(In theaters, February 2001) If you want a proof that Hollywood’ll mix everything up regardless of appropriateness, check out this film, which combines nightmare imagery with toilet humor in order to create a mishmash of elements that will satisfy no one. What Dreams May Come with fart jokes, except more sophomoric than pretentious. The first half-hour isn’t all that bad, especially when factoring the often-disturbing designs, but then the film jettison its most appealing features (good set design, Brendan Fraser, the Monkeybone character) in an attempt to make things more interesting… and it doesn’t work. From this point onward, the immaturity of the film isn’t grounded by better elements. By the time a reanimated gymnast loses internal organs (immediately picked up by a team of ghoulish doctors) in a series of chases, it’s far too late for redemption. There are at least three major plot cheats in the last act, the type of unforgivable script shortcut that will make you go Huh! as you watch it. (“Hey, he’s in the bus!” and “Hey, little doggy!” are the worst) Stephen King and Harry Jay Knowles have cameos, but trust them to recant faster than the audience run toward the exits. A disappointment exacerbated by the waste of talent.