Lee Cronin's The Mummy

It’s been a couple of weeks since I saw Lee Cronin’s The Mummy, and it’s stayed with me, mostly because it’s so bad. 

I’m assuming the writer/director’s name has been added to the title to avoid any confusion with the Brendon Fraser Mummy movies, one of which is currently in production. It also, most likely unintentionally, reflects that fact that Cronin’s creative stamp is firmly on this flick, and so, for better or worse, he gets to own it. 

The premise for LCTM is, on paper, an interesting one: The pre-teen daughter of an American family is abducted in Cairo, and is found eight years later, mummified but alive. The execution, however, isn’t. 

The trouble is apparent in the pre-credits sequence with its Raiders of the Lost Ark-style indoor pyramid and a kill that should impress to kick things off, but just doesn’t. The movie, then, begins with a whimper, and not what seems the intended bang. 

Post-credits, we see little Katie learning Morse Code, which we know will play a role later in the story. She's then abducted, and Dad (Jack Reynor) comes across like a macho American asshole, his rage and frustration showing itself via entitlement rather than concern. He’s a difficult charter to empathize with, despite the weight of his situation. It's the kind of character mid-career Mel "Givmebackmyson!" Gibson excelled in. 

Eight years later, through the eyes of a teenage cyclist, we see a cargo plane crash in the far distant mountains. Seemingly seconds later, the boy has traversed distance and time to arrive at the crash site. Not only does he discover a deuce of dead bodies, but he also finds a sarcophagus standing upright, presented like the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey. When archeologists get a chance to examine the sarcophagus, they find the mummified Katie inside, who bolts to life moments later. That she's survived plummeting to Earth in a heavy AF stone coffin seems something we’re intended not to question.  

All this is so much setup for the story proper in which Katie’s family, now relocated to her maternal grandmother’s home in New Mexico, bring her home. It’s a fine setup for what could be a disturbing and affecting flick about what happens when a traumatized family member is brought back into the fold, and her return destroys rather than reunites the family. Instead, it’s during this homecoming scene that we discover just how boneheaded this movie is. Instead of lifting the nonverbal and semi-catatonic Katie from her wheelchair and carrying her upstairs to her bedroom, Dad pulls her up the staircase, bumping and thumping her wheelchair up each and every step. Dad’s care looks an awful lot like abuse. 

Katie’s not the only child in the Cannon family; there are three, and each becomes possessed to varying degrees, with Katie the centre of all the supernatural hokum. Not much has been added to what cinematic possession looks like since The Exorcist, and if we’ve ever needed proof of just how terrific Linda Blair’s performance in that watershed flick is, we need look no further than what little Billie Roy as Maud Cannon, Katie’s younger sister, is called upon to do with the unconvincing casual use of shock words like “cunt”. It’s not Roy’s fault; the basis of the problem lies in the writing, direction, and expectation placed upon such a young actor. 

As much bandwidth devoted to LCTM has mentioned, the flick quickly devolves from a mummy movie into a variation of Cronin's previous possession film, Evil Dead Rise. It also throws in elements of Ari Aster’s Hereditary, William Friedkin’s The Exorcist, the Philippous' Bring Her Back, and countless other horror films, including a funeral scene that crosses, I kid you not, The Simpsons with Sam Raimi’s Drag Me to Hell and Mary Lambert's Pet Sematary.

Beyond LCTM’s penchant for playing mix tape with every horror film made since 1973, it’s also an ugly film to sit through in terms of its cinematography. Apparently lit to suggest an Egyptian tomb, the Canon’s suburban home is so filled with sandy earth tones and so dimly lit that it would be uninhabitable. It's a choice. 

The film has its good points — its Egyptian setting, the performances of Emily Mitchell as the returned Katie, Laia Costa as Katie’s mother, May Calamity as a Cario-based detective on the case, Hayat Kamille as the villain of the piece, and Katie’s character make up from Arjen Tuiten’s R-E-N Studio, as well as some very wet gore effects — but it’s well and truly a dud.

2025

Dracula (aka Horror of Dracula).

