The Mummy

Love—or what we call love—produces a lot of lip service, which isn’t a reference to kissing. We proclaim our dedication to another, though in reality—if our typical future behavior is any indication—we might as well be saying, “Fat chance.” Horror films often feature obsession that is billed by the obsessing individual as love in its purest form. This would-be brand of love resembles hate and is in reality about control and ego.

The same may not be said for Karl Freund’s ageless 1932 Universal film, The Mummy. Along with the studio’s Dracula and Frankenstein from the prior year, The Mummy comprises the unholy trinity of talkie terror. These were the films that established the deathless archetypes and visual vocabulary for much of what would follow and became a part of pop culture to the same degree that Star Wars would some nearly 50 years later. American movie horror starts here.

The Mummy is the most meditative of the lot. Some would call it slow, but ignore them, because anyone who does so could do with a rewatch. Having been made to keep the camera in situ by Tod Browning in Dracula, cinematographer-turned-auteur Freund got it moving again with The Mummy as the story itself proceeded through the mists of time.

Having given one of the most electrifying performances in all of cinema with Frankenstein—if you know, you know, as they say—Boris Karloff downshifted into subdued mode to play Ardath Bey, the man late of the Egyptian embalming table who has now come back to life in the 20th century. Such is the efficacy of Jack Pierce’s makeup and the staging of the film’s opening scene, that we tend to forget that nowhere else in the picture does Karloff appear in full-on mummy mode. Think of how many kids have gone out trick-or-treating with that Pierce/Karloff as the inspiration for their costume, or recall when you wrapped yourself in bandages, stuck out your arms and made them go stiff, and scared your sister shitless. That’s staying power.