Never compare me to the mayor in Jaws! Never!

Ghostbusters

(2016)

(SPOILERS) Paul Feig is a better director than Ivan Reitman, or at very least he’s savvy enough to gather technicians around him who make his films look good, but that hasn’t helped make his Ghostbusters remake (or reboot) a better movie than the original, and that’s even with the original not even being that great a movie in the first place.

Along which lines, I’d lay no claims to the 1984 movie being some kind of auteurist gem, but it does make some capital from the polarising forces of Aykroyd’s ultra-geekiness on the subject of spooks and Murray’s “I’m just here for the asides” irreverence. In contrast, Feig’s picture is all about treating the subject as he does any other genre, be it cop, or spy, or romcom. There’s no great affection, merely a reliably professional approach, one minded to ensure that a generous quota of gags (on-topic not required) can be pumped out via abundant improv sessions.

So there’s nothing terribly wrong with Ghostbusters, but aside from Katie McKinnon, who manages to be weird, goofy, and occasionally mocking in the Murray sense (but never in an actual “winking at the audience” sense, which may be where this gets the mixture slightly off), there’s nothing hugely right about it either.

Kristen Wiig and Melissa McCarthy are fine, but dialled-down versions of themselves, particularly the latter, who doesn’t seem quite in her element when she can’t go off into some expletive- or obscenity-fuelled meltdown (a McCarthy possessed sequence should have been a comedy goldmine, but it’s disappointingly uncreative).

Leslie Jones might have been given some good lines, but all I can remember is that her character is a glorified NY tour guide. As such, it’s difficult to banish the thought that she signifies the series repeating itself, the patronisingly-included African-American cast member who joins the team late and doesn’t quite fit.

At least she does get some funny moments, though. Ernie Hudson is more memorable in 30 seconds here than in the entirety of the original, and fares best – such as these things are – out of the cast members’ entirely redundant cameos, which are generally flat (Murray, Aykroyd) or embarrassing (Weaver).

The opening sequence, and the then trio’s first encounter with a ghost, suggests there may be some attempt at making a spooky comedy that’s actually comedic and spooky, but Feig quickly forgets about the latter (oddly, as ensuring an alternating current of frights and chuckles seems to be an entirely obvious, essential even, mechanism that shouldn’t need saying, but there you go; McKinnon freaking everyone out by eating Pringles is exactly what this needed more of, rather than running gags about takeaway). He’s also much less interested in keeping a grip on the storyline than seeing how randomly any given piece of improv can go off at a tangent – which occasionally yields great results (the “Mike Hat” routine is gloriously absurd), but adds to the feeling no one here is really invested in the subject matter.

That’s only added to by the derivate villain (Neil Casey), who seems to be borrowed wholesale from The Incredibles, and a finale that is lethargically, noisily effects-driven, one that even has the cheek to attempt to inject an inert emotional arc when Wiig plunges into an Avengers void to rescue McCarthy (and as the final act in general shows, if there’s one thing that doesn’t mesh well with this kind of movie, it’s trying to mesh together “hero” moments; the only upside is McKinnon's put-down on their return, "It's 2040. OurPresident is a plant!").

There’s a brief burst of the proper Ghostbusters theme early on – very welcome – but it only underlines how horrendous the cover version is, and when Feig repeatedly assembles shots of the quartet in their hearse, about to go bustin’, as an uber-cool moment, one can only conclude that it isn’t, because it’s trying to overtly to recapture a cool moment, rather than conjuring its own cool (that the picture is absent any such moment emphasises how zeitgeist-unfriendly it is; the entire conversation has occurred outside its content, aside from the moment or two that has invaded that content).

You also see this kind of playing to expectations elsewhere, in terms of Feig’s own filmography. Chris Hemsworth has been cited as this movie’s the Stat, a hitherto undiscovered, deadpan-genius essayer of idiots, but he isn’t nearly as successful, as Feig is too self-conscious about how he has found “the next Stat”. So Kevin’s role is beefed up into being possessed, and because Hemsworth can “do funny” we keep cutting to him doing some business with his glasses, or answering the phone like a dumbass, when that one thing he did the first time was more than enough. Besides which, the funniest exchange by far comes from Andy Garcia, who isn’t trying to be funny at all, accused of being like the mayor in Jaws.

