Ghostbusters

GHOSTBUSTERS (Paul Feig, 2016)

There’s something strange in the neighborhood, namely the matter of the GHOSTBUSTERS remake (or reboot or however this film is positioned as brand extension) becoming a cultural flashpoint, at least in the online realm where all sorts of unpleasant things become manifest. Apparently for some the 1984 Ivan Reitman film has taken on the status of sacred writ such that making a version with women in the main roles is likened to heresy. Maybe demons are real if a special effects comedy bolstered by a flippant Bill Murray represents the last line of defense, a cinematic Alamo to rally around. The original GHOSTBUSTERS is funny but hardly the pinnacle of film as an art. Reworking it with a women as the heroes is surely not a bellwether of men or male-driven entertainment becoming maligned in Hollywood.

The 2016 iteration of GHOSTBUSTERS written by Katie Dippold and director Paul Feig unfolds roughly in the same way as its source but with a few variations. Physicist Erin Gilbert (Kristen Wiig) has buried her past in paranormal research as she seeks tenure at Columbia University. The ill-timed online availability of the book she wrote about ghosts and the like with Abby Yates (Melissa McCarthy) prompts her to visit her formerly close friend with the hope of getting it pulled to preserve her reputation. In the intervening years Abby has continued to investigate the supernatural with engineer Jillian Holtzmann (Kate McKinnon). Abby agrees to take the book out of circulation if Erin will tag along to check out a nearby historical site reporting some ghostly activity.

The field work reawakens Erin’s once deeply-held beliefs in the metaphysical, but online video of the trio’s celebration after spotting an evil spirit leads to their professional ruination. They decide to use their unemployment as an opportunity to expand upon their research and go into business. They hire Kevin (Chris Hemsworth), a handsome but exceedingly dumb receptionist, and take on another partner in Patty Tolan (Leslie Jones), a Metro Transit Authority worker who has seen other ghosts in the subway system and can provide a car for hauling their bulky equipment. Even when they obtain seemingly incontrovertible proof of paranormal activity, skeptics continue to doubt them.

Having rewatched the original GHOSTBUSTERS within the last two years, it’s abundantly clear that Murray runs away with that film and doesn’t leave much for his other proton pack-carrying pals to do. This new GHOSTBUSTERS has standout performances, but overall there is more balance among the members of the team. Wiig doubles down on Erin’s awkward and relatively unassuming nature to get laughs. McCarthy brings child-like enthusiasm as a scientist who is thrilled at how cool it is to have her theories validated and test new, amazing technology. Jones adds the common perspective as she funnily and sensibly reacts to the unbelievable things she encounters. These Ghostbusters aren’t just Murray and a bunch of hangers-on.

Nevertheless, McKinnon and Hemsworth are implicated in stealing scenes in GHOSTBUSTERS. McKinnon’s dry performance suggests that Holtzmann may have spent too much time working in isolation and exposed to radiation. She is the embodiment of the weird last sketch on SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE, like a singer trying to perform a piece in a key or that exists only in her head. Hemsworth builds up the hilarity of Kevin’s blithe idiocy by playing it straight and with unwavering directness. Like McKinnon’s Holtzmann, his character seems to mentally occupy another plane of existence.

GHOSTBUSTERS gets bound up too much in plot development and drags when all hell literally breaks loose in Manhattan. The big special effects moments really are secondary to letting the funny women run with the material. It’s a solid, amiable mainstream comedy, which, in the end, is all that its inspiration was too.

Grade: B

St. Vincent

ST. VINCENT (Theodore Melfi, 2014)

Vincent MacKenna (Bill Murray) may not be the last person a working mother would choose to babysit her child after school, but he’s surely toward the bottom of the list. Although his overwhelmed new neighbor Maggie (Melissa McCarthy) isn’t privy to the information that an often-drunk Vincent is indebted to an unsavory racetrack figure (Terrence Howard) and keeps a weekly home appointment with a pregnant Russian hooker (Naomi Watts), the senior citizen’s surly nature should be sufficient to have her look elsewhere for childcare options. Nevertheless, in ST. VINCENT her son Oliver (Jaeden Lieberher) seems to get along fine with the crusty old man next door who begrudgingly helps after the boy’s classmates steal his possessions from his gym locker.

Maggie is working long hours at a new hospital job and worrying about an impending custody fight with her ex-husband, so she’s thankful that anyone can keep an eye on Oliver. Little does she know that Vincent is teaching him how to fight back against the bullies at St. Patrick’s School, letting him gamble at Belmont Park, and taking him to a bar. Oliver is well aware of the pressures on his mother. He covers up and omits telling her his activities with Vincent, leaving Maggie to find out the truth at the most inopportune time possible.

