand, is ambiguously guilty of a different heinous crime; Takayama is thought to be a wife-killer who got off because of a lack of evidence. And by believing in his friend’s innocence, Asakawa’s career took a huge hit. In this case, opting for the less tricky yet still quarrelsome friendship is understandable. After all, audiences were already having to witness Sadako’s more extensive origin, and to throw a novel-accurate Takayama on top of that would have been overwhelming.
Suzuki found success in horror, despite the author not particularly liking the genre or the style of writing. This is evident as readers continue with the more science fiction-bent sequels, Spiral and Loop. In contrast, Nakata and Takahashi’s Ring runs away with the supernatural aspect of Suzuki’s story, going so far as changing Sadako’s origin and powers; the ‘98 film speculates her biological father is really a sea entity, and she can kill without the aid of a virus. As for the TV-film, Iida and director Takigawa struck a balance between science and the uncanny. The visual advantage of television allowed for the eerier parts of the novel, namely the cursed video sequence and climax, to manifest with effects whose datedness only added to the surrealism. Keep in mind, Asakawa and Takayama’s small-screen investigation does not dive anywhere as deep into the scientific discourse found in the book, and the virus component is glossed over.
Nakata’s Ring reworked Sadako’s genesis, whereas the TV-film stayed mostly true to what Suzuki hatched. In the ‘98 reimagining of Sadako’s (Rie Inō) journey to becoming a phantasmal retaliator, she was brained by her putative father, parapsychologist Heihachirō Ikuma (Daisuke Ban), then dumped into that now-infamous well. As for the novel, Suzuki wrote a more complicated and grueling death chronicle for Sadako, whose life story included abandonment, rape, and murder. That important detail of smallpox also comes up, seeing as Sadako bit her infected rapist and killer — a sanatorium intern named Nagao — prior to her death. And during present-day Nagao’s confession to Asakawa and Takayama, he believed Sadako supernaturally willed him. She wanted to leave this world behind, and Nagao was her means to do so. The TV-film, more or less, carries over Sadako’s (Ayane Miura) tragic history from the novel, however, there is now the element of incest to Ikuma (Kōji Shimizu) and Sadako’s relationship. Takayama concludes that Sadako is averse to beautiful and natural things, hence her seeking an unnatural form of intimacy with her father.
Image: The Laserdisc for Ring: Kanzenban.
While the first novel leaves a considerable question mark about moral dilemmas — do we sacrifice ourselves to end the curse, or live by passing it on? — Suzuki spends most of the time exploring the concept of abnormality and how it is approached in society. Naturally, the greatest and most negative attention is paid to Sadako, who was revealed to be intersex and have both male and female genitalia, however, it is through her that the contentious Takayama finally made more sense as a person. As the second book Spiral implies during the autopsy of his body, Takayama’s penis was so physically underdeveloped that the coroner wondered how he could have had “normal sexual relations” with girlfriend Mai Tachihara. Mai stating Takayama was a virgin substantiated that theory. And to be so ashamed by his bodily difference, it was reasonable that Takayama would mask himself with bold and disturbing lies. This anxiety over manhood eventually added context to Takayama’s obsession with Sadako, a person whose whole existence was met with violation and alienation.
The Ring novel is a product of its time and culture. The dialed-up misogyny, the shockingly blasé attitude toward rape, and the additional elements of interphobia and transphobia will all prove challenging for modern readers. On a separate note, it is also disappointing to learn how the series’ most iconic imagery, such as Sadako emerging from the television set, are absent from both this and its ’95 adaptation. Fans ultimately sticking to Nakata’s redo or the Gore Verbinski remake comes as no surprise, especially as they each ameliorate the general story and play up the horror aspect.
Truth be told, the Ring universe is tricky to navigate or keep straight, and the overall quality is erratic. So this TV-film is in good company as it delivers tawdry production values, softcore porn-like atmosphere, and absurdly executed plot developments. Nevertheless, the outcome is a lurid and entertaining oddball that is unlike anything else in the cinematic side of the franchise. Believe it or not, though, this is not even the most out-there refashioning of the Sadako legend either — far from it. Even then, this early entry is a perfect starting point when exploring those deeper and darker parts of the Ring well.
