Well. I am happy to report—not at all for the sake of feminism but definitely for the sake of summer entertainment—that the new Ghostbusters is good. It is actually pretty great! It’s funny, and nuanced in its funniness: hehs to haaaaaaas to lols. Big-budget movie comedies of the moment tend to involve jokes that mix the high and the low, the soaringly human and the stupidly so; Feig is one of Hollywood’s most skilled strikers of that balance. And so Ghostbusters, true to Feigian form, unapologetically combines ghosts and guns and gags and girl power. There are Abbott-and-Costello-y set pieces about a dog named “Mike Cat,” and Adam Sandler-y jokes about farts, and delightfully Seinfeldian riffs—callbacks to the original Ghostbusters’ fondness for Chinese food—on the proper ratio of liquid to dumpling in wonton soup.

There are also moments of visceral, apparition-driven spookiness: a squeaky door that calls to mind the Jaws theme song in its anxiety-making abilities; a guy (the human silly putty who is Zach Woods), violating all the rules of every horror genre, attempting to evade a ghoul by going into a basement. (“You idiot,” he mutters, realizing his mistake.)

The Ghostbusters of 2016 is, to be clear, a reboot of the original in only the broadest sense of the term. Much more than a scene-by-scene, character-for-character redo, the new version takes the story and the themes of the original and pays tribute to them, both subtly and (when the occasion demands it) without any subtlety at all. Peter Venkman, Billy Murray’s loutish, lying parapsychologist, has been replaced with Erin, Kristen Wiig’s bumbling-but-badass physicist; the Chinatown firehouse that housed the Ghostbusters business in the original—and that today, given New York’s housing costs, would be more at home on Million Dollar Listing than on Ghost Hunters—has been replaced by the dingy attic of a Chinese restaurant. This time around, too, the jokes are even snappier and more rapid-fire; the slimy spirits are even awesomer; but the proton packs retain every bit of their delightful mid-‘80s kitsch.

The new Ghostbusters is also, given its status as a reboot, extremely—sometimes almost painfully—aware of itself, and of its predecessors. There are pretty much all the original-cast-member cameos you’d expect (with the sad exception of Rick Moranis, and the even sadder one of Harold Ramis). There are many, many other bits of fan service, too (as when the door to Erin’s Columbia office, poking fun at the graffiti-laden door of Peter’s, is festooned with a sign reading “DO NOT WRITE THINGS ON THIS DOOR (STUPID)”). There’s also a very good marshmallow joke.

But if there’s any big flaw in Ghostbusters, besides the minor—several of its jokes fall flat; its ending is a little too neat, and goes on a little too long—it’s that the new film suffers, occasionally, from too much fealty to the original. The 1984 Ghostbusters, after all, featured ghost-to-human oral sex and a woman getting pawed by a claw-handed spirit. The new one mocks the old one’s blatantly casual sexism … by engaging in its own blatantly casual sexism. (This time, it’s directed at Kevin (Chris Hemsworth), the Ghostbusters’ absurdly handsome and comically un-smart secretary.) The old Ghostbusters featured egregious-to-the-point-of-ridiculousness product placement—Coke and Bud and Cheez-It and Smuckers and Oscar Meyer; the new one mocks that … by engaging in its own egregious-to-the-point-of-ridiculousness product placement. (In one scene, the ghostbusting nuclear engineer Jillian Holtzmann (Kate McKinnon) munches voraciously on the contents of a can of Pringles, explaining, “You try saying no to these salty parabolas.”)