Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire (2024)
*½/****
starring Paul Rudd, Carrie Coon, Finn Wolfhard, Mckenna Grace
written by Gil Kenan & Jason Reitman
directed by Gil Kenan
by Walter Chaw Walking out of the Westland Twin into the bright June sun in 1984, my best friend and I agreed that Ghostbusters was the best movie we’d ever seen. Just two 11-year-old idiots in the first week of summer vacation, drunk on soda and popcorn and full to the brim with the magic of being young and stupid. It’s a memory I’ll always treasure, this anecdote from the matinee of my filmgoing experience. I wouldn’t love movies as much as I do if not for the films I saw between 1983 and 1989, that period where I was the most receptive, the most vulnerable, the right amount of inexperienced and ignorant. Movies, for a while, were my secret sharer, my parents, my priest-confessor, my first lover. The Blockbuster Age shaped my tastes, and eventually movies pointed a direction for me to pursue in life through their analysis and contextualization. If I could understand them, the thinking went, maybe I could start to understand my childhood. The me watching Ghostbusters 40 years later finds it to be painful. The experience of that first viewing is so different from my reaction to it now, it’s hard to believe they’re the same film. Age provides an interesting parallax. Ghostbusters is a supernatural Caddyshack hang-out flick that shares the misfortune of being curdled by that specific early-’80s, OG SNL/National Lampoon arrogance, sloth, and nastiness. The best part of it is Rick Moranis, because everything Rick Moranis does in it is unforced. The worst part is the rest, in which may-as-well-be Catskills-veterans peddle their cocaine-fueled shtick, which is aging about as well as Henny Youngman’s and Soupy Sales’s were at the time.