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A resurrected mummy as the object of horror? Sure, it worked in the 1932 classic with Boris Karloff. Yet in retrospect, it's a pretty crazy idea, no?
Think about it. Imhotep, an Egyptian high priest who lived in the city of Hamunaptra over 3,000 years ago, falls for the beautiful princess, Anck-Su-Namun, and kills the pharaoh. Naturally, since this is the sin of all sins, the royal henchmen must dutifully repay the love-smitten assassin for his romantic zeal. So they mummify him alive, garnishing their handiwork by loading up the fallen holy man's coffin with several thousand scarab beetles (you'll know them when you see them -- and, you will see them). What's wild, though, is that instantly there is a complete litany of procedures and curses in place to solemnise and surround this ominous entombment; a whole business to it. You have to ask, just how often did this sort of thing happen? No wonder everyone's so grouchy.
Of course, what good is an irate mummy if it doesn't rise from the dead three thousand years later, say about 1923, to wreak havoc on Egyptologists, soldiers of fortune, pretty librarians and a whole cast of ancillary riffraff dotting the desert, all of whom look like they've utilised their Christmas gift certificates from Banana Republic? Voila! Enter a very unreasonable mummy. He terrorises first and never even really bothers to ask questions later. All because someone happened upon the long lost scene of the crime and turned the wrong key. Bingo. Every evil spirit there ever was, in any era, or in any other movie for that matter, is unleashed. That's what these khaki-attired folk get for their nosiness, regardless of whether motivated by intellectual curiosity or greed. If this were a better movie, maybe we'd care.
A generally capable actor, Brendan Fraser gives it the old college try as the jodhpur-wearing hero, Rick O'Connell. But Mr. Fraser's George Of The Jungle/Encino Man mugging doesn't work in manly Harrison Ford territory. His Foreign Legion soldier-turned-treasure hunter at the behest of the perfunctory love interest, British librarian Evelyn Carnarvan (Rachel Weisz), is relegated to rat-tat-tatting a series of unrelated wisecracks as he unflinchingly fights the immortal enemy, a disgusting array of gruesome ghouls, a la Terminator 2, with various and inconsistent levels of indestructibility.
Rachel Weisz is less successful in her portrayal. Outright annoying in speech and manner, orphan Evelyn the archaeological altruist pursues a grating repartee with the heroic lead. You know the age-old drill. They chide each other throughout the harum-scarum adventure until, lo and behold, sweet amour finds its way into their bickering. But Karen Allen she is not. Miss Weisz's repetitive harangues suggest a fishwife-in-training. The scenic background, real as well as beautifully computer-enhanced, is entirely The English Patient, but Rick and Evelyn are something right out of the contemporary suburbs; trading insults like two spoiled adolescents in the back seat of a Land Rover on their way back from a soccer game. You just feel like yelling, "Children, behave yourselves, or we're not going to Friendly's."
Along for the ride is John Hannah as Evelyn's tippling brother, Jonathan, a ne'er-do-well fop of the English boarding school variety whose clinical case of arrested development is supposed to be comical. Also aboard is Kevin J. O'Connor as snivelling Beni, a traitorous coward who winds up as the mummy's valet once the Evil One begins strutting his terrible stuff, which, for some unexplained reason, includes the whole megillah of plagues we saw Moses perpetrate in the captivity tale: locust, fire, frogs, etc. But for all of the wanton destruction depicted, hardly anything approximates the creepily insidious effect of the aforementioned scarab beetles Imhotep brings with him. It seems they travel well. And the little buggers can really get under your skin, so to speak.
And then there's the matter of the mummy himself, portrayed by Arnold Vosloo. While it would be outright heresy to seriously believe someone could ever fill Boris Karloff's sarcophagus, Mr. Vosloo is not without his frightening moments. Yet there is no glint of romantic sadness here, no hint of world-weary melancholia to poetically betray the mummy's rampage. As dictated by the compendious lore, he more or less goes through the perversely rejuvenating motions.
This includes harvesting vital innards for himself and his beloved princess from a cast of sundry Arabs and yahoo-issuing cowboys, without even having the decency to ask if they've checked yes to organ donation on their drivers licenses. Since the only other reason these uselessly drab characters are around is to race Evelyn and Rick to the big antique show, you figure they have it coming to them.
Shooting for his 15 minutes of fame, Vosloo's pre-millennium mummy is a preening sort, more like a glowering professional wrestler than a desperately fiendish lover risen from the underworld. Next thing you know, he'll be running for governor. Now that's a thought, tapping the entire history of dead people in search of worthwhile political candidates. Could we do worse?
Don't let my meagre attempt at levity give you the idea that The Mummy has its humorously redeeming points. Truth be told, it's much more fun writing about the movie than seeing it. And touting this film's effects quotient when it's so obviously lacking in all other departments is like rationalising that a blind date has a great personality. But no matter what movie magic filmmaker Sommers uses to wrap his monster mishmash in, there's no bandage big enough to cover this Mummy's boo-boos.
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