Dir: Terence Fisher. Cast: Peter Cushing, Michael Gough, Melissa Stribling, Christopher Lee, Carol Marsh, John Van Eyssen, Valerie Gaunt, Olga Dickie & Janina Faye. 1958

Revisiting the 2012 Hammer Films restoration of Dracula, which includes additional footage from its initial Japanese/Eastern European release, I was reminded of how Jimmy Sangster’s script streamlines what’s found in the source novel, and keeps the proceedings fresh and unpredictable for viewers familiar with author Bram Stoker’s most famous work, and from earlier screen adaptations. 

Sangster’s script also nicely deals with (or eliminates) several moments that, even by the late 1950s, had become vampire/horror movie cliches, such as the coachman refusing to take Jonathan Harker (John Van Eyssen) all the way to Castle Dracula, the arrogant sneering at local traditions found in most other iterations of the story, and Dracula’s (Christopher Lee) barely contained, bug-eyed hunger at the sight of Harker cutting his finger. Even the fascinating, but difficult to convey without camp, character of Renfield is nowhere to be seen. It's apparent that Hammer had something very serious on its mind here.  

And although it’s been written about ad nauseam, the emphasis, for the first time, on the eroticism inherent in the Dracula story is (in)famously clear and present. 

On the latter note, something interesting I picked up on this time, whether it was intentional or not, is that, as Count Dracula makes his way to Harker to feed upon him, Dracula seems positioned as a sexual predator rather than as a creature solely intent on blood. To drive the point home, the scene ends with a fade to black, a transition that was frequently used to indicate a sexual moment that, based on era-specific sensibilities, the filmmakers would be unable to show on screen. 

Later, as Doctor Van Helsing (Peter Cushing) searches Castle Dracula for his companion, Harker, he makes his way into Dracula’s bed chamber. There, we’re shown the corpse of the Count’s recently staked “bride” as well as, in another nearby coffin, the dormant and now vampiric Jonathan Harker. It’s as if Harker has replaced Dracula’s bride as bedroom companion. Again, it’s hard not to read this in some sort of sexual context. 

Dracula was the second pairing of Cushing and Lee after The Curse of Frankenstein, the previous year’s box office hit for Hammer. The duo's continued shared screen appearances would become one of the hallmarks of what would be known as Hammer Horror. 

Here, Cushing gives us a more contemporary take on Van Helsing than we’re used to. He’s solid, caring, and well versed in both science and superstition. His Van Helsing is a man of both compassion and action.

As for Lee… With all apologies to the great Bela Lugosi, who truly established the way that we see and understand Count Dracula, Christopher Lee has always been my favourite incarnation of the Count. Watching again, I was struck by the way Lee’s Dracula is so matter of fact as opposed to coy or arch, the speedy and agile manner in which he ascends and descends Castle Dracula’s main staircase, and the way he turns absolutely feral when his anger or feeding instincts are aroused. 

In fact, it's one of the great moments in horror cinema the first time we see Lee as an enraged vampire. We've previously met him as a debonair and somewhat aloof nobleman, but here, we're wrapped up in a hurried conversation between Harker and the "Vampire Woman" (Carol Marsh), who is begging Harker to take her away from Castle Dracula. 

Suddenly, in a shock cut, we find that Dracula has returned from feeding, and he's not having any of it. In light of our earlier introduction to the Count, we’re not prepared for the sight of the red-eyed, bloody-mouthed monster, shot in medium close up, and accompanied by the clash of cymbals on the soundtrack. It is perhaps the most effective introduction of the Count as vampire in cinema history. Perhaps the same can be said for the film itself. Dracula, or Horror of Dracula, is a bonafide classic.

Clem Burke, RIP.

Blondie has long been my favourite band. There are multiple reasons for this, with their music obviously being first and foremost, but not insignificantly, the band was a lifeline for me from a boring and threatening small town existence that didn’t fit me particularly well, to the exciting and artful world of New York City and all that that mecca has always offered all sorts like me. 

At the core of the band has always been three members: co-founders Debbie Harry and Chris Stein, and Clem Burke. Having been with Blondie since the beginning, Burke’s extraordinary drumming has been instrumental in the creation and evolution of the band’s sound and image. 

