🎬 THE MUMMY: RESURRECTION (2025) – Rise of the Eternal

In a world where ancient myths collide with modern spectacle, The Mummy: Resurrection dares to transcend its predecessors, delivering a pulse-pounding epic that blends supernatural horror, fantasy action, and archetypal conflict. Anchored by Keanu Reeves and Dwayne Johnson, supported by Annabelle Wallis and Ralph Fiennes, this fifth installment in The Mummy franchise deftly balances heart and spectacle, soul and savagery. With a rating of 8.9/10, Resurrection reinvigorates the mythos, transforming dusty tombs into battlegrounds of cosmic consequence and placing eternity itself on the line—as prophetic as it is relentless.

Set in a world that straddles the threshold of ancient and modern, Resurrection begins with rumblings far beneath the surface: earthquakes rip through Egypt, temples crack and crumble, and emerald glow spills from shattered statues of Anubis. A long-dormant evil stirs, and as the film opens, Elias Kael—portrayed with stoic gravity by Keanu Reeves—is digging in the ruins. Kael, once a student of forgotten languages, now wields runic magic with an authority that feels earned and necessary. When the runes flare to life, commanding statues to tremble and crypts to groan, we know this isn’t just archaeology—it’s a reckoning.

Enter Dwayne Johnson as Set-Akhem, the reincarnated god of chaos and thunder, whose presence dominates the screen like a storm incarnate. Johnson’s dialogue is economical, delivered through rumble and glare, but when his voice booms—filtered with anger and ancient grief—it hits like thunder. Wrapped in lightning and darkness, Set-Akhem is no mere adversary: he is the apotheosis of all oppression and rage that mortals have ever swallowed. His mission is singular: “When the gods awaken, mortals fall.”

Annabelle Wallis returns as Dr. Lena Foster, the determined Egyptologist whose fierce intelligence and courage make her far more than a damsel in distress. She decodes hieroglyphs that map Set-Akhem’s return, and her uneasy alliance with Kael deepens into something more tender as they share stolen glances under crumbling archways. Wallis brings balance to Reeves’s stoicism. Their dynamic—part mentor-mentee, part something sweeter—grounds the film’s escalating mythos in human feeling.

Watching Reeves and Johnson share the screen is like watching two gods jostle for cosmic balance. Reeves’s Kael is quiet confidence and arcane study. He carries the weight of forbidden knowledge—runes he doesn’t fully understand, magics he fears. When he utters a binding spell, his voice is a soft chant at first, then rises in elemental force. Johnson’s Set-Akhem, by contrast, is unleashed fury—lightning black as obsidian, eyes glowing with ambition. When the two clash, it’s elemental: deep red blood and emerald magic, rock falling from shaking temples, lightning freezing in their wake. The choreography fuses martial arts, wirework, and elemental FX into dazzling combat.

Ralph Fiennes brings nuance to the role of Lord Alistair Crowley—a descendant of H. P. Lovecraft’s elder cleric, reimagined here as a cunning royal advisor with occult ties. In Resurrection, Crowley is the gateway between mortal greed and divine peril. He first appears weighed down by guilt and gold, but his eyes glint when he whispers forbidden rituals. Fiennes balances desperation and ambition, tears and triumph. When Crowley is consumed by Set-Akhem’s minions—his pale flesh cracking like marble—his final plea to Kael is chillingly human: “I awakened him. Now you must put him back.”

Set-Akhem’s undead army rises in waves—mummies animated by emerald energy, skeletal priests wielding runes, scarab swarms on war gliders. These legionnaires are part myth, part nightmare, and part visual magnum opus. The film’s production design excels here: tomb corridors illuminated by torchlight, hieroglyphs bleeding emerald glow, and dust motes swirling like spirits. When the undead army advances over the desert, they swallow entire desert towns—canvas tents snap, sandstorms rise, the horizon is swallowed by luminous dead.

This is a world of color and texture. Ivory temples scorched with blood. Veins of emerald magic cracked across runestones. Kael’s robe in pure white, torn and mud-splattered, like a monastic parchment. Set-Akhem’s armor that looks carved from obsidian, glowing runic veins pulsing with each thunderstrike. The cinematography by Lucia Morales bathes the action in chiaroscuro—the contrast between human fragility and godlike power.

