Lee Cronin's The Mummy digs up horror roots with a gnarly, gory twist

Lee Cronin isn't interested in tomb raiding or swashbuckling adventure. His new film, The Mummy, strips away decades of Hollywood gloss to deliver something far more unsettling: a raw, R-rated horror story that treats the ancient curse not as a plot device, but as a full-body violation. Released by Warner Bros. and boldly branded as Lee Cronin's The Mummy, the film positions itself less as a reboot and more as a re-possession-dragging the classic monster back into the shadows where it belongs.

Cronin, who gained attention with The Hole in the Ground and later revitalized the Evil Dead franchise with Evil Dead Rise, brings the same grim fascination with bodily decay and familial horror. This time, the setting shifts to a remote archaeological dig where a team unearths a sarcophagus containing a priestess cursed for her transgressions. Once awakened, she doesn't just rise-she unravels, her mummified flesh twisting and reforming in grotesque, often shocking ways. The film leans hard into practical effects and claustrophobic tension, favoring slow dread over jump scares.

Reviews have been sharply divided on whether the film earns its bold title. Variety called it a "lavishly gory horror ride," praising Cronin's confidence in leaning into extreme visuals and unrelenting atmosphere. Polygon hailed it as the "gnarliest mummy movie" ever made, applauding its commitment to horror over spectacle. But Deadline pushed back, suggesting the film is "too wrapped up in imitation," echoing Cronin's past work without fully evolving it. The Guardian noted the absence of humor or levity, leaving the film feeling like "another Evil Dead film in disguise."

What sets this version apart is its focus on transformation as horror. The mummy isn't just a monster-it's a force of biological corruption, warping flesh and mind in equal measure. Cronin uses the curse to explore themes of guilt, punishment, and inherited sin, grounding the supernatural in emotional weight. The result is less about ancient Egypt and more about what happens when the past refuses to stay buried, especially within families.

Warner Bros. appears to be betting on Cronin's growing clout in the horror world, giving him rare authorial billing in the title-a move usually reserved for auteurs like Tarantino or Wes Anderson. It's a statement of intent: this isn't just another franchise flick. But that branding also raises expectations. By naming it after its director, the studio invites comparisons not just to past Mummy films, but to Cronin's own filmography. And for some critics, that comparison doesn't quite land.

Still, there's no denying the film's craft. The sound design alone-cracking bones, wet rips, whispers from the wrappings-builds a sensory experience that lingers. The cinematography leans into deep shadows and tight spaces, turning the desert dig site into a tomb of its own. It's a movie that wants to unsettle, not entertain, and for a certain kind of horror fan, that's exactly the point.

As studios continue mining classic monsters for new scares, Cronin's The Mummy stands out for its refusal to play nice. It's loud, messy, and unapologetically brutal. Whether it marks the start of a new horror era or just another echo of what's come before may depend on how much you're willing to endure-and how much you trust a director who keeps digging up the dead.