Two Men, Two Mummies

What is it about the The Mummy films, of 1932 and 1999, that frighten viewers? It can't be the Mummy itself; it's only seen for a very short time. The dried husk in the one and the “juicy” specimen in the other are on screen for only a few seconds. These are “monster” movies, but it's not the appearance of the monster that frightens. Both Mummies are hard to look at, but neither is wrapped in decaying cloth, dried up, and wrinkled for long. It's their power that frightens the fictional characters in the film and the live audiences in theaters and homes.

In the 1932 film, Boris Karloff's dessicated face and hands make viewers yearn for a damn good balm. Karloff's Mummy wakes in eerie silence, with deliberately slow movements. The camera lingers on his slowly opening eyelids, on the drop of first one bandaged hand and then the other, on his gentle caress of the Scroll of Toth that revived him, and lastly on his trailing wrappings as he exits. He takes what he needs and leaves the lone human present untouched. “He went for a little walk,” says the so-called “young Oxford chap” who awoke the Mummy, laughing maniacally. “You should have seen his face.” We have; it made us itch.

When next we see the Mummy, he is a man; old and dry, but clearly a man. Karloff's thin limbs and stiff posture are covered in long robes with high-necked dickeys. He is still dessicated and brittle, but definitely human. More important though, his eyes are alive and knowledgeable. It's immediately clear that this man/Mummy has knowledge and contempt of which to beware. Viewers know to fear him even before he says meaningfully, “We Egyptians are not permitted to dig up our ancient dead. Only foreign museums.” When you laugh, it's with a little worry. He calls to Anck-se-ne-Amun in a soft chant that only her reincarnated subconscious can hear and heed. With a similar quiet menace, he forces others to bend to his will or suffer the consequences. With beaming eyes and spells whispered through rigid jaw, he bends commands, “Return that scroll to me, or die.” From his lodgings decorated with only Egyptian antiquities, he watches, controls, and kills by apparent heart failure. And when death reaches him once again, it's only a sudden decomposition that occurs; his dried remains crumble into bones and dust. Not at all scary.

In 1999, Arnold Vosloo's Mummy is an altogether different creature. The scene of Imhotep's live mummification is an homage to Karloff in the same scene. Both men wear the same bewildered expression as their body is wrapped. Beyond that, they share only two characteristics; they are both devout and devoted. In flashbacks we see the men they were; devout high priests and devoted lovers.

In the first sight of Vosloo's Mummy, its gamy consistency, empty eye sockets, and gaping mouth are thrust at the audience with a screech. This Mummy awakens with an angry roar and lunges into action. He surges forth on an immediate hunt for the body parts he's missing and for those who have taken them. Vosloo too wears long robes, but his are gauzy and flowing, open to reveal an increasingly chiseled physique interrupted by a mere gauzy loin garment. Soon, this Mummy is healthy, strong, supple, and still royally angry. His movements are swift and powerful. And he doesn't waste time with requests, duplicity, or explanations. His rage is obvious. And his vengeance is wicked.

Neither Mummy truly frightens. Karloff's pacing and glowering are as amusing as Vosloo's loping run and protruding chest. Still, as the 1932 trailer says, “There is nothing on Earth like the Mummy.” So sit back and enjoy them both!