The Mummy Returns

The Mummy Returns ★★★★★

Since Nick Gage first held my attention hostage with a jagged broken light tube during You Cannot Kill David Arquette, I've started to develop Stockholm Syndrome or something, having already shelled out sixty bucks and what remained of my innocence for three (Christ...) GCW pay-per-views featuring the King of Deathmatch wrestling. There's just something about this guy, who comes across like a jacked Bill Burr on crystal meth, and the way the crowd responds to him that's absolutely captivating—his entrance is always made through a sea of zealous fans, old and young alike, ritually shoving the shit out of him and alternately belting out his various chants in unison and deriding his opponent ("fuck" sees very different usages from one breath to the next, e.g. "Nick Fuckin' Gage," as opposed to "Fuck Jimmy Lloyd"). Verily, it was getting to be MDK "all fuckin' day!"

Needless to say, I required an intervention, and thankfully one of my oldest friends, The Mummy Returns, was there for me. This movie rules, and one day, when our grandchildren are pissing on our graves for not stopping these bastards from ruining the planet, they'll force one more deliberate, spiteful jet for us taking Stephen Sommers for granted.

I'm likely a little biased, the film transporting me back to a time before I pursued a degree in Classical Studies, when I thought that doing so would make me a successful scholarly badass like Evie (ultimately, I wound up more akin to inept, penniless Uncle Jonathan), but still, I'd probably make a cursed pact with Anubis for blockbusters like this today (definitely, if it included a sweet scorpion bottom half and bangin' Godsmack theme). Brendan Fraser is charming as all get-out, the scarabs and mummy roars(?) still scare the shit out of me, and the globe-trotting adventure narrative is a great excuse for all kinds of awesome, varied set-pieces. Plus, even though a lot of people seem to only recall the slightly dodgy, arachnid-legged cg Rock scurrying about, there's so much bonkers practical stunt work, too, like two goons getting ratchet-pulled into a flaming sarcophagus and the camera lingering on them roasting.

That's enough bloviating, though, because if Nick Gage's fans, or Murder Death Kill Gang, have taught me anything, there's a simple, succinct way to show reverence. So...

Mummy Fuckin' Returns! Mummy Fuckin' Returns! Mummy Fuckin' Returns!

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