Horrors Elsewhere is a recurring column that spotlights a variety of movies from all around the globe, particularly those not from the United States. Fears may not be universal, but one thing is for sure — a scream is understood, always and everywhere.
Image: Katsunori Takahashi and Yoshio Harada in Ring.
College kids, strippers and vampires—those were Donald P. Borchers’ only requirements when he approached Richard Wenk about writing and directing a movie for New World Pictures. As requested, Wenk cooked up Vamp (1986), a tailor-made blend of the decade’s teen movie craze as well as its horror boom.
Grim and earnest stories were still very much a part of the ’80s horror landscape, yet Vamp is something of a comedy. One difference between it and, say, Saturday the 14th, though, is the former avoids using schtick. Wenk’s movie proves that horror comedies also don’t have to subtract thrills from their recipes. Of course, it takes a minute before reaching that point; college antics and culture shocks preface this one macabre misadventure.
Vamp‘s initial setup is apt for a typical college-set, sex-driven comedy; to bribe their way into a fraternity house, two pledges (Chris Makepeace, Robert Rusler) go looking for some adult entertainment. Without wasting time on any further exposition, the characters embark on an all-in-one-night trip that quickly detours into terror.
To procure their elusive MacGuffin—a stripper willing to gyrate for some frat boys—Keith (Makepeace) and AJ (Rusler), plus a third wheel named Duncan (Gedee Watanabe), trade the safety of their remote college campus for the seediness of some unnamed city. The setting is recognizably L.A. by day, but as soon as night falls, downtown, along with the characters, slips into a kind of surreal universe. Director of photography Elliot Davis gave this early entry on his prolific résumé an unusual yet distinctive look; that Mario Bava-esque, magenta-green lighting is omnipresent, so much so that it’s almost its own character.
Chris Makepeace and Robert Rusler in Vamp
The faint comparisons to Martin Scorsese’s After Hours are merited, although not just because of Vamp’s distinguishing nighttime aesthetic. Save for the primary characters, the supporting roles in Wenk’s movie are also quite colorful and transactional in their behavior. The difference here, though, is the additional urge to ruin Keith and his friends at every turn. Some of that harm is humorous and tolerable enough, whereas the moment Vamp dishes out its first fatality, it’s abundantly clear how this movie qualifies as horror.
Vamp falls into that category of horror movie that reveals its genre with a scream rather than a series of whispers. The opening scene can function as a hint of what lies ahead—things are not at all what they appear to be—but otherwise, Wenk is more than happy to hold off on the horror. When that time does come, though, it catches the viewer off guard. In addition to the pure shock value is that sudden decision to upend the movie’s foremost feature. Or so it would seem.
If afraid of major spoilage, those new to Vamp would be wise to stop reading here. There’s just no skirting around the fact that the central fellowship in this buddy movie hits a serious snag when AJ is killed. That development causes the story to become more of a “long, bad night” journey for Keith and his romantic interest. So while Wenk scores points for subverting expectations, there is also a touch of sadness in his decision. Because if Vamp does anything well, it’s making the characters likable.
Something that comes easily to Vamp—and other teen horror movies from this same era—is its ability to invent young characters worth caring about, or at the very least, are interesting and not so immediately off-putting. More impressive is how Wenk did all this without actually fleshing out those characters. Still and all, Keith and his kind are a grade above cookie-cutter, and in some cases, aren’t completely devoid of growth.
Grace Jones in Vamp
Vamp appeals with an assorted cast of characters. No two are the same, nor are they operating on the same wavelength. The cinematically extroverted AJ, whose actor conveyed charm and vulnerability in near equal amounts, comes alive when he’s at his most undead. Makepeace then makes the chronically cautious Keith a sympathetic fellow, even as he’s more and more affected by the night’s bizarre events. Meanwhile, Duncan is indeed the designated loser of the whole bunch, but Watanabe still manages to humanize him. As a bonus, the role didn’t require him to pull a Long Duk Dong.
