Also known as Ghostbusters 2: The Fattening of Dan Ackroyd, the movie asks us to believe in ghosts and, worse, that Sigourney Weaver is boner-achingly hot.
"Yeah, lady, I've got your ectoplasm right here. But it ain't in my pants!"
"Okay, we ditch the black guy on three. One... two..."
Writers: "Hm. Don't really have any ideas for the sequel. But they're paying us, so, uh..... How about babies? People like babies. Right?" Producers: "Run with it!"
Worst. Acting. Baby. Ever.
Since a damsel in distress isn't enough (and it's Sigourney Weaver), they added the baby for suspense. The only suspense here is how dry my pants are.
"I keep looking for the plot, but I can't find it!" *mouse noise*"
The ghosts terrorize Manhattan, and everyone pretends to be entertained. I've sat through more compelling Ouija board hauntings. "Does Susan Luxa like me? N..... Wait, wait, the pointer's going toward Y! N....... Damnit."
(Note to reader: that's a T-Rex coming through the arch, not a smear on the film stock.)
The boys become the unlikeliest, and unlikeabliest, heroes again. A dull comedy wrapped in a dull romance wrapped in a rap song. Lazy, hacky, boring, and pointless! But, hey, everyone was paid. Mission accomplished.
"Yes, this is Nancy with the Thrifty Nickel. Our readers want to know..."
"Where's that Cloverfield monster when you need it??"
But I take back everything I said about Reggie. The guy can really paint!
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