A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master

The special effects are terrific. The movie around them is not.

This is what happens when a franchise stops being intentional. The Dream Master picks up where the surprisingly strong third entry left off, but quickly squanders that goodwill with resurrection logic that defies belief. Freddy returns when a dog—yes, a dog, who can apparently dream now—urinates fire on his grave. I wish I were making this up.

The effects work in this sequence dazzles. Bones reseal themselves. Muscle and sinew grow over the skeleton in genuinely unsettling fashion. But you can’t stop thinking about the flaming dog pee.

This tension between impressive craft and narrative incoherence defines the entire film. We get newcomer Alice, who absorbs others’ powers when they die. Freddy realizes she inherited Kristen’s ability to pull people into dreams, so he uses her as a conduit to harvest victims. It’s a decent hook, but the execution is flabby. Fifteen minutes pass before anything happens. The kills are spaced out with tedious scenes of teens and adults refusing to believe in Freddy. We’re four movies deep, people.

Worst of all, Freddy himself has devolved from shadowy nightmare into celebrity guest star. He wears sunglasses on a beach. He delivers one-liners before each kill like he’s hosting a game show. He raps over the end credits with the Fat Boys. The menace is gone. He’s not a nightmare anymore. He’s a celebrity doing walk-ons in his own movie.

Director Renny Harlin brings MTV polish when the material needs atmospheric dread. Everything is soaked in neon greens and reds. Alice gets an ’80s suit-up montage before the final battle. Harlin’s trying to make an action movie, but the Nightmare series isn’t an action franchise.

All this ineptitude smothers what should be genre-defining special effects. The soul chest. The pizza topped with screaming human faces. A transformation from human to insect courtesy of “Screaming” Mad George. These are images that should sear themselves into your brain. Instead they feel like contractual obligations, effects work commissioned before anyone figured out the script. Four credited writers have produced something that feels like death by committee. “Make it like Part 3.” “No, make it like Part 1.” The result is neither.

One sequence crystallizes everything wrong. A teen obsessed with ninjas battles Freddy. Earlier, we sat through an unintentionally hilarious training montage complete with nunchucks. Now’s the payoff, right? Instead, he just throws haymakers. The martial arts vanish. Setup without payoff, spectacle without purpose.

The first film was Wes Craven’s personal nightmares made manifest. The third was teen anxiety as dark fantasy. This is just product.

What a waste.