Composer Hans Zimmer returns with relentless orchestration and an unforgettable main theme. It starts with a single metallic gong, then strings swell in rising minor chords. Drums pound like desert storms gathered. Choirs echo distant psalms. When Kael whispers his runes, Zimmer’s music recedes into soft cello—then resurges when his magic strikes. It’s music that haunts long after the credits.

Resurrection builds toward two grandiose setpieces. First, the Storm Temple—that crumbling citadel on the desert’s edge, struck by perpetual lightning. Set-Akhem tears through its corridors. Kael and Foster dodge elemental traps; pillars shatter, runic glyphs explode in emerald shards, wind scything at their necks. The energy feels brutal and claustrophobic—they are tiny against the storm.

The final battle unfolds at the Mound of Eternity, an underground ziggurat buried beneath the Giza pyramids. The cavern glimmers with emerald lakes, runic altars, and obsidian frightened by eternal sunlight pouring through crack in the ceiling. Kael stands on a dais of runestones, chanting to seal Set-Akhem with an ancient binding spell. Johnson’s Set-Akhem descends, lightning forking through his hair, sandals crushing cracked tiles.

It’s an homage to classic dark fantasy. Reeves’s voice trembles with strain as Kael recites: “By blood of man and tear of god, bind him here in earth from which he failed to rise.” The emerald energy fights back, the runes glow brighter, the ground shakes. Foster’s voice—steady and sure—adds margin: “Eternity is not free.” She points her archaeologist’s staff with Kael’s sigil carved in ivory. Johnson’s Set-Akhem howls, muscles tensing, lightning collapsing in emerald rubble.

The moment freezes. A lightning bolt splits the ceiling. Kael vaporizes in emerald fire, then steps through, like mist. Set-Akhem crashes down—caged in magical chains of runic seals. The cavern stops trembling. The undead collapse. Crowley’s survived—bloodied, repentant, broken. Foster grips Kael’s arm—but he’s gone, evaporated into the sealing magic. Her tears fall like raindrops in emerald light.

Set-Akhem is bound. But Kael is gone. The film closes on Foster, holding a cracked runestone that bears Kael’s sigil. The emerald glow dims—it’s done. And yet. A spark flickers. A bird takes flight from outside the cavern’s shattered opening, haloed in morning sun.

That line reverberates. Kael paid death—so Set-Akhem might not break through. But at what cost? The script leaves us asking whether Elias Kael is gone or merely hidden, waiting in the runic underworld. Does resurrection guarantee a return—or only ensure a price?

What makes Resurrection work is its jagged fusion of heart and horror, myth and human. Keanu Reeves grounds the supernatural with restraint—never overplaying his mystic burden. Dwayne Johnson’s god is terrifying not just because he’s powerful, but because he knows human pain and wields it. Annabelle Wallis brings fear, curiosity, and hope. Ralph Fiennes offers a cautionary echo—what happens when mortals seek immortality.

Yes, the film is bombastic. But Resurrection thrives because it demands belief. It doesn’t ask us to sniffled over dusty relics—it dares us to feel the weight of ancient slaughter, to imagine gods shrugging off ages of silence, to see mortals standing defiantly in their shadows. It invites us to believe in runic magic—not because it looks cool, but because Elias Kael looks cool invoking it, shutting down gods with whispered syllables.

Visually, that final image lingers. Foster’s tear catches in emerald light. Dust drifts in shafts of sun. Runic seal cracks at her feet. And that bird’s flight hints at Kael’s heart: alive. Free. Beyond eternity’s cage.

The Mummy: Resurrection earns its 8.9 rating. It’s more than a monster movie—it’s a fantasy rebirth. It asks us where humanity ends and myth begins. It dares us to stand between dying gods and empty earth. And in Keanu Reeves’s eyes, we believe.

This is resurrection not as sequel, but as renewal. We came expecting curses and scarabs. We leave wondering if death is forever—or only the beginning.