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Ghostbusters

Why remake Ghostbusters?

A perfect movie is a rare beast. To make every shot work, every actor deliver, to land every script beat requires skill, vision, and luck. The 1984 Ghostbusters originated in the fevered brain of Dan Aykroyd while he was in the middle of one of comedy’s greatest hot streaks. The OG SNL star conceived of three movies to feature him and his best friend, John Belushi: The Blues Brothers, Ghostbusters, and Spies Like Us. Just as the unlikely success of The Blues Brothers gave the pair the run of Hollywood, Belushi OD’d. Aykroyd and Caddyshack director Harold Ramis retooled Ghostbusters‘ insane first draft, which featured psychedelic scenes of astrally projecting Ghostbusters fighting hordes of interdimensional spectres, as a more grounded ensemble movie set in New York City.

In 1984, all the pieces fell together for producer/director Ivan Reitman to make the quintessential action comedy. Aykroyd and Ramis created a pair of indelible geek icons in the schlubby Ray Stantz and the Spock-like Egon Spengler. Sigourney Weaver did duel duty as symphony musician Dana Barrett and gatekeeper spirit Zuul, playing off of Rick Moranis as a geeky accountant possessed by the Keymaster Vinz Clortho. The role of Winston Zeddmore was originally offered to Eddie Murphy, but when he turned it down in favor of Beverly Hills Cop, Ernie Hudson stepped into the thankless role of audience surrogate. Looking back on Ghostbusters from the perspective of 2016, it’s clear that Bill Murray is the key to the picture’s success. His Lothario con man turned paranormal investigator Peter Venkman is a perfectly pitched performance worthy of Chaplin, Keaton, or Cleese.

Remaking Ghostbusters seemed a fool’s errand. Reitman captured lightning in a bottle, an artifact of a certain moment when all the players were at the top of their game, by mixing ’80s horror beats with Second City gonzo yucks. Even the core creative team couldn’t reproduce the magic. Remember Ghostbusters II? Of course not. You might as well try to remake Casablanca.

This was the task set before director Paul Feig. In a move that upset a vocal hoard of internet man-babies, the creator of Freaks and Geeks upped the already impossible difficulty level by gender-swapping the characters. Well, I’m here to tell you that the Men’s Rights movement picked the wrong hill to die on.

Leslie Jones, Melissa McCarthy, Kristen Wiig, and Kate McKinnon don the proton packs in Paul Feig’s remake of Ghostbusters.

Feig surmised that the secret of Ghostbusters was in the chemistry, and the director of Bridesmaids knows funny women. The team of Kristen Wiig, Melissa McCarthy, Kate McKinnon, and Leslie Jones is even more finely balanced than Murray, Aykroyd, Ramis, and Hudson. Wiig’s Erin Gilbert, a former paranormal investigator trying to get tenure as a physics professor at straight-laced Columbia University, can’t touch the crystalline genius of Murray, but she’s a good fit for this version. McCarthy hones her wild talent with discipline and precision, turning in the best performance of her career as Abby, the Ray Stantz analog. Feig and Parks and Recreation writer Katie Dippold’s script gives Jones’ character, Patty, a New York transit employee who gets sucked into the Ghostbusters’ world, more to do than Hudson, and the film is all the better for it. The most perverse casting choice is Chris Hemsworth in a hybrid of Sigourney Weaver and Annie Potts’ cynical receptionist; Thor rises to the occasion by whipping out previously unseen comedy chops. But it’s McKinnon who slyly steals the show. McKinnon reworks Ramis with a brash physicality. Geeks are cool now, but McKinnon, who takes her look from the animated version of Egon, avoids the autistic minstrel show approach epitomized by The Big Bang Theory and wrings more depth out of renegade techie Holtzmann than the script provides.

As long as Feig and Dippold follow Aykroyd and Ramis’ beats, the movie hums along, but when they attempt to graft on a parody of The Avengers climax in place of the intimate confrontation with Gozer the Destructor, the film spins out of control. Still, speaking as an old school Ghostbusters fan, this remake is better than it has any right to be. In 1984, Ghostbusters was a standout in a quality field that included Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Purple Rain, and fellow action comedy classics Gremlins and Romancing the Stone. 2016’s Ghostbusters comes as a sip of water in a historic drought. Feig has pulled off the impossible by successfully reworking an unlikely masterpiece, and everyone involved deserves major kudos.

But seriously, let’s not try to remake Casablanca, OK?

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Film Features Film/TV

Spy

I’ve always loved James Bond movies, especially the older ones like Thunderball and From Russia With Love. But these days, when I go back to watch Sean Connery swigging martinis while saving the free world, I can’t help but notice how sexist they read. I wouldn’t say the outdated sexual attitudes ruin the experience, exactly, but it definitely pulls me out of the action for a moment. Maybe that’s why I have a soft spot for George Lazenby’s sole effort, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, where Bond actually falls in love with Diana Rigg instead of bedding women seemingly out of spite.