The effects are reasonable, particularly the redone Slimer and a couple of early spooks. Once we get to the full-on spectacular finale, it has devolved into a splurge of redundant CGI, of course, complete with the incredibly unwise idea of the Ghostbusters logo made demonic spectral force (if you really must give life to the advertising materials of the ’84 hit, the subway graffiti is at least inoffensive); Sony could have cut the conclusion and saved about $50m, considerable audience fatigue, and probably guaranteed profitability. An earlier sequence at a heavy metal concert is much more effective, at least for eliciting some germane gags (alas, Ozzy Osbourne just has to show up to, which says as much about the quality bar here as you need to know).

The increasingly tedious discussions about this being a female reboot, and the polarising opinions thereon (the “Ghostbros”) that have ensued, have been great for a perpetual motion machine of media headlines (the latest being Jones’ Twitter abuse). Which has meant that’s all the conversation has been about, and thus, that’s all the review conversation has been about (The Guardian, as a self-appointed Misogynist-buster, ladled out four different reviews, amongst their numerous think pieces); discussion of the movie becomes tangential to rallying behind the nominal progressiveness of the moviemakers.

As such, part of the issue is that nothing has convinced anyone (leaving aside the very vocal denouncers, who wouldn’t be swayed anyway) that this was something to see, even after critics started giving it “It’s okay, actually” reviews, since saying “It’s okay, actually” is damning with faint praise. It is okay, actually, because most of Feig’s movies are okay (and, on that score, it comes in below Bridesmaids and Spy, but above The Heat), actually, not because it’s a particularly good Ghostbusters movie.

What this reboot needed was more of the kind of leftfield, anarchic energy the glorious McKinnon brings to bear (interestingly, she seems to elicit Marmite responses, which on balance is probably a good thing for a comedian to be able to boast; if they ever decide to do a female Marx Bros movie – I don’t even know what I’m saying here – she’s a shoe-in for a horn-honking randy Harpo). What Ghostbusters ‘16 has got is being a geek property where the makers aren’t terribly interested in that geek property, and are more emboldened by responding to their critics from within the frames of the movie (which has been met with positive affirmations, but it’s less “clever satire” than rudimentary defensive posturing, feeding the monkey) than getting on with making a good one.

Agree? Disagree? Mildly or vehemently? Let me know in the comments below.

Your Mickey Mouse is one big stupid dope!

Enemy Mine (1985) (SPOILERS) The essential dynamic of Enemy Mine – sworn enemies overcome their differences to become firm friends – was a well-ploughed one when it was made, such that it led to TV Tropes assuming, since edited, that it took its title from an existing phrase (Barry Longyear, author of the 1979 novella, made it up, inspired by the 1961 David Niven film The Best of Enemies ). The Film Yearbook Volume 5 opined that that Wolfgang Petersen’s picture “ lacks the gritty sauciness of Hell in the Pacific”; John Boorman’s WWII film stranded Lee Marvin and Toshiro Mifune on a desert island and had them first duking it out before becoming reluctant bedfellows. Perhaps germanely, both movies were box office flops.

If I do nothing else, I will convince them that Herbert Stempel knows what won the goddam Academy Award for Best goddam Picture of 1955. That’s what I’m going to accomplish.

Quiz Show (1994) (SPOILERS) Quiz Show perfectly encapsulates a certain brand of Best Picture nominee: the staid, respectable, diligent historical episode, a morality tale in response to which the Academy can nod their heads approvingly and discerningly, feeding as it does their own vainglorious self-image about how times and attitudes have changed, in part thanks to their own virtuousness. Robert Redford’s film about the 1950s Twenty-One quiz show scandals is immaculately made, boasts a notable cast and is guided by a strong screenplay from Paul Attanasio (who, on television, had just created the seminal Homicide: Life on the Streets ), but it lacks that something extra that pushes it into truly memorable territory.

Say hello to the Scream Extractor.

Monsters, Inc. (2001) (SPOILERS) I was never the greatest fan of Monsters, Inc. , even before charges began to be levelled regarding its “true” subtext. I didn’t much care for the characters, and I particularly didn’t like the way Pixar’s directors injected their own parenting/ childhood nostalgia into their plots. Something that just seems to go on with their fare ad infinitum. Which means the Pixars I preferred tended to be the Brad Bird ones. You know, the alleged objectivist. Now, though, we learn Pixar has always been about the adrenochrome, so there’s no going back…

Other monks will meet their deaths here. And they too will have blackened fingers. And blackened tongues.

