There is a kind of movie out there known as the "special-effects flick"--this much scientists have confirmed. Some become sci-fi epics, a la "Terminator 2"; others are fun-filled fantasies, such as good ol' Roger Rabbit's tale. Yet a special few are so wretched, so abominable, so unpardonably content-less that one hesitates even to say their names again for fear of incurring the wrath of the Gods of Good Taste. The Michael J. Fox debacle falls into the last category.

Frank Bannister (Michael J. Fox), ghostbuster con-artist extraordinaire, has some kooky spirit friends and some naughty spirit enemies, most notably the Soul Collector himself. Also, there's lots of special effects--people passing through walls, ectoplasm accidents, anatomically unstable ghosts. People are dying, and Bannister, who is the only one who can see the ghosts and those marked for death, must find out why, with the help of special effects. He also has an Andie-MacDowell-lookalike friend, Lucy Lynskey (Trini Alvarado), and, enhanced by special effects, things quickly go awry. In addition, the possibility of the existence of special effects is also examined.

The makers of the "The Frighteners" are apparently that breed of intrepid, cost-cutting pioneers who have decided that the story should be the first to go in trimming the fat from bloated production budgets. So many weak little plot lines criss-cross and entangle as surely as extension cords that we wish that one of Bannister's friends, a refugee from the 70's, would appear so that we could grab his ample lapels and shake some sense into the movie.

Where to begin? There's Bannister, pseudo-Andie-MacDowell, and her "I'm uptight" uptight health nut husband Ray (Peter Dobson) who dies and must communicate with her by making Fox act like Whoopi Goldberg in "Ghost." There are the people dying, their number inscribed on their foreheads, all at the hands of a flying throw rug. There's the haunted house, its owner, her daughter (Dee Wallace-Stone), and her lover. There's the "real character" of an weird FBI agent (Jeffrey Combs) who, while getting to the bottom of this, has his hair slicked in a horrendous Hitler part. There's Heav'n and Hell, an aspiring serial killer, and a title worthy of some Clive Barker paperback.

There's a ghost judge whom we get to see demonstrating how he thinks his ectoplasm has not dried up after all.

Why would anyone want to watch this?

Well, there's this one cool bit where some ghostly goopy stuff turns into a face and talks while dripping down a rock. Barring this and other small wonders of special effects magic, you got me.

The characters aren't so much bad or wooden--even that would grant some substance--as unbearable. The plot wanders around, entangles itself, and becomes that pile of spaghetti that you can't pick up no matter how hard you try. Even the editing borders on the incoherent at times (or does that mean it's good?).

An example of the movie's comic sensibility lives and breathes in the character of Special Agent Milton Dammers, that crazy FBI agent. You see, the funny thing about Dammers is that he is knowledgeable about the occult--and also pretty strange himself! That means he hides behind doors a lot and, for no discernible reason, cannot stand when women yell at him. Ultimately, we find out he has scars all over his chest and (gasp!) perhaps might not be as good-hearted as we thought.

Even Michael J. Fox, who has weathered special effects well before, seems a little winded in this go-round, relying more than usual on his rolling eyes and patented nose- wipe motion. Sometimes you wish Alex Keaton were back, whining about stocks in "Family Ties" or something. Instead, he spends his time being chased from place to place, meaningfully seeing things no one else can see.

Of course, if ever you get bored of the special effects and Fox turning around in surprise and wiping his nose, there's always a mildly offensive stereotypical character (one of Bannister's ghost friends) or a gross, gratuitous blood-bath thinly hidden by quick camera cutting.

"The Frighteners" has all the coherence and interest of a story breathlessly told by your three-year-old cousin whilst making machine gun noises. But while you can blame your cousin's drool-filled narration on his still-burgeoning neurons, it would take quite a bit more to excuse the hundreds of people who doubtlessly contributed to the perpetration of this movie. If "Independence Day" showed us how to make good, clean, mindless fun, "The Frighteners" reminds us how to spend millions and insult the intelligence of millions without entertaining anyone.