Melissa McCarthy’s new comedy vehicle takes dead aim at spy game sexism. Written and directed by Paul Feig, Spy is likely to satisfy McCarthy’s growing legion of fans and points the way to a bright future for the breakout star of Bridesmaids. McCarthy is Susan Cooper, a CIA analyst who spends her days in the high-tech basement of Langley whispering advice and intelligence into the satellite-linked earpiece of agent Bradley Fine (Jude Law). But when Fine is killed in a mission to track down a loose nuke, Susan is sent into the field to track down his murderer Rayna Boyanov (Rose Byrne) and retrieve the weapon before terrorists can get ahold of it.

Melissa McCarthy

No one takes Susan seriously, even though she’s clearly very skilled. Wringing comedy out of people misjudging her because of her sex or looks is like hitting softballs to McCarthy. Feig understands what kind of movie he’s making and keeps her, and her point of view, dead center for the entire story. McCarthy has plenty of people to bounce jokes off of: There’s Law, who is his usual impeccable self; Miranda Hart as Nancy, a fellow analyst who is Susan’s frumpy confidante; and Aldo (Peter Serafinowicz), a lecherous Italian agent. But surprisingly, McCarthy’s best sparring partner is Jason Statham as Rick Ford, a rogue agent miffed that the fat girl got the important assignment instead of him. Statham demonstrates masterful comic timing while sending up the kind of hypermasculine roles he usually gets cast in, suggesting there’s a lot more to him than Hollywood has been able to find a use for.

Spy is often funny, but it is not a well-oiled machine. The movie starts slow, only kicking into gear once McCarthy and Statham start trading barbs at about the half hour mark. Scenes run on way too long, as Feig was seemingly determined to keep every one of McCarthy’s remotely funny improvs in the final cut. There are way too many characters, many of whom seem to think they’re much funnier than they actually are. The plot is loose to the point of incoherence — I kept forgetting what the McGuffin was until the late third act reveal of the missing atom bomb made me go “Oh yeah.”

But McCarthy overcomes all of that, making the sloppy film watchable by sheer force of charisma alone. She can pack more emotion into an exasperated eye roll than most actresses can into an extended speech. I hope one of these days someone will write a Groundhog Day-level script for McCarthy, and she’ll finally get to create the classic her talent promises. But until then, Spy is a pretty agreeable time at the theater.

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Film Features Film/TV

St. Vincent

Let’s just get this out of the way: Bill Murray is a national treasure.

In its bones, writer/director Theodore Melfi’s new film St. Vincent is a middling movie. Situations are contrived, characters teeter on the edge of stereotype, and it has a bad habit of leaning on music to foist emotion on the audience. But Bill Murray is in it.

Bill Murray being brilliant in St. Vincent.


Murray plays Vin, a crusty old man living alone in a decaying suburban home. He drives his convertible K-Car to spend his reverse mortgage money in strip clubs and bars every day and comes home stinking drunk to bang his favorite pregnant Russian stripper/prostitute Daka (Naomi Watts). When he finds out his reverse mortgage money is at an end, he does the only logical thing: He goes to the Belmont horse tracks to gamble his last bit of cash away. Just as he is at his lowest, he gets new neighbors: recently divorced single mom Maggie (Melissa McCarthy) and her son Oliver (Jaeden Leiberher).

The story shifts to Oliver, following him to his new Catholic school where he is bullied by rich kids who steal his new phone, wallet, clothes, and house keys. When he makes it home after a traumatic first day, he discovers that he can’t get into his house, and has to ask a grumpy Vin to use his landline. Maggie is an MRI nurse who works long hours, so she asks Vin to babysit for her. Desperate for money, Vin agrees, and feeds the kid sardines until Maggie gets home. He teaches Oliver to fight to ward off bullies and drags him along to the racetrack, where he discovers Oliver has a penchant for picking the ponies. This does not go over well with Maggie, but she has no choice but to go along, until her lawyer ex-husband sues for custody, and Oliver’s adventures with Vin get aired in court.

McCarthy shows her chops as doing something other than caricature. Watts takes what could have been a really insulting stereotype (what is it with the wave of Russian prostitute characters lately?) and deadpans her way to a funny, but human, Daka. Leiberher is fantastic as Oliver, a preternaturally composed middle schooler whose little-kid problems mirror Vin’s old man problems.

But this is Murray’s movie, and he carries it with the effortless charisma that we have come to expect from America’s greatest living comic actor. He doesn’t so much veer from humor into pathos as explore the uncharted territory between the two. Vincent is a meticulously composed, fully realized creation that Murray sinks into. Everything that looks like a quirk or a vice at the beginning of the film is revealed to have a deeper, understandable cause. Murray is so magnetic that, at the screening I attended, the majority of the audience stuck around to watch the closing credit sequence where he schticks around with a garden hose while crooning along to Bob Dylan in his antique Walkman headphones. Murray’s performance drives home the movie’s moral: Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.