Ghostbusters was such a comprehensive part of my childhood, that it’s hard for me to imagine a time before it. These paranormal exterminators retain as much nostalgia for me as the NES, Pogs and turkey twizzlers. Much of my formative years were dedicated to the pursuit of a potential career as a Ghostbuster. I had every conceivable paraphernalia you could think of: the “Ecto 1”. The fire station. Figures. Proton pack. The trap, that only worked if you launched it gently across a smooth flat surface. Slimer. Pots of slime. Books. Videos and even wallpaper. You could say that Slimer was my spiritual surrogate. I was obsessed! Particularly with the animated television show “The Real Ghostbusters”. This more than any other form of media is what I was exposed to most. Even more so than the movie that inspired it.
Almost all of my Ghostbusters nostalgia originates from this startling disturbing extension of the movies. The imagery, especially the design of the ghosts were stylistically terrifying. One episode featured a kindly old lady who hires the Ghostbusters to rid her haunted domicile of spectral pests, only to be the instigator of said haunting. Morphing into a hideous bird like demon when no one is looking, she manipulates and even possesses a member of the Ghostbusters in an attempt to free the captive spirits from the containment unit. This creature utterly terrified me as an impressionable youth, but also inspiring an early fascination with horror. There was also the demon door unearthed by subway workers, that if opened will provoke an ensuing apocalypse. The ornate door bellowing the words “Do not open until doomsday” is a proclamation that still reverberates around my head whenever I see a sign that says “do not open”.
It only really occurred to me recently just how influential this show was to me. What’s more surprising is just how much I enjoyed this depiction of the Ghostbusters over the original movie. There was always an attempt with this series to just go full bonkers, with an animation that propagated an obscene creative autonomy that simply wasn’t possible in live action. There were no limitations. The broad strokes, characters and locations were adhered too, but “The Real Ghostbusters” wasn’t beholden or even constrained by these preconceived stipulations. If anything it utilises these established prerequisites to forward its own mythology. With stories that have endured, despite maturity and age convincing myself that these were merely childish distractions that encouraged idleness, rather than stimulating my interests in macabre.
The stories, combined with vibrant, artistic animation and exuberant soundtrack that provoked this kind of ethereal, creepy ambience were so engrossing to me. That knew when to build up the tension with a rousing 80’s synth. Diluted with just enough levity to remind viewers that this was in fact a kids cartoon, but made “The Real Ghostbusters” the most compelling iteration.
Typical really. It comes but just once a year. A day entirely devoted to you in celebration of your illustrious birth. For me that day was yesterday. How should one commemorate such an occasion? A nice meal with friends and family? A night of excessive drinking and childish masculine festivities? Or an entire day bed ridden and exhausted because of some degenerative infection that specifically targets my metabolism! Yes I had to savour my one solitary day of tolerated selfishness in the confines of my spare room, enduring the sinuous constraints of back ache that made every conceivable posture more painfully elongated than a Newcastle United sacking. I was drinking enough fluids to replenish a Saharan river, eating biscuits when my stomach allowed and all of this while I celebrated my Birthday in a more modest (lonely) capacity. Obviously I couldn’t risk my pregnant girlfriend contracting this vicious malady that would know doubt kill a lesser mortal than myself, but when I said I didn’t really want to do anything for my Birthday this isn’t quite what I had in mind? I was so hopelessly isolated on my birthday that I had to enter my birth date into my Twitter account just to receive some humble recognition of the day. “Oh look, balloons!”
Let me start with a phrase I feel accurately reflects my impression of the new “Ghostbusters” movie at this moment in time, one my mother often uttered to me when I was in trouble. “You were a test tube baby!” Wait, no. Not that one. This: “I’m not angry I’m just disappointed”. I didn’t want to write about this, I really didn’t. But for the life of me I couldn’t stop myself. As a kid, a delusional one granted I was only ever interested in 3 occupations: to be a member of the the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Spider-man (and by association a photographer) and a Ghostbuster. So unless I’m bitten by a radioactive Spider or….uh….turtle? And society is poised to initiate a complete occupational turnaround concerning paranormal extermination, then I’m probably not going to be a Ghostbuster either. This is an agony that can at least be assuaged by the Ghostbuster movies. Whether it’s the original and best, the mediocre sequel tempered by Bill Murray’s reluctance to commit to being conscious during the filming and at long last a third film that gives me hope of one day strapping an unlicensed nuclear accelerator to my back. Now I’ll admit that I wasn’t entirely keen on another Ghostbusters movie. Every idea I read about sounded awful, including scripts written by founding initiators Dan Aykroyd and Harold Ramis. I thought the best thing anyone could do was leave well enough alone. What a tender sentiment that was. I don’t want to be too disparaging about this trailer as there is more than substantial hostility generated by a fan-base prepared to besiege Sony studios, demanding that executives relinquish their positions and kindly head to the nearest available parallel dimension. You know “human sacrifices, cats and dogs living together. MASS HYSTERIA!” It’s also difficult not to interpret criticism as misogynistic, particularly when you consider just how many predominantly white males begin their respective statements with “I’m not against this cast……but.” I mean could you imagine what the male equivalent would be? It’d probably be Adam Sandler, Will Farrell, Ben Stiller and Vince Vaughan?! With Kevin James as “Stay Puft” and Rob Schneider voicing slimer! *Shudder*. But irrespective of whether this film will be good or not, because we simply don’t know yet, the trailer that’s supposed to be a short representation of the movie is nothing short of atrocious!
Game, Complain, Repeat 