A Ray Bradbury story about the consequences of time travel becomes a cinematic lesson in the folly of making hay of the butterfly effect when Ashton Kutcher has already beaten you to it. This time, it's Edward Burns revisiting the past ad nauseam, trying to figure out how a prehistoric-safari group managed to foul up the future for everybody. The changes inflicted upon our landscape come in successive waves of devolution, for some dumb reason not even the proudly hypothetical time-hopping genre can support. But no matter where Burns lands, he has to contend with special effects that could be the worst ever committed to celluloid. (It's as if a cash-strapped producer wandered into a concept artist's studio, took a look at the half-finished roughs decking the walls and declared, "Screw the matte paintings! We can just shoot THAT!") The baboon/dino hybrids are merely a laughable contrivance, but the unfortunately timed depictions of a major city submerged in fetid water would qualify as downright obscene that is, if anyone were actually going to see this thing.