So, we need to talk about the new Ghostbusters movie. Well, I need to talk about it, and need to get this out...
Right, here goes. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m a nerd. A hopeless nerd. Geek. Closet gamer. Knitter. I own a Game of Thrones colouring book. Yep, that’s me.
And, I also happen to be a MASSIVE Ghostbusters fan. So much so that as a child I owned a Ghostbusters lunch box, Ghostbusters marbles AND a (completed) Ghostbusters Panini sticker album.
I was basically the fifth Ghostbuster, and the gnarliest 7-year-old this side of Somerset.
Imagine my horror then when I found out a couple of years ago that they were not only remaking the classic movie of my youth, but that this abomination wouldn't be featuring a rebooted imagining of my throwback heroes - Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, et al. No, the new spook busting foursome would in fact be made up of… women. Yes, women. Women Ghostbusters.
Whaaaaaaat?
Women?! REALLY?!
*drops the mike*
The horror.
Now, I count myself as a bit of a (fist pump) feminist – why wasn’t I feeling glad about this? Surely this was what I’d always dreamed of as a youngster except, the nostalgia was just too strong to make me think that Paul Feig’s proposed project was nothing short of disastrous. I mean, how could a woman pull off Bill Murray’s sleazy shtick? How could a woman drive Ecto-1?!
I blogged, the fury being taken out on my long-suffering laptop. I waxed lyrical about it with my equally nerdy (mostly male) pals. I shook my fist at this interference with, what I regarded to be, the Holy Grail of vintage ‘80s comedy.
I was genuinely mutinous. I planned to boycott the whole torrid affair altogether. The release date came around and I sniffed like some haughty ‘holier than thou’ movie critic. I was sticking to my (zero crossed streams) guns.
Until now.
One picture. One picture was all it took to bring me around. Regarder…
Look at these childhoods that have been ruined! http://pic.twitter.com/DBUX0swyvS
— Zach Heltzel (@zachheltzel) 11 July 2016
Suddenly. I was transported back. The proton packs made out of cereal boxes, brown tape, and a stolen hoover nozzle (soz Mum). The customised boiler suit, and the stacks of ghost books I’d consume every night under the duvet by torchlight.
I was wrong. I let my own movie snobbery cloud my judgement, and once I saw this little dote in her Ghostbustin’ garb, I knew that as a woman (and a journo) I’d completely missed the point. So, hand me that big slice of humble pie over there before Silmer gets his mitts on it.
Also, I was wrong about the movie. Go see it. It's brilliant.
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