Generically, “Just Like Heaven” is a romantic comedy – and an awfully generic one at that. Neither as stupid as it could have been nor smart as it ought to have been, this chick flick deluxe is remarkable for two reasons. First is its postcard-preposterous view of San Francisco as an upscale wonderland of fogless rolling hills, ubiquitous bay views, enormous Victorian apartments, and total heterosexual supremacy. Second is its other deeply conservative aspect: a strikingly pronounced pro-life agenda. But we’ll get to that in a minute.

Naturally, we’re dealing with pure escapism, and I’ll concede that casting John “Napoleon Dynamite” Heder as a psychic Mission District hipster is some kind of gesture toward life in the lower tax brackets. But “Just Like Heaven,” tossed off by Mark Waters, the quick-witted pro behind “Freaky Friday” and “Mean Girls,” struggles against the inanity of its exhausted formulae from scene one: a romantic fantasy sequence so gut-wrenchingly saccharine it’d make Fragonard barf. Indeed, the supremely cliched screenplay has been adapted from a French bestseller, of all things, proving yet again how well these people know their cheese.

The fantasy belongs to Elizabeth (Reese Witherspoon), an overworked, under-loved ER doctor. En route to a dinner party, our 30-year-old virgin is tastefully rammed unconscious in a traffic accident. Never one to let something as unproductive as a persistent vegetative state keep her down, Elizabeth promptly springs back to life as a ghost.

Her first order of business is dealing with the loser – the sexy loser – slumped on her couch. This would be David (Mark Ruffalo), an adorably scruffy landscape architect bummed out over the recent death of his wife. He’s rented Elizabeth’s apartment as the most agreeable place on the market for slumping into a depressive, beer-slogged stupor. Many second-rate, love/hate antics ensue, as the star-crossed duo races around trying to figure out what’s going on.

The movie leans heavily on the droopy, sweater-clad shoulders of Mr. Ruffalo – and slides right off. Jumping in and out of a dirty pickup truck that compensates, in the macho department, for his immaculate earth-tone ensembles, David scampers around like a damp dog whimpering to be cuddled. Aw, so cute! And so predictable a turn from an actor coasting on a bland, emo-stud persona. As for Ms. Witherspoon, it’s a testament to this bright, fiercely present actress that she holds our attention while phoning in bossy-bitch shtick.

Drama kicks in when Elizabeth’s sister decides to pull the plug. But wait! Her spirit lives on! Hands off, you godless, non-hallucinating family member! Released just a little too late to capitalize on the Terri Schiavo psychodrama, “Just Like Heaven” is a cheery reminder to death-mongering liberals that medical fact is a worthless approach to questions of human health. The existence of ghosts and the magic power of Mark Ruffalo’s kisses, however, make for an excellent faith-based alternative.

Together with “The Attack on the Reality-Based Community of Emily Rose,” “Just Like Heaven” suggests Hollywood feels newly emboldened to make lousy movies for everyone.

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Speaking of equal opportunity exploitation: “Hellbent” is “the gay slasher flick.” Finally! It’s about time these madmen stopped harassing cheerleaders and went after the friends of Dorothy.

Set during the West Hollywood Halloween bacchanalia, this cheap DV shocker tags along as a half dozen hotties get stabbed by a killer with diabolically developed pecs. Until the inevitable semi-happy ending, the movie pulls off the queer feat of appealing both to gay men and the people who hate them: The whole movie is premised on the dubious joke that gay culture is so freaky and perverted no one notices the psycho in its midst.

The slut (Andrew Levitas) is so wasted on drugs and disco he doesn’t feel a knife in the stomach. The vain drag queen (Matt Phillips) gets whacked at his most narcissistic moment. The lovelorn guy (Hank Harris) is decapitated right after he makes a date – gay love will kill ya. As for the mild mannered hero (Dylan Fergus), he nearly meets his end indulging the S&M kinks of some hot rough trade (Bryan Kirkwood). Who wrote this thing, the Reverend Lou Sheldon?

Writer-director Paul Etheredge-Ouzts can only be oblivious to this subtextual tease. After all, his full attention is centered on the titillations of his cast, one of whom sums up the attitude of “Hellbent” thus: “Who doesn’t want to kill us? We’re f-ing fabulous!”

Not quite, but close enough: After a grueling introduction to its bubble-brained protagonists and their outfits, “Hellbent” makes good use of the Halloween party, bare bottoms, and the gotcha! thrills of the genre. Strip away the gay angle (or “gayngle”), and you’re not left with much, but a demographic itch has been ably scratched.