2.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for supernatural action and crude humor
By Derrick Bang
It can be argued, with reasonable
justification, that a film shouldn’t be remade unless one intends to deliver a
new version that is superior to, or at least as good as, its predecessor.
The franchise busters behind this
21st century Ghostbusters failed in
their mission.
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| With all of New York City under assault by legions of cranky phantasms, the Ghostbusters — from left, Abby (Melissa McCarthy), Jillian (Kate McKinnon), Erin (Kristen Wiig) and Patty (Leslie Jones) — suit up and ready their proton packs. |
In every way that matters.
In theory, the gender switch is a
delightful idea ... but only had it been accompanied by better material. It
feels as if helmer Paul Feig and co-writer Katie Dippold believed that we’d be
so charmed by the notion of women in those iconic uniforms, that we’d forgive
the lackluster directing and clumsy, inadequate script. They didn’t even try.
The primary distinction involves
tone. The 1984 original’s far-fetched premise notwithstanding, the guys took
their work seriously; Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, Harold Ramis and Ernie Hudson
gave solemn, even stern, line readings. That contrast — their earnestness, in
the face of crazed circumstances — made the film hilarious. The humor was arch,
not infantile.
The Aykroyd/Ramis script also was
constructed with some care, and with adults in mind. In a film laden with great
one-liners, none was funnier than Murray’s response to the possessed Sigourney
Weaver, when she tried to seduce him by moaning, “I want you inside me.”
“No,” he replied, after a beat.
“It sounds like you’ve got at least two or three people in there already.”
Nothing in this new film comes
close to that level of sly humor; Feig’s preferred approach is the lazy, vulgar
slapstick we see all too frequently these days. His cast most often behaves
like the participants in a Saturday Night
Live sketch, delivering isolated bits of (not very funny) business, with no
thought to narrative continuity.
The 1984 film catered to all
ages. This one’s for snickering, arrested adolescents. Which shouldn’t surprise
us, given that Feig is the guy who, with Melissa McCarthy, inflicted us with The Heat and Spy.
And, as is the case with the
recently released Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates, too much of the dialogue here feels forced and ad-libbed;
that’s particularly true of McCarthy, who frequently flails about as if she has
forgotten her lines, and can’t come up with a reasonable substitute. She (and
Feig?) apparently believe this to be “characterization.”
It feels like desperation.
