I like what Lee Cronin’s The Mummy is trying to do, even if it rarely justifies how long it takes to do it. There are flashes of genuinely striking gore, and Cronin has a clear eye for mood, but the film’s near two hour forty minute runtime stretches that atmosphere to breaking point.

The setup is simple. A young girl is drawn in by a predatory neighbour, played by Hayat Kamille, eats a pomegranate, and becomes a vessel for an ancient Egyptian demon, the Nasmaranian, the destroyer of families. What follows is familiar territory, built from well worn possession and domestic horror beats.

And yet, it works, at least in part. The film is consistently watchable, occasionally gripping, and in its best moments, quietly unsettling. Cronin understands how to stage discomfort, and there are sequences here that linger.

The problem is not the horror. It is the human response to it.

Faced with increasingly grotesque and inexplicable events, the parents, played by Jack Reynor and Laia Costa, register remarkably little fear, urgency, or even curiosity. Their stillness drains tension from scenes that should escalate, leaving the film to rely on imagery rather than emotion.

That imbalance becomes its defining flaw. For a story rooted in family, the emotional stakes feel strangely distant. The siblings, Sebastian and Maud, offer glimpses of something more believable, but it is not enough to anchor the wider drama.

Visually, the film is assured. Its confined setting and brooding palette create a sense of claustrophobia, while the blend of practical effects and CGI delivers moments of real impact. At times, that craft is enough to carry it.

But without a consistent emotional rhythm, the film drifts. It holds your attention, but rarely your investment.

I am not mad I spent the time with it. I just cannot say it earned it.