The Name of the Rose (1986) (SPOILERS) Umberto Eco wasn’t awfully impressed by Jean Jacques-Annaud’s adaptation of his novel – or “ palimpsest of Umberto Eco’s novel ” as the opening titles announce – to the extent that he nixed further movie versions of his work. Later, he amended that view, calling it “ a nice movie ”. He also, for balance, labelled The Name of the Rose his worst novel – “ I hate this book and I hope you hate it too ”. Essentially, he was begrudging its renown at the expense of his later “ superior ” novels. I didn’t hate the novel, although I do prefer the movie, probably because I saw it first and it was everything I wanted from a medieval Sherlock Holmes movie set in a monastery and devoted to forbidden books, knowledge and opinions.

No one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself.

The Matrix (1999) (SPOILERS) Twenty years on, and the articles are on the defining nature of The Matrix are piling up, most of them touching on how its world has become a reality, or maybe always was one. At the time, its premise was engaging enough, but it was the sum total of the package that cast a spell – the bullet time, the fashions, the soundtrack, the comic book-as-live-action framing and styling – not to mention it being probably the first movie to embrace and reflect the burgeoning Internet ( Hackers doesn’t really count), and subsequently to really ride the crest of the DVD boom wave. And now? Now it’s still really, really good.

All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies.

Watership Down (1978) (SPOILERS) I only read Watership Down recently, despite having loved the film from the first, and I was immediately impressed with how faithful, albeit inevitably compacted, Martin Rosen’s adaptation is. It manages to translate the lyrical, mythic and metaphysical qualities of Richard Adams’ novel without succumbing to dumbing down or the urge to cater for a broader or younger audience. It may be true that parents are the ones who get most concerned over the more disturbing elements of the picture but, given the maturity of the content, it remains a surprise that, as with 2001: A Space Odyssey (which may on the face of it seem like an odd bedfellow), this doesn’t garner a PG certificate. As the makers noted, Watership Down is at least in part an Exodus story, but the biblical implications extend beyond Hazel merely leading his fluffle to the titular promised land. There is a prevalent spiritual dimension to this rabbit universe, one very much

In a few moments, you will have an experience that will seem completely real. It will be the result of your subconscious fears transformed into your conscious awareness.

Brainstorm (1983) (SPOILERS) Might Brainstorm have been the next big thing – a ground-breaking, game-changing cinematic spectacle that had as far reaching consequences as Star Wars (special effects) or Avatar (3D) – if only Douglas Trumbull had been allowed to persevere with his patented “Showscan” process (70mm film photographed and projected at 60 frames per second)? I suspect not; one only has to look at the not-so-far-removed experiment of Ang Lee with Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk , and how that went down like a bag of cold sick, to doubt that any innovation will necessarily catch on (although Trumbull at least had a narrative hinge on which to turn his “more real than real” imagery, whereas Lee’s pretty much boiled down to “because it was there”). Brainstorm ’s story is, though, like its title, possibly too cerebral, too much concerned with the consciousness and touting too little of the cloyingly affirmative that Bruce Rubin inevitably brings to his screenplays. T

Piece by piece, the camel enters the couscous.

The Forgiven (2021) (SPOILERS) By this point, the differences between filmmaker John Michael McDonagh and his younger brother, filmmaker and playwright Martin McDonagh, are fairly clearly established. Both wear badges of irreverence and provocation in their writing, and a willingness to tackle – or take pot-shots – at bigger issues, ones that may find them dangling their toes in hot water. But Martin receives the lion’s share of the critical attention, while John is generally recognised as the slightly lesser light. Sure, some might mistake Seven Psychopaths for a John movie, and Calvary for a Martin one, but there’s a more flagrant sense of attention seeking in John’s work, and concomitantly less substance. The Forgiven is clearly aiming more in the expressly substantial vein of John’s earlier Calvary, but it ultimately bears the same kind of issues in delivery.

Maybe the dingo ate your baby.

Seinfeld 2.9: The Stranded The Premise George and Elaine are stranded at a party in Long Island, with a disgruntled hostess.

You ever heard the saying, “Don’t rob the bank across from the diner that has the best donuts in three counties”?

2 Guns (2013) (SPOILERS) Denzel Washington is such a reliable performer, that it can get a bit boring. You end up knowing every gesture or inflection in advance, whether he’s playing a good guy or a bad guy. And his films are generally at least half decent, so you end up seeing them. Even in Flight (or perhaps especially in Flight ; just watch him chugging down that vodka) where he’s giving it his Oscar-nominatable best, he seems too familiar. I think it may be because he’s an actor who is more effective the less he does. In 2 Guns he’s not doing less, but sometimes it seems like it. That’s because the last person I’d ever expect blows him off the screen; Mark Wahlberg.

Now In Full Color, with a Happier Ending

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