Many of the jokes in Ghostbusters stem from the idea that, ghosts aside, Manhattan itself was an out-of-control wild west place, a Gotham city where a man could collapse against the windows of the Tavern on the Green, the ritzy restaurant that used to be in Central Park, and the diners would simply ignore him. Trash is piled on the sidewalks and Checker cabs whizz round corners: this recreation of New York, 1984 – the New York of my childhood – is still how I think of the city, even though I live there now and Manhattan has, for better or worse, changed a lot since. Ghostbusters is as much a love letter to New York as anything Woody Allen ever wrote, and a much less self-conscious one at that. Even the hilarious anachronisms give me a sentimental frisson: Lewis being mocked for his love of vitamins and mineral water, Aykroyd and Murray chuffing down fags while toting nuclear reactors on their backs, the bad guy being – and this I particularly enjoy – the man from the Environmental Protection Agency. These all look particularly anachronistic in New York 2011, and I can’t help but feel the city is a little poorer for it.