As for Dedee Pfeiffer, she is plain adorable as the mysterious After Dark server nicknamed “Amaretto”. She spends all night fixing her dress strap while at the same time trying to get Keith to remember how he knows her. As their offbeat romance grows, it becomes another highlight of this movie. Whether or not Pfeiffer’s character is really a vampire also creates some welcome tension in the story.
Like a lot of its contemporaries, Vamp went on to become a bit of a cult classic. That current status is determined by several factors, but without a doubt, the casting of Grace Jones is the most considerable. The image of her writhing on that unique-looking chair, a Keith Haring original, springs to mind whenever this movie is brought up.
Chris Makepeace, Billy Drago and Paunita Nichols in Vamp
Prior to that first display of unequivocal horror, local vampire queen Katrina (Jones) took to the stage and delivered a strip show like no other. One would expect nothing less from that renowned model and performance artist. By now reports of Jones’ tardiness on set are no secret, yet it’s also hard to deny her commitment to the part of Katrina. It was, in fact, Jones who took charge of her character’s appearance—on top of Haring painting her body and that now-iconic chair, she had Andy Warhol handle her costuming. And not too many actors could seize a room’s attention without saying a single line of dialogue.
In 2022, Vamp received a retrospective novelization from Encyclopocalypse. This literary union of preexisting source material—Wenk’s original screenplay—and new ideas from author Christian Francis amounts to a more comprehensive visit to the After Dark Club. The basic story there is no different than what’s shown on screen; however, Francis gets creative with the characters’ origins and designs, and he enhances a number of key scenes.
The novelization expands on the urban and social decay of the main setting, and supplies a background for the After Dark Club. Sandy Baron’s character, Katrina’s emcee and familiar, is given ample motivation for sticking around; up until the fiery end, he is loyal to his friend and former business partner “Squeak”, who looks like he was “fed through a combine harvester, and left as nothing more than a heap of mangled remains”. Then there is Billy Drago’s character Snow, the leader of a street gang called The Dragons. His reason for menacing Keith and AJ is more altruistic than in the movie; he and his peers act tough to scare off any potential food for the vampires.
Lisa Lyon in Vamp
If not for all the backstories, Francis’ Vamp would be a hell of a lot shorter. Instead, this tie-in read dives into how AJ met Keith—the orphaned Anthony Joseph hailed from a broken home back in Brooklyn—and how their friendship flourished over the years. Keith’s archership is no longer just an assumed part of his entire being; it’s a confidence-building extracurricular for a boy who got picked on before coming into the protection of the new kid in town. These supplemental, in-depth looks at the protagonists, plus their close connection, are maybe unnecessary. The movie already did a fair and concise job of addressing their platonic intimacy without the need for flashbacks and insights, specifically in that scene where AJ lays it all out as he sacrifices himself.
Where the novelization gets off course is its approach to the minor characters. Intermittently backstorying the likes of Katrina’s indentured servants, Seko (Leila Hee Olsen) and Vlad (Brad Logan), ends up disturbing the flow of the writing. Was it absolutely essential that readers know Vlad was the Grand Duke of the House of Romanov, or how Snow’s accomplice Maven (Paunita Nichols) became so dentally challenged? No, not really. However, one’s mileage with these random biographies may vary.
The novelization is a more substantial experience, but for a movie like Vamp, less is more. And as plentiful as they are, it never simply coasts on its campy charms, either. The character work sits comfortably in that realm between cursory and meticulous, the script is sharper than first realized, and Greg Cannom’s vampire makeup is straightforward yet effective. Most of all, the movie didn’t squander its out-of-the-box concept. Richard Wenk made his vision of a “comic nightmare in which just about anything that can go wrong does” come true, and it is very enjoyable.
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