Chris At The Pictures

Paul Feig’s cruelly-dismissed reboot of 1984’s chummy sci-fi comedy finally arrives on the scene wielding its proton blaster with unabashed confidence, stuffing the whinging, disembodied hordes into a box before turning to high-five the audience.

After her connection with paranormal researcher Abby Yates (Melissa McCarthy) is brought uncomfortably back into the spotlight, particle physicist Erin Gilbert (Kristen Wiig) is denied a position at Columbia University (the news delivered by a reliably grumpy Charles Dance). Erin begrudgingly joins Abby and oddball engineer Jillian Holtzmann (Kate McKinnon) in their new effort to prove that ghosts exist, using both the scientific method and the tried-and-tested practice of spouting techno-babble whilst waving around L.E.D.-smothered equipment.

Our trio are soon joined by Patty Tolan (Leslie Jones), a New York subway worker whose subterranean explorations alert the team to the sinister plans of Rowan (Neil Casey), a sweaty-faced, unfortunately-sideburned creep who plans to unleash a horde of spectres upon the city to pester the living. 

Ghostbusters is yet further proof that comedy of any kind doesn’t translate well to trailers: the flaky marketing efforts only seemed to add to the mithering disparages of the internet hive-mind, but the finished product puts paid to that within moments (“did he just say ‘face bidet?’”). Each member of the quartet brings something fresh, and set themselves apart from the sardonic, blue-collar nature of the original cast with quick-fire interpersonal energy. Abby is the earnest leader of the troupe, flitting between exasperation at her team’s failings and enthusiasm for science, whilst Erin is the put-upon optimist. Leslie Jones thankfully brings Patty out of the ‘street-wise’ racial stereotype suggested by the ad campaign: her contribution to the group is crucial, self-aware, and very, very funny (see the encounter with a dragon-like spirit at a metal concert).

But the real star of this film is, without a shadow of a doubt, Holtzmann. Kate McKinnon, Kate McKinnon, where have they been hiding you? A static-haired, mischievous wink of a character, Holtzmann is sporadic and unpredictably funny: you have no idea what she’ll say next, but it’s guaranteed to make you laugh, and her straight-faced witticisms subvert her companions’ bickering with the cheekiness of a gum bubble popping in a silent school assembly.

Just as in the original, what sells the film more than the innate talent of each cast member is the fun of seeing them gel. Regardless of how they’re brought together plot-wise, the four leads could easily have been friends for years; the chemistry between them is wonderful. An added bonus arrives when Erin’s efforts to flirt with smiling numpty of a receptionist, Kevin (Chris Hemsworth, illustrating a hitherto-smothered knack for comedic timing), are met with an oblivious grin from his ever-cheerful face and a doubled-over chortle from the audience. Indeed, Hemsworth appears in constant danger of unseating the ‘Busters themselves from the limelight several times, before McKinnon whips back into frame and shows everybody up.

The sense of outright liveliness contrasted with the ’84 film’s reluctant heroism is further exacerbated through the pin-perfect production design and candy-coloured aesthetic: the proton packs still pack a visual wallop, but the ghosts themselves – enhanced with the marvels of modern CGI – are wondrous, varied, and genuinely creepy. With the exception of a certain returning green blob, they all exist at the shiver-then-laugh level of the librarian. 

Though there are plenty of cameos from Ghostbusters past alongside references to the original (some subtle, others not so much), they’re odd little vignettes that occasionally feel crowbarred in, out-of-kilter with the bouncing energy of a film that seems so determined to exist (for the most part) on its own terms. For all the wrong ways it might attempt to honour the past, the propensity to deliver a great-looking, laugh-a-minute romp makes it near-impossible to dislike. Sequel, please!

From first-time director Theodore Melfi comes St. Vincent, featuring Bill Murray as grouchy, hedonistic war veteran Vincent who realises he can make himself some money by ‘baby-sitting’ the young son of his new neighbour (Melissa McCarthy). As Oliver (newcomer Jaeden Lieberher) gets to know his jaded elder better, the latter slowly emerges from his shell and develops a bond with his young charge.

