Ringu – The Original That Started It All

 I remember the first time I saw Ringu. It was for a class on horror cinema, and our teacher wanted us to experience it properly — on the big screen. We took a trip to a large theatre, the kind where the sound fills every corner and the darkness feels absolute. Sitting there among my classmates, I was transfixed. From the first static flicker of that cursed videotape to the chilling final scene, I was terrified — but completely captivated.

The premise is deceptively simple: a cursed videotape that kills anyone who watches it seven days later. Journalist Reiko Asakawa begins investigating after a string of mysterious deaths, only to discover that she herself has been cursed. With the help of her ex-husband Ryuji Takayama, she sets out to uncover the origins of the tape and the story of the girl behind it — Sadako Yamamura.

What struck me most, even on that first viewing, was how quiet the film is. Ringu doesn’t rely on jump scares or gore. Its power lies in restraint. Everything about it feels muted — the washed-out colours, the measured pacing, the way the camera lingers just a little too long on an empty hallway. The unease builds slowly, almost imperceptibly, until you realise you’ve been holding your breath.

I remember how the sound design amplified that dread. The low hum of static, the faint echoes of water, the eerie distortion of the cursed tape — all of it works together to create a sense of something malignant pressing in from just beyond the frame. Then, when the film reaches its climax, the volume surges and the atmosphere becomes suffocating. The horror takes on a new intensity, as if the film itself has been possessed by Sadako’s rage.

Watching Ringu in a cinema full of students was an unforgettable experience. There was a collective stillness in the room — nobody laughed, nobody moved. When the screen went black, there was a long silence before anyone dared to speak. It wasn’t just fear; it was awe.

The film has since become legendary, spawning countless remakes, including the American The Ring. But nothing compares to the original. There’s a raw, lingering sense of doom that no remake has ever captured. Ringu isn’t just about a cursed videotape — it’s about the unstoppable spread of fear itself, passed from person to person, screen to screen.

When Characters Become More Than Words

We all have our favourite characters — the ones whose victories we celebrate and whose losses we feel deep in our gut. They’re the voices we root for, the people we want to see succeed.

When I’m writing, I sometimes find myself forming that same attachment. Somewhere along the line, I stop feeling like I’m steering the story and more like I’m watching it unfold. Characters start to act as if they have their own wills, their own stubborn ways of surprising me. I’ll admit it — I play favourites.

The hardest part? Wanting to protect them. To give them the win. To hand over the happy ending. But stories — like life — don’t work that way. An unbeatable character would be flat, uninteresting. Aliens, one of my favourite films, wouldn’t be the same if Ripley was an invincible super-soldier. What makes her unforgettable is the fear, the struggle, the fact that she risked everything to protect others despite the terror clawing at her. Her grit and vulnerability are what make us care.

That’s why, as painful as it can be, our characters need to suffer. They need to lose. They need to face the dark before they earn the light. It’s what makes their victories matter — and what makes us love them all the more.

I won’t pretend I find it easy. Sometimes it feels cruel. But without adversity, there’s no growth. Without loss, there’s no real triumph.

How do you feel about this as a reader — or as a writer, if you are one? Do you struggle with letting your characters suffer? Or do you find it easier to put them through the fire, knowing it’ll forge them into something stronger?