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.
*drops the mike*
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.
One picture. One picture was all it took to bring me around. Regarder…
Look at these childhoods that have been ruined! 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.