When I was kid, I was utterly captivated by Sigourney Weaver's character in Ghostbusters: the tall, sassy single cellist living in an amazing apartment in Central Park West. There's this classic scene where she's carrying groceries up the elevator (a perfect brown bag with overlapping leafy greens and a bouquet of flowers in hand) and she spreads her stuff out on the kitchen counter one by one. I always thought this was so awesome. I wanted to be like her. When I fantasized about being a grown up, the image of that grocery bag in my hand was always present after that. (There are similar such props in movies including Romancing the Stone, another sassy single girl adventure story with a dark subtext about being single and independent: you will somehow almost end up in an alligator pit, so watch out.)
Of course, when Dana's back is turned, the eggs starts to sizzle and fry right there on the counter, the first sign of supernatural occupation. Later, Dana herself becomes supernaturally occupied, temporarily the "Gatekeeper' for some ancient Babylonian demon uprising (or something). Again, the single girl: always in peril. I might argue what happens to Dana is sort of a safe depiction of rape, but I don't feel like exploring that angle. I'm fascinated by Dana's overall character trajectory: independent woman/paranormal sexcat/fuzzy headed victim.
The most enchanting part for ten-year-old me is when Dana is getting ready for a date with smart-alecky, but charming, Bill Murray. She's on the phone with her mother, haphazardly pulling off her winter scarf as she talks. She tugs off her jeans, revealing tights underneath. She is telling her mom, "He's a Ghostbuster…(waits a beat.) Those guys on TV." She seems a bit annoyed by her mom. I remember thinking to myself several things: WOW. Tights under jeans??! How cool is that!??? And I was more than anxious for Dana: the subtle staging of the whole scene is a bit ominous. As soon as Dana gets off the phone and closes her eyes briefly, the armchair she's nestled in suddenly starts erupting into a full-on monster dog, dragging her screaming into hell. I can remember yelling at the TV screen on her behalf.
It's hard to be a single girl in the city. Long before Carrie Bradshaw shoe-shopped her way through bad puns, there were girls like Dana, and Dana's sexually aggressive alter-ego, Zool. And the message to me then was this: better off staying in the suburbs. Better off with a husband.
Could these heroines have affected my whole generation? Did Hollywood perpetuate this anti-single-girl agenda deliberately? Or was it just a mirror of the 1980's, where rising divorce rates and women in the workplace became more of visible threat to some oppressive other agenda?
At the end of the movie, Dana is covered in Stay-Puffed Marshmallow Man debris/goo and kissing Bill Murray, her rescuer, with wild abandon. I wish I could have told her, there's a sequel coming. Better ask him to move in.
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