A real problem with reviewing St. Vincent is that it doesn’t feel like a film, more a collection of bits roughly held together by a rather wrung-dry premise that makes the entire film rather predictable, especially if your eyes and ears have been subjected to the awfulness of the trailer which gives almost everything away besides the ending…which you can see coming from a mile off. Even the poster (the assembled leads airbrushed to within an inch of their life half-smiling in that ‘quirky’ way) tells you everything you need to know.

So once you’ve got past the problem of the ending, you’re left to pick up whatever pieces remain amongst the rest of the film: Bill Murray is easily the best thing in the movie by a square mile, bringing to bear his usual deadpan grumpiness with unequalled skill and grace, while Lieberher as Oliver will definitely be one to watch in the future. Poor Melissa McCarthy is left with very little to do and Naomi Watts as a Russian stripper is saddled with an accent that is somehow worse than the deliberately silly Kermit clone in Muppets Most Wanted.

The tone of the film has the same issue as Murray’s Monuments Men from earlier this year, in that it can’t decide on one: we swing from dark and upsetting moments – Vincent visiting his wife in a retirement home as her mind slowly slips away – to indie-inspired schmaltzy interludes – Vincent and Oliver driving down the highway swinging ice-cream cones in the air to an over-zealous plucking of guitars on the soundtrack or Chris O’Dowd doing his usual shtick as the R.E. teacher. Annoyingly, the predictably schmaltzy bits are actually pretty good and rather enjoyably framed, whilst everything around them is either misjudged or snooze-worthy.

Just about propped up by Murray, St. Vincent is a film spoiled entirely by its own publicity and the sparseness of good laughs. Melfi – who has previously only worked with short films – needs to go back to that, because as well as he can handle individual moments, he doesn’t have a handle on features at all. It’s ten minutes too long, one lead too many and a too many laughs shy of a decent comedy.

★★☆☆☆

‘Indiana Jones meets Dad’s Army’. Those are the first words I uttered as the credits rolled on The Monuments Men, George Clooney’s’ World War 2 caper that details the true story of a group of geriatric art collectors as they attempt to procure precious works of art from the clutches of the Nazis. It’s a film clearly made with the best of intentions, created to bring to light an interesting and important story. The problem is that it can’t quite decide how to play it.

On the one hand it tries its hand at the more humorous side: the old, wrinkly art collectors having to pass basic military training before being sent out, the Allo Allo-esque scenes of Cate Blanchett spitting into an SS officers glass before serving him wine are not without some degree of wit and charm. But then they’re very clumsily juxtaposed against scenes that might feel more at home in something like Saving Private Ryan, such as a particular bleak set piece in which Bill Murray’s character is played a record of Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas sung by his family, whilst hundreds of miles away from home in the midst of a freezing winter.

Another problem that comes very quickly to the forefront is the episodic feel of the film. Every ten or fifteen minutes, a new set piece or new set of characters are introduced and Clooney’s character or another higher-up stops to explain what’s going on to everyone. This is not to say that these vignettes in themselves are badly put together – the cinematography is enticing and the attention to period detail is flawless – but they don’t gel as a coherent piece. It feels like the story as a whole would be better served as a TV series, where the episodic feel would be much more fitting, and the need to explain everything could be neatly consigned to a ‘previously’ section.

In terms of the characters themselves, they’re all fairly likeable and enjoyable to watch, John Goodman and Bill Murray carrying out their roles with gruff, grumbling stubbornness while Bob Balaban and Matt Damon provide a much lighter touch. Clooney stars as the head of the bunch and plays it capably, balancing his trademark charm with the slightly more melancholic touches needed at certain points. Cate Blanchett is always good value, although in terms of accent she seems to have been taking tips from Robin Hood co-star Russell Crowe, as her accent traverses not only France but most of Eastern Europe. The whole film is given a brash, Battle of Britain-like score by composer Alexandre Desplat which fits the more light-hearted set-pieces but feels horribly forced amongst the darker elements (something he proved much more capable of handling in the final two Harry Potter films).

The Monuments Men is a difficult film to dislike, it tells an important story in a well-presented package and contains likeable characters, but is let down by clunky story-telling and a misjudged handling of its overall tone.

2 Star