“Could be a mummy. Could be full of beetles. The Egyptians had a grotesque sense of humor. One tomb we opened years ago was full of … Play-Doh. We lost three men that day. Why do I keep coming on these expeditions?”
“Because you throw your money away on cursed monkey paws. Now please shut up!”
The Pharaoh’s Curse (1957) is part of the never-ending cauldron of cursed life that are the royal families of Egypt; or, an addition to the legions of deathly curses. British Captain Storm,, stationed in Cairo, is sent to fetch an archaeological team home from its unsanctioned dig in the desert. Hampered by a mysterious Egyptian lady and someone’s sabotage, Captain Storm and his team fight their way through the Arizona desert, at a guess, and arrives just in time to witness the first curse of the game, as the American archaeological team is too avaricious to take the standard-issue warning, from way too long ago, seriously.
Their Egyptian assistant goes down, fights for his life, but fulfills his destiny of becoming a dried up withered husk overnight.
Despite this salutary lesson, Dr. Quentin and his team, not including his wife, who came with Captain Storm, but does little of importance in this story, continue scrabbling about the maze of tunnels, searching for the tomb of Rahateb, and have the profound bad luck of finding it. That costs a life or two, including that of the frantic Dr. Quentin, and the rest finally take the hint and leave with what little dignity is left them.
The cinematography was nice. My Arts Editor loathed what passed for the funerary Egyptian art. The actors tried, but the characters don’t become three dimensional, just dull cardboard. I liked the French artist drawing pictures of the dig site, but not much else. The plot doesn’t really take the role of motivation seriously, and it all becomes a dreary mess.
Don’t bother.
