THE MUMMY(1932) review
The Mummy gets a bad (w)rap. Ha, ha. Puns! He’s not as sexy as Dracula, or as popular as Frankenstein’s Monster. He’s kind of the guy who’s just sort of there. I’m a monster kid from way back, and I can barely tell you what the guy does. Vamps turn into bats and mesmerize women; what the hell does the Mummy do? Shamble slowly? Is he just a retired dude shopping for cheese at Costco?
Anyway, I watched the original 1932 version of the Mummy after decades of not seeing it, and everything’s cleared up. He is cool and powerful — and goddammit, the Mummy matters. The whole reincarnated lover trope (something that’s been absorbed into vampire mythology with Fright Night, Bram Stoker’s Dracula and Dracula Untold) started here. The man also has the power to spare: Imhotep is an Egyptian priest capable of magical scrying, hypnosis and sympathetic magic (he causes one hapless victim to have a heart attack from miles away).
The film itself seems to be a beat by beat retelling of Dracula (released the year previous), but the real beauty of these classic monster flicks is in the cinematic details. The make-up is incredible. Both the initial Mummy wrapped-in-bandage look and the cracked, wrinkled visage he carries for the rest of the picture tap into fears of entropy. The lighting is beautiful, with these creepy-as-hell close-up’s of Karloff — eyes both sunken and glowing — shockingly cut into the flow of editing. Mr. Mummy, sir, I will never doubt you again.
