I’ve had dreams set inside the surreal cartoon landscape of the Containment Unit vis-à-vis the Sandman, for Vigo the Carpathian’s sake! (Holla for “Fearsome Flush” the Ghost Toilet, baby.) In the vast wasteland between the 1989 sequel and the 2016 Lady Ghostbusters reboot (which is more fun than this one, fight me) I googled “how to make your own Ecto Cooler” on multiple occasions indeed right this minute sitting in my kitchen lay a crate of juice-boxes of that gorgeous electric green god nectar that dates five-years-old, just in case of Ecto Emergency. I watched the animated series every Saturday morning like it was my religion, and I had every toy my meager allowance allowed me to get. I’ve seen the 1984 original and its sequel more times than there are hot dogs stuffed in Slimer’s face. For one it’s a foundational “Why I moved to New York City” text for me-I fully cried the first time I stood outside the firehouse in Tribeca. Adult Me gets that it’s a slapped-together goof that coasts on its leads charms, but I’ve got the starry-eyed curse of nostalgia for it nevertheless. I have adored Ghostbusters since childhood. (And as with nearly all big studio movies that’s all Ghostbusters is now-property, real estate, a patch of cement to get flipped over and again for the sheer spectacle of profit margins.) Because that’s where we are as film critics-the fans, who this was supposedly made for (and what a slap-dash affront of a gift it is), will dismiss us as hoity-toity dilettantes, too busy licking watercress sandwiches and balancing the pince-nez on our noses to properly appreciate a good old fashioned sliming when we see one. Before I get into the very serious business of eviscerating Jason Reitman’s new Ghostbusters movie GhostBusters: Afterlife, a soulless Happy Meal of a movie that expects you to just make a meal of the cardboard box and be happy with that, I feel as if I must first flash my nerd credentials with regards to this particular property.
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