The Mummy and the exquisite splendour of a terrible film

Cut to the Feeling is a monthly column by Anne T. Donahue about the art and pop culture that sparks joy, grief, nostalgia, and everything in between.

This week, The Mummy has returned to theatres for its 25th anniversary and with that begs the question: why can't movies be bad like they used to be?

To be clear, The Mummy is a work of cinematic grandeur. It is a narrative gift, a comedic marvel, and a testament to the range of Rachel Weisz and the indelible crush some of us still have on actor John Hannah (see: Sliding Doors for better context). It is fun, it is camp, it is refreshingly not a self-serious testament to a director's lust for an Academy Award — although star Brendan Fraser had to win one for something, it should have been this and not The Whale. Ultimately, The Mummy is what an afternoon at the movies should be, and I should not have to elaborate on any of this.

But don't worry, I will. Upon its premiere in 1999, The Mummy was praised not only for its cutting edge special effects, but the playfulness with which characters Rick O'Connell (Fraser), Evelyn Carnahan (Weisz) and her brother Jonathan (Hannah) navigate the discovery, resurrection, and pseudo defeat of the mummified Imhotep (our title character). Set in 1926, the film capitalises on the early 20th century fascination western academics had with ancient Egypt, and plunges its characters into a cautionary tale of what could happen should you mess with the (un)dead.

Between CGI sandstorms, Indiana Jones-style chase scenes, and epic battles between the living and the undead, The Mummy is a whirlwind of entertainment, up to and including Fraser's excellent hair. Yet, despite the ease in which it delivers action and/or adventure, it's hardly a throwaway cinematic endeavour: the actors involved actively commit to their lines and the scenes in which they deliver them. 

Director Stephen Sommers spends enough time with Imhotep and his backstory that we can glean why he might be so vengeful. (Spoiler: he is mourning the death of his late married lover, and believes sacrificing Evelyn will bring her back.) It is a period piece that in no way romanticises the period it's set in, outside of making formative viewers believe they too could look like Weisz, should they also over-pluck their eyebrows (hello). It is a romp, and that's why we all still love it. It's the movie Nicole Kidman is thinking about in her AMC commercial.

I don't want to be the person who bangs her shoe on the desk and laments the action-adventures of yore, but the lasting legacy of The Mummy explains why most of us will watch it any time it's on TV. It's ridiculous, but there's comfort in that ridiculousness. It's a soul salve to watch squash-buckling characters outwit a spirit lamenting his horrible passing, centuries after the fact. The story is not realistic nor relatable or even original, but it is digestible, easy, and over-the-top. Most importantly, it also delivers exactly what it promises: a movie about a powerful mummy who must be defeated in order to save the world. Nothing more, nothing less. The Mummy Returns does not exist in my mind.

Yet what sets The Mummy apart from more mindless action-adventures (see: any recent film starring Mark Wahlberg) is its willingness to be in on its own joke. Like The Nice Guys, the Fast and the Furious, and Mission: Impossible franchises, the narrative -- though over-the-top and at times cringe -- is presented in a way that suggests audiences have been incorporated into the cinematic universe. The actors seem aware that they're onscreen for audience entertainment, and they embody their roles in a way that treats viewers as equal. Unlike recent Marvel efforts, it doesn't read like fan service, but fan inclusion; winking to those watching as a means of reiterating the importance of their viewership as opposed to proverbially stepping out of character to pat the audience on their little heads. That's what makes The Mummy a theatrical must-see a quarter-century after its release. Even 25 years later, we remember how special it feels to be part of a story, regardless of our proximity away from it.

After all, that feeling is what's at the heart of nostalgia, and it's arguably also why The Mummy has opted to capitalise on its eager-albeit-washed original audience. The first time it was released, I was 13-turning-14, and "wasn't allowed" to see it in theatres because I was over-sensitive and my parents didn't want to resurrect the hyperfixation of my Twister and Titanic eras. (I'm a history student for a reason.) We had an epic fight, and the only journal entry I made that year was about how little they understood me, how they were depriving me of quality time with Brendan Fraser and an ability to connect with my classmates in the only way I knew how (pop culture). 

It's only appropriate that in true camp fashion, I return to said journal for the first time in 25 years and say what I've been waiting my whole adult life to: I'm going to the movies to see The Mummy.