MOVIE REVIEW: “LEE CRONIN’S THE MUMMY” (R)
Grade: C

For horror fans out there miffed at the very idea that Lee Cronin has somehow earned the right to put his name above the title of his latest project (something generally reserved for horror icons like John Carpenter and Wes Craven) even though he only has a couple of features to his credit (“The Hole in the Ground,” “Evil Dead Rise”), just know that this is the least of this movie’s problems. Also, let it be known that this wasn’t done out of arrogance. It’s been reported that producer Jason Blum made the suggestion to put Cronin’s name atop the title as to not confuse casual moviegoers. The last thing the team behind this gore-fest want is folks walking in thinking that this is a new entry in the Brendan Fraser “Mummy” franchise which this film most certainly is not. Fear not, though, as it’s looking like we’ll be seeing a new installment in that particular series sometime in 2027. As for “Lee Cronin’s latest, it’s an entirely different beast and in the end, it’s barely a “Mummy” movie at all. I mean, I’m all for liberties being taken in a modern reimagining of a familiar property but honestly, if you’re going to stray this far, maybe just call it something else.

In this blood-soaked take on “The Mummy,” journalist Charlie Cannon (Jack Reynor) and his loving wife Larissa (Laia Costa) relocate the family to Egypt for Charlie’s latest job and ultimately, they are plunged into every parent’s worst nightmare after their young daughter Katie (Emily Mitchell) goes missing. Shortly after the disappearance, the Cannon family, which includes Katie’s siblings Maude (Billie Roy) and Sebastian (Shylo Molina), do what they can to pick up the emotional pieces.

Cut to; 8 long years later. The Cannon family now reside in New Mexico, and they get the shock of their lives after receiving a call from the authorities informing them that Katie has been found but as the Cannon family quickly discover, she is not at all herself.  But then, I suppose spending an extended period of time trapped in a sarcophagus would have a strange effect on a person. 

Upon watching this film, one might speculate that Cronin approached the powers that be about doing a follow up to his own “Evil Dead Rise” but after getting turned down, he couldn’t take no for an answer, so he just opted to do a sort of repurposed version of “The Mummy” instead.  And that’s pretty much what this movie plays like; A fusion of “Evil Dead’ and “The Exorcist” with a little “Hereditary,” “The Omen,” and “Poltergeist” thrown in for good measure.

When it comes to bringing the gore factor, Cronin ain’t no slouch. Those with a pure love for carnage candy will find plenty to grasp on to here. That said, this take on “The Mummy” is dour, ugly, brutal, and often unpleasant and even though Cronin is perfectly adept at crafting the proceedings, it does get to a point where the movie feels like it’s simply more interested in making us squirm than anything else.

Of the performances here, Laia Costa has some nice moments as a mom who tries to convince herself that there’s nothing wrong with her daughter but Reynor (an actor I’ve suggested for quite some time would make the perfect James Bond) spends the majority of the film looking at the strange happenings around him in bug-eyed fashion. The standout of the cast is Natalie Grace whose work as the older version of Katie is fittingly terrifying.

As was the case with Leigh Whannell’s disappointing adaptation of “Wolf Man,” “Lee Cronin’s The Mummy” does attempt to say something about one’s fear of not being able to protect their children but here, it’s a somewhat meager attempt because any such subtext is all but buried in an endless sea of ick. This is to say nothing of a handful of plot points that are either underexplained or make very little to no sense. Take, for instance, the medical profession as presented in this film. These so-called professionals are pretty quick to send Katie home even though there’s clearly something wrong with her. Also, where exactly was this girl for the last 8 years? “Lee Cronin’s The Mummy” treats this aspect of the proceedings as an inconvenient afterthought.

Again, there’s very little here that feels like “The Mummy.” Yes, there’s a sarcophagus and an Egyptian locale, but these things feel shoehorned in. Beyond that, for all of Cronin’s abilities when it comes to crafting fittingly shocking set pieces and skillfully working with a barrage of creative practical effects, his take on a property made famous by a decades-old classic Universal monster movie starring Boris Karloff feels pretty darn deadite-heavy by comparison. What’s more, with a runtime of 2 hours and 14 minutes, it all feels awfully long-winded for a film of this nature. At the end of the day, while this isn’t a bad film (for all its flaws, it’s more effective than the 2017 Tom Cruise headlined-take), what “Lee Cronin’s The Mummy” is most successful at doing is reminding us of a handful of better horror movies.

Oh yes, aliens can do that

Touch Me stars Olivia Taylor Dudley (She Dies Tomorrow) and Jordan Gavaris (Orphan Black) as best friends and roommates, Joey and Craig. When we meet these two characters, their lives are messy, and they are addicted to any drug that will enable them to forget reality.

As a result, things go bad fast when they meet the alien narcissist, Brian (Lou Taylor Pucci), who has a heroin-like touch. It’s impossible not to get addicted to the feeling, and they move in with Brian in his remote home.

There is, however, a problem with Brian, as he may be planning to take over the world. As such, the two friends need to wake up from their feel-good rush to save humanity.