Clem Burke passed away “following a private battle with cancer”, as a release from the band states. His death date was Sunday, April 6, 2025.

In their statement, the band go on to note that “Clem was not just a drummer; he was the heartbeat of Blondie.” This is the heart of the matter. I don’t quite see how Blondie can continue as a band. Fortunately, they have an album recorded and ready for release sometime this year. It will be Burke’s farewell. 

^ Click to read.

Fans of any band can be forgiven for stating “Member X is one of the greatest guitarists in the game”. We frequently only see the best in the people and things that we love, but in Burke’s case, it’s not hyperbole. He was well recognized and acknowledged as a drummer among drummers. Evidence to support this is online everywhere. 

When the heartbeat of something that has been so integral to your life stops beating, it seems only natural to reflect on its impact. Burke absolutely had a great run, sought out by countless musicians to add his touch to their projects both live an in-studio. He was recognized with an honorary doctorate from the University of Gloucestershire, and he “founded the Clem Burke Drumming project to investigate the physical and mental-health benefits of drumming”, as Wikipedia says. But it’s the fact that he propelled the band that helped me see a different and recognizable way of being that matters most to me. 

As your friends and bandmates say, "Godspeed. Dr. Burke."

Blondie's "Panic of Girls" CD autographed by Harry, Stein, 

and in the upper right corner, Burke. 

The Night God Screamed.

Dir: Lee Madden. Cast: Jeanne Crain, Alex Nicol, Daniel Spelling, Michael Sugich, Barbara Hancock, Dawn Cleary, Gary Morgan & Stewart Bradley. 1971

Never underestimate the power of nostalgia. 

As a 1970s Monster Kid, The Night God Screamed is just the kind of retro horror I eat up. I must have come across images of its skull masked stalker when I was a kid through the pages of Famous Monsters of Filmland or in a book like Denis Gifford's A Pictorial History of Horror Films. Certainly, I was familiar with the film's lurid poster. Whatever the case, that creepy rubber mask was known to me, even if I had no real context for it. All I knew was that it was from a movie I wanted to see. It took me until 2025 to do so. 

Academy Award nominee Jeanne Crain (Elia Kazan's Pinky) has convicted a Charles Manson like cult leader and two of his followers to death row. One night sometime later, while caretaking four teenagers, the remaining cult members lay siege to the house, terrorizing Crain and her charges. 

The first act of the film focuses on the then relatively current Manson Murders Mania, but then, post-conviction, the caretaking scenario comes into play, setting up the rest of the film. What follows, for me and my nostalgia addled synapses, is a tense and satisfying showdown between caretaker and teens, and crazed cult members. 

The Night God Screamed was written by Gil Lasky, who co-produced along with Ed Carlin. What this means to a trash raccoon like me is that it possesses a thoroughly enticing pedigree. Lasky also wrote and co-produced with Carlin an even more nostalgic and even more lurid favourite of mine entitled Blood and Lace, and it shows. Most of the hallmarks of that flick are present here, including its sickly atmosphere, a real feeling of threat, weird surprises, and moments that just may have influenced John Carpenter's classic Halloween.

All in all, The Night God Screamed was a perfect night in at the movies for me.   

Shitkid and the end of music.

Shitkid is (was?) Åsa Söderqvist (at one point it also included bassist Lina Ericsson), a Swedish musician whose music you'll either love... or you won't. From her first Shitkid EP in 2016 though to 2023's "Rejected Fish", Söderqvist's music has sounded just like she's wanted it to sound, even as that has shifted from project to project.

Personally, Shitkid's music has come to sound like the end of music, like it's the last word in contemporary music. I can't put it any better than that. I think that's pretty amazing. 

You can check out Shitkid at Bandcamp. 

A first.

Gazing over at my to-read stack recently, I noted that it was comprised entirely and incidentally of gay material. The thing that hit me about this is that, for the first time in 60 years of living on this planet, three gay publications were available to me and I'd chosen them at random and without purpose beyond entertainment. It may not seem like anything to some, but it was absolutely noteworthy to me.