Lee Cronin’s The Mummy – Film Review

There’s a certain expectation that comes with a modern reimagining of The Mummy. The title alone conjures images of sweeping adventure, ancient curses, and a careful balance between horror and spectacle. Under the direction of Lee Cronin—whose work on Evil Dead Rise showed a knack for claustrophobic dread—this new iteration promises something darker, more intimate, and deeply unsettling. Unfortunately, while the film occasionally brushes up against those ambitions, it ultimately collapses under the weight of its own convoluted storytelling and tonal confusion.

Cronin’s The Mummy is less concerned with swashbuckling thrills and more focused on domestic horror. The shift is bold on paper, replacing globe-trotting adventure with a slow-burn tale about family, grief, and possession. The film opens with a striking prologue set in Aswan, Egypt, where a discovery beneath a seemingly ordinary home hints at ancient evil. It’s an effective sequence—moody, tense, and visually distinct—that sets expectations the rest of the film struggles to meet.

From there, the story pivots to a family in Cairo before eventually relocating to the United States, following Charlie Cannon (Jack Reynor), his wife Larissa (Laia Costa), and their children. When their daughter Katie disappears under mysterious circumstances, the film establishes a deeply unsettling premise that blends supernatural horror with the trauma of loss. Eight years later, her sudden return—alive but profoundly changed—should serve as the emotional and narrative anchor of the film.

Instead, it becomes the beginning of a narrative spiral that grows increasingly unwieldy.

Cronin’s approach leans heavily into body horror and psychological torment, clearly drawing inspiration from possession films rather than traditional mummy lore. Katie’s condition, tied to ancient rituals and a demonic entity, introduces an intriguing concept involving living mummification and scripture embedded in flesh. It’s a genuinely disturbing idea, and one that occasionally results in moments of effective horror. There are scenes that linger uncomfortably, using sound design and physical performance to evoke dread rather than relying solely on jump scares.

However, the film’s mythology is over-explained to the point of exhaustion. Characters spend long stretches delivering exposition about ancient demons, rituals, and curses, often halting the narrative momentum entirely. What should feel mysterious instead becomes laborious, as the film struggles to trust its audience to piece things together. By the time the rules of the supernatural threat are fully laid out, much of the tension has dissipated.

The performances do what they can to ground the chaos. Reynor brings a weary determination to Charlie, portraying a father pushed to his limits by unimaginable circumstances. Costa delivers a committed performance as Larissa, though her character is often sidelined by the script’s focus on unraveling its mythology. May Calamawy, as Detective Dalia Zaki, injects some much-needed urgency into the film, particularly in the investigative sequences that briefly hint at a more compelling, globally connected story.

But it’s Natalie Grace as Katie who leaves the strongest impression. Her physicality and eerie stillness create some of the film’s most unsettling moments. Unfortunately, the character is written more as a vessel for horror than a fully realized person, which limits the emotional impact the film is clearly striving for.

One of the film’s biggest missteps lies in its tonal inconsistency. Cronin seems torn between crafting an intimate family horror and delivering the kind of mythic scale associated with The Mummy brand. The result is a film that never fully commits to either direction. The domestic scenes are often grim and oppressive, filled with anguish and dread, while the broader mythology suggests a much larger, more epic narrative that remains frustratingly underdeveloped.

This tension is particularly evident in the film’s pacing. The first act is methodical, almost to a fault, taking its time to establish characters and mood. The middle portion becomes cluttered with exposition and increasingly bizarre developments, while the final act rushes through major plot points with little room for emotional payoff. Key moments that should feel devastating or cathartic instead land with a dull thud.

Visually, the film has its merits. Cronin demonstrates a strong eye for composition, particularly in the early Egyptian sequences and the more confined, domestic settings. Shadows and tight framing are used effectively to create a sense of unease. There are also flashes of creativity in the horror set pieces, with practical effects that emphasize the grotesque nature of the film’s central concept.

Yet even here, the film feels uneven. Some sequences are genuinely chilling, while others veer into unintentionally absurd territory. The reliance on shock value occasionally undermines the atmosphere, replacing sustained tension with fleeting moments of discomfort that fail to resonate.

Another significant issue is the film’s emotional disconnect. While it clearly aims to explore themes of family, sacrifice, and the lengths parents will go to protect their children, these ideas are never given the space to fully develop. The characters are often reacting to events rather than driving them, which makes it difficult to invest in their journeys. The script gestures toward deeper meaning but rarely follows through in a satisfying way.

This is particularly disappointing given the strength of the premise. A story about a family grappling with the return of a child who is no longer entirely human is inherently compelling. Combined with the rich potential of Egyptian mythology, the film had all the ingredients for something truly memorable. Instead, it feels like a collection of interesting ideas that never quite coalesce into a cohesive whole.

Comparisons to previous iterations of The Mummy are inevitable, and while Cronin deserves credit for attempting something different, the film lacks the sense of identity needed to justify its departure. It’s neither the adventurous spectacle of earlier versions nor a fully realized reinvention of the concept. It exists in an awkward middle ground, unsure of what it wants to be.

Even the horror elements, which should be the film’s strongest aspect, feel inconsistent. There are moments of genuine dread, but they are often undercut by pacing issues or excessive exposition. The film seems to explain its scares rather than letting them speak for themselves, which diminishes their impact.

By the time the story reaches its conclusion, there’s a sense of missed opportunity that lingers. The film gestures toward emotional resolution and thematic depth, but it hasn’t done the necessary groundwork to make those moments resonate. What should feel like a powerful culmination instead comes across as rushed and unearned.

In the end, Lee Cronin’s The Mummy is a frustrating experience—one that hints at a more compelling film buried beneath layers of overcomplication and uneven execution. There are flashes of creativity and moments of genuine horror, but they’re not enough to overcome the film’s structural and tonal issues.

For a franchise built on the allure of ancient mysteries and timeless terror, this reimagining feels oddly lifeless. It reaches for something deeper and more unsettling but ultimately fails to bring it fully to life.