I have a soft spot for films that get the details wrong but somehow keep hold of the deeper fear.

The Mummy does that. It raids Egyptian death religion, scrambles periods, invents rules, and then, almost by accident, preserves something older and colder than the usual curse story. Not “you die.” Not even “you suffer.” More like: you are erased, misfiled, unmade by neglect.

That is a much weirder terror than Hollywood usually allows, so the film backs off and gives us plagues, romance, and a very punchable undead priest instead.