Alongside the three actors already mentioned (all of whom are truly brilliant in this), we also have a few more in the cast worth mentioning. Especially Paget Brewster and Marlene Forte (Knives Out, Fear the Walking Dead), who both portray key characters.

By David Stewart

Director Kent Jones explores aging, ego, and New York’s literary ghosts in a wry, performance-driven drama led by Willem Dafoe.

Late Fame, directed by Kent Jones

Does creativity remain fertile as one reaches the end of their life? From In a Lonely Place (1950) to The Wonder Boys (2000), a number of films have probed the internal insecurities of the world-weary, burnt-out writer. Directed by respected film critic, former NYFF programmer, and documentarian Kent Jones, Late Fame is a cerebrally warm but satirically stark exploration of the theme, focusing on how the influence of celebrity can upend creativity. Inspired by Arthur Schnitzler’s posthumously titular novella, screenwriter Samy Burch (May December) deliberately discards the dour setting of Schnitzler’s 1920s Vienna for the livelier atmosphere of New York City’s modern-day Lower East Side.

Willem Dafoe plays Ed Saxberger, a postal worker and once-published poet who hasn’t written anything in nearly four decades. His daily grind is comfortably monotonous until Meyers (Edmund Donovan), a young overenthusiastic fan of his, shows up outside his apartment. After persistent wheedling, Meyers introduces Ed to a café salon of various writers who dream of their big break. In reality, the group is made up of pretentious rich boys who haven’t the slightest idea what artists of Ed’s generation went through to be published. Meyers and his wealthy cohorts sit on the far end of the café, away from the social media influencers, as they profess hypocritical Luddite-based principles while taking calls on their cell phones. But these coffee sessions fuel Ed’s once-depleted ego and rekindle his affection for Gloria (Greta Lee), an actress and chanteuse struggling to make her mark. Ed finds himself cajoled by Meyers into writing new material and a memoir as part of a campaign to revive his career by making him the keynote speaker at a public reading. Panic sets in: Ed’s days are spent looking at a blank page as he listens to audiotapes of the poets of his generation, such as Anne Waldman and William Carlos Williams, attempting to foil his writer’s block.

Late Fame is Jones’ reverential (and earnest) love letter to creativity and New York City. The director grew up in the Berkshires before moving to NYC in the ’80s to work on Martin Scorsese’s documentaries. His lens affectionately embraces the eccentric characters in Burch’s script, the remnants of the city’s bygone literary era. His quasi-verité approach to filming the salons hums with a verve reminiscent of Jim Jarmusch’s Stranger Than Paradise (1984) as well as John Cassavetes’ Shadows (1959) and Opening Night (1977). As in Jones’ first narrative feature, Diane (2018), the director finds a transcendent resonance in Ed’s life of self-induced loneliness. He hides his cell phone — only to end up hearing voicemails from his estranged family as he toils in the service of adoring strangers. Meanwhile, Ed has to deal with his social life, his blue-collar postal worker buddies putting down his literary dreams in a dive bar worthy of a visit from Charles Bukowski.

Dafoe is a consistently engaging actor. His composed presence here is not unlike Jack Nicholson’s David Staebler in Bob Rafelson’s The King of Marvin Gardens (1972). He is reluctant to go along with the insane plans of those around him; we know this because we hear him reflect on his plight during nightly walks around the city. Dafoe started his career in the late ’70s as a member of the experimental theatre company the Wooster Group, and his reenactment of Ed’s spirited youthful performances evokes an edgy energy. Greta Lee taps into Sally Bowles–styled stamina; she lights up Ed’s life, serenading him as she sings Kurt Weill numbers in a downtown cabaret. (The film that inspired Jones to become a critic and director was Bob Fosse’s Cabaret (1972).) Edmund Donovan’s hyperactive performance as Meyers lampoons those who are oblivious to the barriers posed by class and unable to separate the rewards of creativity from those of instant gratification. Late Fame has its creative limitations: Ed’s past as an alcoholic and Gloria’s psychological conflicts are underexplored. Still, the depth of Dafoe and Lee’s performances makes up for these weaknesses; the pair help amplify the suspense that holds the film’s third act together.

The film’s visuals are a tactile plus. The handheld camerawork of Wyatt Garfield, who shot Jones’ previous film along with Beasts of the Southern Wild (2012), underscores the morbidity of Ed’s isolation and the reverie of his newfound friends. Editor Mike Selemon has cut the snappy wit and pathos in Burch’s script with a sharp eye. Don Fleming’s bluesy guitar score evokes the sounds of John Lurie and other No Wave musicians who were a big part of the downtown New York scene of the late ’70s, when Ed established his career.

In his preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde wrote that “to reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.” Jones, no doubt drawing on his critical sensibility, successfully conveys the complexities of making art, regardless of age, and shares them beautifully in Late Fame.

David Stewart currently teaches at Emerson College, Plymouth State University, and Southern New Hampshire University. His first book, 2025’s There’s No Going Back: The Life and Work of Jonathan Demme, was published by the University of Kentucky Press.