One Paragraph Movie Review: Ghostbusters

One hundred and seventy-seventh film: Ghostbusters, a perfect film if you allow for gently dated special effects and completely ignore the ISBJDS, or Incongruous Spectral Blow Job Dream Sequence. As a lot of men’s rights activists will gladly tell you, this movie was pretty much made for teenage boys, but by some fluke people of all chromosomal combinations can come, see, and kick its ass. The first couple of times you watch it, it’s for the story — a tsunami of ghost activity swamping New York while jumpsuited disgraced pseudo-scientists trap them with lasers, culminating in the ultimate battle between man and marshmallow. Absolutely all subsequent watches, however, are for Bill Murray’s lines and facial expressions, plus the opportunity to announce confidently, whenever I’m asked where someone is, that they are not available, and that there is only Zuul. Honestly if it wasn’t for the crucially awkward and disappointing ISBJDS, this would be a perfect score. Four and three-quarter ominous Twinkies out of five.