Is anyone else extremely tired of ghosts and supernatural entities solving crimes? It seems you can't take a stroll through a foggy graveyard these days without some spook or spectre asking questions as to your whereabouts on a cool summer evening over 25 years ago. Unless you got a warrant, Mista Ghost, I ain't answerin' no questions, you got that? Er...

Whenever my brain is overloaded with the trials and tribulations of the recently deceased, I often recall a simpler time in our pop culture when murderers were apprehended by human beings who weren't possessed by the angry spirit of a man-handled rape victim. Call me heartless if you like, but I prefer the dead to stay, you know, DEAD. If I want a mystery solved, I'll call Matlock. Thanks for playing, though.

This may explain why I am so disappointed with Asif Kapadia's lackluster murder mystery The Return. A murder mystery, you ask? Yes, dear readers, a snore-inducing murder mystery with a completely unbelievable supernatural twist. To add insult to injury, the film casts award-winning playwright/actor Sam Shepard as Sarah Michelle Gellar's father, then proceeds to do absolutely nothing with him. How in the hell do you waste Sam Shepard? The guy is fried gold marinating in mystical butter on an angel's silver hotplate. Kapadia, you should be ashamed of yourself. Please sit in the corner silently while I verbally urinate all over your movie.

Freddie Prinze, Jr.'s financial stability stars as Joanna Mills, a troubled young woman with a lot on her mind. Years ago, this headstrong bottle brunette was involved in a nasty car accident that left her more than a little jumbled, psychologically speaking. As an adult, Joanna spends her days as a sales representative for a large corporation, a job that allows her to live out of hotel rooms as she hops from one podunk town to the next. Her current assignment finds her speeding back to Texas, a state that many people across this wonderful nation associate with bad feelings and awful nightmares.

Before you know it, the adorable lass is traipsing through junkyards and redneck bars in search of answers to the onslaught of questions going through her mousy little brain. For instance, who is that impossibly scruffy guy with the split ends and dirty work boots? Why is she strangely drawn to the mysterious hunk with the fists of fury? More importantly, will any of this stuff make sense by the time all is said and done? Watch in absolute rapture as Gellar wanders around for 80 minutes, then sit in stunned disbelief when the film ends and you're left with nothing to show for it. Except an empty wallet, of course.