Ghostbusters

The Specter of Expectation

It’s a tough ask, expecting a single film to wear two very different costumes simultaneously. Paul Feig’s 2016 *Ghostbusters* walked into theaters already tangled in preexisting narratives; viewers had already decided whether it should be a direct sequel, a bold overhaul, a trainwreck, or a triumph before a single frame rolled. The movie came in under the long shadow of Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, and that grimy, sarcastic 1980s New York vibe.

But once you quiet the online uproar that greeted it, what remains is a comedy that—neon lights and all—still has some warmth to it. Feig has always known that a solid ensemble doesn’t hinge on the story (which, let’s be honest, is mostly there to link one gag-heavy scene to the next) but on how the group moves together.



Where the original felt like researchers clocking into a job they were unsure about, this version plays like a ragtag team of misfits finally dialing into their own beat. Their interactions are jagged, full of interruptions and failed punchlines that still feel lived-in. Kristen Wiig’s Erin Gilbert is the straight-laced center, constantly trying to appear professional, while Melissa McCarthy’s Abby Yates is the unruly force pulling everything off balance. They fight, stumble through jokes, and never quite get the science right—and that’s where their chemistry comes alive.

Then there’s Kate McKinnon as Jillian Holtzmann. She’s the unpredictable spark, an engineer who may as well be from another planet. Watching her is the film’s electric high point. She doesn’t just read the dialogue; she ricochets through the frame with a jittery, ecstatic physicality. Check out how she handles the proton pack mid-film: it’s not a weapon to her, it’s an extension of her own manic energy, all twitchy hands and wide-eyed joy.



The aesthetic here is a far cry from the original’s tactile, smoky feel. Feig embraces the digitally slick approach. The ghosts are no longer puppets bounced on cables but glowing, neon-colored apparitions. That choice splits audiences—it feels less like a haunted house and more like a summer-tier superhero movie. At times, the third act lapses into that same blockbuster “laser in the sky” finale, draining the humor and leaving the leads scampering through a CGI storm that never quite matches the tactile grit of the ’80s practical effects.

Still, even within all that spectacle, Feig carves out small acts of rebellion. Chris Hemsworth’s Kevin is a cheeky reversal of the “dumb blonde” roles Hollywood channeled for years. Hemsworth plays the part with sincere, utterly clueless earnestness—it becomes the film’s most consistent laugh. He’s not just a gag. He’s the guy who can’t answer the phone but, somehow, doesn’t totally ruin everything.

As *Variety*’s Owen Gleiberman wrote, the film "is a movie that’s been built to deliver a fun, high-spirited time." He wasn’t wrong, though he skimmed over the quieter ache underneath—a team that’s begging to be embraced even while the crowd was already looking for reasons to hate it.



The movie trips hardest whenever it tries to tip its hat to the original. Those cameos act like chains. Every time the narrative pauses to wink at longtime fans, the new film loses its footing. It’s a reminder that nostalgia is intoxicating, but it can’t build a fresh story on its own. I wanted Feig to let these four women exist free of the past, instead of having that legacy press on them every minute.

I left the theater unsure, which might be the most honest reaction. There are flashes of genuine, weird, belly-laugh moments—mostly courtesy of McKinnon’s delightful chaos—and stretches of tired commercial obligation. It’s a messy, flawed, occasionally brilliant picture, and it was never going to be allowed to simply be a movie. It had to be a declaration, and that, more than any phantom, is what haunted it from the beginning.