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If you ordered a bone-in ribeye and were served orange chicken, how would you react? That’s Lee Cronin’s The Mummy (henceforth The Mummy). It’s not so much a mummy movie as it is an Evil Dead movie. Shades of The Exorcist, as well? There’s nothing reminiscent of popular mummified cinema or established monster lore. Cronin gets nasty with peeling flesh and vomitron effects, but overall, the filmmaker’s desire to avoid classic familiarity feels like a pointed betrayal.
Did an intern type the wrong title by accident, and no one noticed???
Jack Reynor stars as Charlie Cannon, an American journalist at the end of a multi-month stint in Cairo, Egypt. Charlie’s wife, Larissa (Laia Costa), works as a nurse, while siblings Katie (Natalie Grace) and Sebastián (Shylo Molina) dream about moving back stateside. Their prayers are answered when Charlie gets a stable job in New York City—but tragedy strikes. Katie goes missing in Cairo, kidnapped by a magician woman who offers her a roach-filled fruit.
Fast-forward eight years, and the Cannons live with Larissa’s mother in Albuquerque. Broken, pushing forward, and with little Maud (Billie Roy) now in the clan. But, just as they’re adjusting to life without Katie, she’s found in a sarcophagus, and she’s ready to come home—although, not as Charlie or Larissa remember her.
Cronin strives to steep The Mummy in Egyptian immersion, from hieratic cursive usage to, as Cronin boasts, “an authentic Egyptian cast.” But, that’s all atmospheric wrapping paper. Once Katie’s leathery, inscribed wraps are removed, she’s just a Deadite inspired by pickled “bog body” cadavers. And the hijinks that ensue are ripped from the Necronomicon’s playbook, as Katie terrorizes anyone who dares enter the Cannon’s spacious New Mexico residence. Evil Dead Rise is alive and well in The Mummy, as Katie torments her sister from behind a locked door, “Mommy’s with the maggots” style, or skin tears like a bruised fruit, revealing rotten pulp. It’s just leagues away from scratching any mummy itches, which becomes a distraction.
The whole premise rests on specialists explaining that Katie can only get better at home, looking like she does, uncovered almost a decade later. Egyptian doctors define Katie’s catatonic state as “locked in,” traumatized by years spent being human trafficked in a sealed container, but it’s a whole lot to buy that a shell-shocked, scorpion-eating, elderly-headbutting girl should stay in family care. Charlie’s the naysayer parent, suggesting Katie be sent elsewhere, while professional caretaker Larissa scolds her partner, saying he’s giving up because it’s too hard. However, the stranger Katie’s outbursts become, the more flimsy Larissa’s stubbornness becomes.
It’s an unfocused narrative, bouncing between Cairo and Albuquerque with loosey-goosey geographic continuity. Enter May Calamawy as Detective Dalia Zaki, who hunts Katie’s kidnapper at Charlie’s request. Under the Cannon’s roof, a possession tale is tearing a grief-sick family asunder; in Egypt, Det. Zaki is on a Seven-esque witch hunt. Script logic suffers as Cronin juggles too many plates, especially in a third act that takes the easiest home-sweet-home route to a finale despite sparking a billion questions. Cronin wants you to feel the repugnance of The Mummy, as well as criminal-investigation suspense and parent-child sentimentality. Scenes feel jumbled, like a shoehorned Egyptologist info dump, or oddly cut off, like a wake bit with Drag Me To Hell’s sense of humor but none of Sam Raimi’s follow-through.
Frustratingly, but not surprisingly, Cronin’s responsible for some eye-catching highlights in The Mummy. He asks the moon of Mexican actress Verónica Falcón, and she delivers; get ready to hoot and holler. Young Natalie Grace does a phenomenal job as the demonic version of Katie, whether playing malevolence incarnate or enduring the mutilation that comes along with her decomposing vessel. Cronin’s quick to remind us that he’s capable of delivering the kind of nauseating body horrors that earned him the Evil Dead Rise gig, as we’re all Mr. Reynor, staring in paralyzed amazement with those huge, wide-open eyes.
However, The Mummy is an endurance test at two and a quarter hours. Am I saying that The Mummy feels like an unused Evil Dead screenplay given a slapdash “mummy it up” edit pass? No, but I’d believe such a conspiracy. Multiple endings keep this marathon going, even though it’s wheezing, short of breath two-thirds the way through. Cronin’s preoccupied with the importance of moments versus the context required to get there, which sees characters fall victim to the annoying trope of poor decision-making in times of extreme duress. The gears keep grinding sans lubrication, desperately and clunkily trying to finish the job.
If you wanted to make another Evil Dead movie, why tell people you’re making a mummy movie? That’s the question I can’t shake; a baffling distraction. It’s a shame, because Cronin conjures nightmare fuel as Katie unleashes merciless hell on her loved ones. The pulled teeth, denture taunts, and coyote frenzies prove what promise exists. But The Mummy never undresses its Evil Dead costume, making what could have been a tragic new subgenre addition present like confused cosplay. It’s sickly comedic, properly twisted, yet a disappointing mummy movie that doesn’t know when to hit the eject button.
Movie Score: 2.5/5
