In the classic moving picture monster hierarchy, the cloth-clad Mummy really scrapes the bottom of the panic attack barrel. Aside from his close affinity with the zombie -- sadly, this is 1 Egyptian artefact that avoids the mandatory skin eating -- there's really naught inherently skittish about a reanimated clay with limited super(natural) powers. This is specially true of the sarcophagus' latest large screen avatar. In Rob Cohen's horrid The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor, our wrapped rascal is literally as minatory as an inert stone statue.
Ever since the end of WWII, the rough riding O'Connell Family -- Rick (Brendan Fraser), Evelyn (Maria Bello, subbing for Rachael Weisz), and college age boy Alex (Luke Ford) -- have been in semi-retirement. Gone are the days when they would compass the globe looking for ancient treasure and kicking antiquated target. When they get the chance to return a precious diamond to the people of China, they jump at the chance. Unfortunately, the gem is instrumental in the resurrection of the evil Emperor Han (Jet Li), a ruthless tyrant bent on conquering the world. Luckily, an ancient witch (Michelle Yeoh) has cursed him to an eternity embedded in sway. Of course, it won't be long before our haphazard adventurers have him up and around -- and seeking immortality via his massive terra cotta army.
Borrowing every beat it can from the integral Indiana Jones lexicon, and lost in waves of pungent cinematic cheese, Tomb of the Dragon Emperor is the latest in a long line of "who asked for it" three-quels as talent payroll check providers. It's a modus operandi romp which owes more to the modern engineering of today than the giddy joys of the '30s serials it constantly steals from. How tin can you defend a film which wastes the undeniable talents of Li and Yeoh and then allows CGI yetis to upstage them both and turn the stars of the story? You heard correct: Fake as faux fur Abominable Snowmen show up during the second act and become ferocious fuzzy-wuzzy bodyguards for our heroes. They tied know the practical way to fend off an avalanche.
Rob Cohen, whose resume all but mandates this genial of slapdash spectacle, has no control over his narrative. He wastes time on insignificant subplots (wHO cares some the O'Connells' home life?) and massive expositional exchanges (the curtain raising is 20 minutes of voiced-over mock mythology). Even worse, he cribs from the bloated visual surfeit of franchise founder Stephen Sommers (world Health Organization only produced here). During the last confrontation, what looks like every clay in China takes on a garrison of walking clay effigies so massive it mustiness have taken every motherboard in Silicon Valley to render. Of course, all this calculator pomposity has to resultant role in something else being sacrificed. In the sheath of Tomb of the Dragon Emperor, it's fictional character, logic, sport, excitement, and a sense of popcorn escapism.
A picture show that tries this hard is
