The original cast of Ghostbusters.
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Dad’s Army and Ghostbusters: how to reboot a beloved comedy without ruining it

The news that both a Dad’s Army film and Ghostbusters 3 are in the works is great for nostalgia fans. But how do you go about updating something well-loved without wrecking it?

Nostalgic comedy fans got a double-dose of promising news last week when two film projects drawing on past glories were announced. The news of a Dad’s Army movie, co-produced by Universal Pictures and Screen Yorkshire, was a bit of a bolt from the blue. As far as I know, this hasn’t been a noticeable clamour for a new screen version of the cherished sitcom. Dad’s Army, about a creaky band of Home Guard volunteers during the Second World War, notched up 80 episodes between 1968 and 1977. It has already spawned one film in 1971; though not a disgrace by any means, it was lukewarm and diluted in the manner of most 1970s British sitcom spin-offs.

The new one will necessarily feature different performers – no CGI magic, thank goodness, will be used to decant vintage footage of Arthur Lowe and John Le Mesurier into new scenes. But the casting looks inspired and high-calibre: Toby Jones as Captain Mainwaring, Bill Nighy as Wilson, Tom Courtenay as Corporal Jones, Michael Gambon as Godfrey and Blake Harrison (the gangly, gormless one from The Inbetweeners) as Pike. Mark Gatiss, Catherine Zeta-Jones and Daniel Mays will also feature. Will today’s audiences have enough awareness of the original property to make the new one commercially viable? Well, major studios do not enter lightly into projects such as this. Market research must have determined that there is enough residual fondness for the sitcom to make a film version fly.

Such questions need not even be asked of this month’s other big reboot news. In the 25 years since Ghostbusters 2, there has been constant chatter and speculation about when a third instalment of the horror-comedy franchise would be upon us. Various reports have indicated that there were one or more screenplays in existence; most stories held that Bill Murray was the common obstacle in getting another Ghostbusters off the ground. Give or take the odd Garfield or Monuments Men, Murray is all about quality control. In an interview with Variety this week, he talks about some of the different ideas that were floated over the years, including one in which his character, Peter Venkman, died and then returned to haunt his mortal former colleagues. Murray’s memory is of it being “kind of funny, but not well executed”. He also says in the interview that he would consider a cameo appearance in the third film.

A new Ghostbusters, it was revealed last week, will be directed by Paul Feig, who made Bridesmaids. This is excellent news. Even better is that he is working on the screenplay with Katie Dippold, who wrote Feig’s last film, The Heat, which paired up Sandra Bullock with Melissa McCarthy and breathed new life into the buddy comedy. The third piece of good news about this 21st century Ghostbusters is that it will be female-oriented. Populating a blockbuster with women – now that’s radical. Sure, Sigourney Weaver was a big and often amusing part of the first two, but she wasn’t allowed to be boy-funny: she wasn’t permitted to goof around on equal terms with the fellas (as, say, Julia Louis-Dreyfus does in Seinfeld).

Feig has confirmed that his film won’t have any connection to the previous two – so Murray’s involvement may be moot after all. This is unequivocally the right way to go. I’m all for apparent sequels that shake off any link to their predecessors (The Curse of the Cat People) or updates that rib and riff on the source material (The Brady Bunch Movie). In which case, perhaps we shouldn’t even be calling it Ghostbusters when this is clearly a post-Ghostbusters enterprise. PostBusters, anyone?

No hint yet of what the plot will entail. But I’ll throw my hat into the ring with this script idea: an announcement is made that a big-budget Hollywood franchise will be rebooted with an all-female cast, triggering a rash of “Can women be funny?” think-pieces, much as Bridesmaids did. This has the unexpected effect of accidentally cranking open the gates of hell, causing pop-culture columnists and op-ed writers around the world to be slimed. The second act needs work but I think I might be onto something.

Ghostbusters will have selected 30th anniversary screenings on 28 October

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

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We knew we’d become proper pop stars when we got a car like George Michael’s

“That was George Michael!” we both shouted. “And he was driving the car we want!”

One of the clichés about celebrity life is that all celebrities know each other. Back in the Eighties, when we were moderately famous, Ben and I did often bump into other famous people, and because of mutual recognition, there was a sort of acquaintance, if not friendship.

There was a random element to it, as well. Some celebrities you might never catch a glimpse of, while others seemed to pop up with an unexpected regularity.

In 1987, the car we drove was a 1970s Austin Princess, all leather seats and walnut dashboard. In many ways, it symbolised what people thought of as the basic qualities of our band: unassuming, a little bit quirky, a little bit vintage. We’d had it for a year or so, but Ben was running out of patience. It had a habit of letting us down at inconvenient moments – for instance, at the top of the long, steep climbs that you encounter when driving through Italy, which we had just recklessly done for a holiday. The car was such a novelty out there that it attracted crowds whenever we parked. They would gather round, nodding appreciatively, stroking the bonnet and murmuring, “Bella macchina . . .”

Having recently banked a couple of royalty cheques, Ben was thinking of a complete change of style – a rock’n’roll, grand-gesture kind of car.

“I wanna get an old Mercedes 300 SL,” he said to me.

“What’s one of those?”

“I’ll let you know next time we pass one,” he said.

We were driving through London in the Princess, and as we swung round into Sloane Square, Ben called out, “There’s one, look, coming up on the inside now!” I looked round at this vision of gleaming steel and chrome, gliding along effortlessly beside us, and at the same moment the driver glanced over towards our funny little car. We made eye contact, then the Merc roared away. It was George Michael.

“That was George Michael!” we both shouted. “And he was driving the car we want!”

We’d always had a soft spot for George, even though we seemed to inhabit opposite ends of the pop spectrum. He’d once been on a TV review show and said nice things about our first album, and I knew he had liked my solo single “Plain Sailing”. We’d done a miners’ benefit gig where Wham! had appeared, slightly out of place in their vests, tans and blond bouffants. There had been a bit of sneering because they’d mimed. But I remember thinking, “Good on you for even being here.” Their presence showed that being politically active, or even just caring, wasn’t the sole preserve of righteous indie groups.

A couple of weeks later, we were driving along again in the Princess, when who should pull up beside us in traffic? George again. He wound down his window, and so did we. He was charming and called across to say that, yes, he had recognised us the other day in Sloane Square. He went on to complain that BBC Radio 1 wouldn’t play his new single “because it was too crude”. “What’s it called?” asked Ben. “ ‘I Want Your Sex’!” he shouted, and roared away again, leaving us laughing.

We’d made up our minds by now, and so we went down to the showroom, flashed the cash, bought the pop-star car and spent the next few weeks driving our parents up and down the motorway with the roof off. It was amazing: even I had to admit that it was a thrill to be speeding along in such a machine.

A little time passed. We were happy with our glamorous new purchase, when one day we were driving down the M1 and, yes, you’ve guessed it, in the rear-view mirror Ben saw the familiar shape coming up behind. “Bloody hell, it’s George Michael again. I think he must be stalking us.”

George pulled out into the lane alongside and slowed down as he drew level with us. We wound down the windows. He gave the car a long look, up and down, smiled that smile and said, “That’s a bit more like it.” Then he sped away from us for the last time.

Cheers, George. You were friendly, and generous, and kind, and you were good at being a pop star.

Tracey Thorn is a musician and writer, best known as one half of Everything but the Girl. She writes the fortnightly “Off the Record” column for the New Statesman. Her latest book is Naked at the Albert Hall.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge