The high curiosity factor, the stars' popularity and moviegoers' deep affection for the property should generate decent opening numbers for Sony. But despite the teasing hint of a sequel in a post-end-credits coda mention of Zuul, the malevolent demon who possessed Sigourney Weaver in Ivan Reitman's 1984 original, the afterlife this time around looks evanescent.

The trajectory from the character-driven laughs and raucous physicality of Bridesmaids through the odd-couple antics of The Heat to the well-oiled action-comedy heroics of Spy in theory makes director Feig an ideal fit — particularly since all three of those films were elevated by their warmly knotty depiction of female friendship.

However, although the new Ghostbusters follows the template of the original by Dan Aykroyd and Harold Ramis, the witless script by Feig and his co-writer on The Heat, Katie Dippold, has no juice. Short on both humor and tension, the spook encounters are rote collisions with vaporous CG specters that escalate into an uninvolving supernatural cataclysm unleashed upon New York's Times Square. It's all busy-ness, noise and chaos, with zero thrills and very little sustainable comic buoyancy.

There's some knowing amusement in a rep from the Mayor's office (Saturday Night Live regular Cecily Strong) keeping a lid on public hysteria by using the ghostbusters' gender to discredit them as "incredibly sad, lonely women." But those expecting a clever feminist spin or any other sharp 21st century twists will be disappointed, and the upgrade to new-generation VFX yields nothing remarkable.

What's most surprising is the curious shortage of chemistry among the four leads, who never quite appear comfortable as a unit despite their overlapping screen histories. Kate McKinnon fares best of them, injecting consistent freshness into her off-kilter line readings and screwy reactions as eccentric engineer Jillian Holtzmann, who builds the team's anti-ghost gadgets — from familiar proton blasters to new improved gizmos. And Leslie Jones, despite being stuck playing a streetwise stereotype, has choice moments as Patty Tolan, a transit worker who brings her vast knowledge of New York and her funeral-director uncle's hearse to the job. (Yes, it gets ECTO-1 license plates.)

But there's a hole in the movie where its anchoring central friendship should be — between Melissa McCarthy's Abby Yates and Kristen Wiig's Erin Gilbert, a bond that dates back to high school and is gradually rekindled after an extended chill. While the actors worked together effectively in Bridesmaids, there's minimal evidence of a connection in their scenes here, which are often flat and sagging under the weight of dead air. Concept suffocates comedy at almost every step.

All the supernatural mayhem of the first movie — and to a lesser extent its 1989 sequel — was supported by the terrific rapport among four distinctly drawn main characters. Bill Murray's deadpan drollery, Aykroyd's earnest enthusiasm, Ramis' geeky awkwardness and Ernie Hudson's relaxed everyman vibe intersected in appealing ways that made it a hoot to watch how the team approached each fresh menace.

Those predecessors go unmentioned here, but one of the reboot's biggest problems is that its four leads seem more like female variations on the original models than fully formed characters in their own right. This is especially limiting for McCarthy and Wiig. McCarthy puts her signature, aggressively irreverent spin on impassioned science nerd Abby, and she scores a few laughs — this is not one of her abrasive misfires like Identity Thief or Tammy. But you feel the strain. Wiig's Erin is introduced as a stiff academic who has distanced herself from her early paranormal dabbling; naturally her starchy suit makes her the first to get slimed. Then zany Erin starts to peek through but somehow never gains much traction.