Maybe filmmakers have actually started to run out of ways to tell stories about the fact that we're all scared of dying (although we know it's likely to happen) and that we feel confused about sex. Maybe it's Hollywood's addiction to formula and nostalgia, and its corresponding aversion to artistic innovation. Maybe it's one of those cyclical, cultural things, that scholars a generation from now will start to figure out, like the disappearance of the western.

Whatever the reasons are, the mainstream American-made horror movie has been in dire condition for at least the last decade. A shambling corpse with rotting ligaments and lolling eyeballs, it just can't keep up with us. We want it to chase us away from the campfire and into the dark, deep woods, but it just shuffles around doing third-rate showbiz impersonations -- a little Jerry Lewis, a little George Romero -- and sinks back into its TV coma.

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Gene Roddenberry must be spinning in his grave. Or he would be if he had one; his ashes were shot into space in 1997. (Wait, I'm confused. Does that mean he's always spinning in his grave?) With Roddenberry and his wife, Majel Barrett Roddenberry (Nurse Chapel in the original "Star Trek"), now both dead, control over the "Star Trek" franchise has devolved onto a slithery nest of interlocking corporate interests. Which accounts for a troubling press release I received on Friday, announcing the creation of something called "Star Trek Live."

Although the "Trek" franchise presumably has renewed Hollywood viability after this summer's lively and successful J.J. Abrams prequel -- the 11th "Star Trek" movie overall -- it long ago entered a decadent phase of creative and marketing metastasis: Spinoffs producing spinoffs, actors becoming directors becoming authors. (I'm still waiting for a film version of "Star Trek: The Animated Series," or a Web-only series based on William Shatner's co-authored "Trek" novels. Somebody's probably working on them.)

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