DRIVEN-IN SATURDAY
In the 25 or so years The Dauphin has been slaving over a hot SmithCorona, hammering out this quasicritical column, many film genres have come under scrutiny but rarely have we touched upon the subject of ghosts. This is not surprising. When one's tastes run toward the gory, the sleazy, the trashy and anything involving a combination of latex and power drills, one isn't likely to devote much attention to something as wispy and potentially whimsical as cinematic ectoplasms.
The CREEM Archive presents the magazine as originally created. Digital text has been scanned from its original print format and may contain formatting quirks and inconsistencies.
DRIVE-IN SATURDAY
DEAD! FROM NEW YORK!
Edouard Dauphin
by
In the 25 or so years The Dauphin has been slaving over a hot SmithCorona, hammering out this quasicritical column, many film genres have come under scrutiny but rarely have we touched upon the subject of ghosts. This is not surprising. When one's tastes run toward the gory, the sleazy, the trashy and anything involving a combination of latex and power drills, one isn't likely to devote much attention to something as wispy and potentially whimsical as cinematic ectoplasms. As a general rule of thumb, Drive-In Saturday prefers kooks, gooks and flukes to spooks.
Don't get me wrong. Over the years, Hollywood has given us a handful of superior ghost movies ranging from the genuinely disturbing (1944's The Uninvited starring Ray Milland) to the relentless (1963's The Haunting with Claire Bloom as a lesbo with ESP) to the witty (any of the Topper flicks). And let us not forget Casper who, if he was nothing else, was at least, well, friendly.
Actually, you may be reminded of little Casper during Ghostbusters, one of those summer movie attractions calculatedly designed to drag every last family member, including pets, out of the house and into the local cine-multiplex for two hours of PG entertainment whether they like it or not, by golly. Viewing this gallimaufry (sorry, it's The Dauph's new favorite word—but you can look it up) of 'charming' special effects, overblown sight gags and verbal repartee bordering on the —um, what's the year before sophomoric?—a person with even tattered remnants of sound critical judgment feels pretty helpless. Panning vacation fare like Ghostbusters is akin to pouring a hawg bucket of molten mung over a Fourth of July picnic dinner. Oh, well, hand me that rot container and stand back.
First off, no matter who else is in this film, it is perceived as a vehicle for Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd, which is to say it is yet another Saturday Night Live alumni effort. That puts it in a long, questionable line of succession that includes such celluloid dross as Meatballs, Stripes, Dr. Detroit, Neighbors, Hanky Panky, Modern Problems and Foul Play. How's that for a dismal grouping? Let's face it, Bill, Dan, Chevy, Gjlda, et al. haven't exactly blazed a trail across cinema history since abandoning the world of free television. Oops, forgot 1941, National Lampoon's Vacation and Continental Divide.
But, you are no doubt saying, enough of the past, you quarrelsome Frog, get to the review of Ghostbusters. OK, the plot is simple enough:, a trio of morons specializing in the paranormal open a ghostbusting service to rid New York City of disembodied spirits. Soon they become involved with Sigourney Weaver, a beautiful statuesque classical musician who lives in a Central Park West apartment that doubles as the entrance way to hell. Attempting to clear the ghosts out of her flat, the inept busters unleash a Doomsday nightmare upon the city that features everything from a Sumerian Ice goddess to a prehistoric mongrel—but nothing Ozzy Osbourne wouldn't cheerfully bite in the neck.
As expected, Bill Murray gets the lion's share of world-weary oneliners, cynical asides, etc., totally overshadowing Dan Aykroyd and Harold Ramis, his fellow ectoplasm hunters. Rick Moranis does a predictable variation of the nitwit he played in Streets Of Fire and that leaves us with Sigourney Weaver who can do no wrong in The Dauph's book, since she reminds me of my governess Yvette who taught me a few things during my 16th summer at the Dauphin family summer villa near Marseille. But that's another story.
Speaking of other stories, if the premise for Ghostbusters sounds a trifle familiar, focus what brain cells you have left on a 1977 flick called The Sentinel. In that one, the doorway to hell was located in the basement of a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, which only meant that the eternally damned had to take the IRT subway instead of the Central Park West bus, once they exited back into this vale of tears. Wonder if they have subway tokens in hell.
Actually, as The Dauph was writing the last sentence it occured to me that much of the above negativism may be too little too late. If the Bible of Show Business is to be believed, Ghostbusters has been a runaway success, with many viewers going back to see it a second and even a third time. Guess all those family pets can't attend at once. So disregard everything you've just read. See Ghostbusters and bring along your goldfish and your hamsters. Could you face yourself in the fall if you deprived household animals of the summer's biggest hit?