Writer-director Theodore Melfi’s ST. VINCENT seems cobbled from the independent film cliché handbook. It’s slightly quirkier than a conventional network television sitcom yet beholden to a feel-good imperative that isn’t especially convincing. By picking up and discarding subplots like tissues, this maudlin comedy-drama cycles Murray through a range of situations fit for an awards show reel without lending much emotional heft to them.

Murray’s bad grandpa proxy plays best when permitted to be his crotchety self without explanations or excuses. Vincent’s rough edges are never sanded off completely, and Murray is funnier and more interesting when he’s granted the freedom to be as nasty as he wants to be, at least within the limits of this sentimental film. Clearly Vincent is on a course for a redemptive arc, but offering reasons in shorthand for his hardness make him a less credible character. The war between his internal tenderness and external abrasiveness aren’t reconciled so much as they are dispelled by gooey screenwriting conveniences.

ST. VINCENT’s variation on ABOUT A BOY should find its strength in developing the mutually beneficial relationship between a curmudgeon and pre-teen. In piling on the plot contrivances it doesn’t provide the space to observe why their unlikely friendship comes to gain great meaning for both. Melfi has the film chugging toward a prescribed heartwarming conclusion and Oliver’s effective sanctifying speech while Murray’s performance suggests someone who may be touched that the boy admires him but hasn’t really learned any lessons that will significantly alter his behavior. The final scene, with Vincent sneaking a cigarette and singing along to Bob Dylan’s “Shelter from the Storm” during the end credits may be meant as a grace note, but it gives the impression of a character that’s broken away from its creator’s intent.

Grade: C

Tammy

TAMMY (Ben Falcone, 2014)

In what amounts to hitting the bad day trifecta Tammy (Melissa McCarthy) wrecks her already beat-up automobile, gets fired from the fast food restaurant where she worked, and comes home unexpectedly early to find her husband Greg (Nat Faxon) having an intimate dinner with their neighbor Missy (Toni Collette). No car, no job, no loyal spouse, what do you do? In TAMMY her decision is to leave the Illinois town she’s always called home except she’s not really in a position to be able to afford that. Her own mother (Allison Janney) knows she’s unreliable enough that she won’t loan her a vehicle or cash in this time of need.

Luckily for Tammy her grandmother Pearl (Susan Sarandon) wants to get out of her daughter’s house and see Niagara Falls. She supplies the wheels and a big wad of cash to bankroll the trip, so off they go to escape their problems. They make it as far as Kentucky before the plan starts to crumble because of Tammy’s costly recklessness and Pearl’s misbehavior. Paying for the jet ski Tammy destroys eats up a major chunk of their resources. No longer a shut-in, the alcoholic Pearl picks up Earl (Gary Cole) at a barbecue restaurant, causes a scene at a convenience store that leads to her arrest, and stops taking her meds. Occasionally Tammy gets a little help from Earl’s son Bobby (Mark Duplass), but without any money she has to scramble to straighten out the mess she and Pearl are in.

After stealing scenes as a supporting actress and co-headliner, McCarthy gets the chance to anchor a film in TAMMY. Co-writing it with her husband Ben Falcone, who directs, there’s little doubt that TAMMY is the project she wanted to showcase her talents. Although McCarthy gets an occasional good moment to ply her comedic gifts, particularly in her scene sloppily holding up a burger joint, more often than not she’s having scenes swiped from her. Sarah Baker practically does this during the robbery as a less than fully cooperative cashier. Sarandon’s feisty Pearl is unashamed in following where her desires lead her, demonstrating that wildness in one’s younger years doesn’t necessarily diminish in old age. As Tammy’s wealthy lesbian aunt Lenore, Kathy Bates draws laughs as an unconventional role model. Lenore has a taste for blowing things up, suggesting she’s still something of a hick like Tammy at heart, but she’s also worked hard to build satisfying business and personal lives.

TAMMY tries to humanize the comedic slob character McCarthy specializes in. So often overweight, low income roles are easy targets for derision and humor. While Tammy is intended to be funny because of her buffoonish nature, eventually the character is supposed to be revealed as someone to laugh with than at. McCarthy makes a valiant attempt to give this kind of person a well-rounded representation, but she’s not altogether successful. Tammy’s redemption of sorts isn’t especially convincing. Feeling sorry for her isn’t nearly as enjoyable as watching her raise hell.

The primary problem with TAMMY is that it just isn’t very funny. McCarthy and Falcone deserve credit for making something more thoughtful than broad comedies like this tend to be. In an industry with male-dominated films, a feature centered around women that isn’t stereotypically touchy-feely is a nice break from convention too. When all those good intentions result in a mediocre comedy, they’re just a consolation prize.

Grade: C-