by Brandie Ashe
I was two years old when the Steven Spielberg-directed E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial debuted in theaters. I was six years old when I saw the film for the first time, which my parents had taped from television along with two other movies (the titles of which I can no longer remember) during a free preview weekend of whichever premium channel we could not afford to indulge in full-time. And I was perhaps ten years old when that videotape became no longer watchable due to the sheer number of times I rewound it to play E.T. over and over and over again.
Mom and Dad eventually bought the film on tape, and the obsession continued. And even today, the Blu-ray is on regular rotation ’round these parts, because it’s one of those movies that remains just as magical and fresh and revelatory today as it was more than thirty years ago.
To say that E.T. had a profound affect on young me would be an understatement. Next to the animated films and classic cartoon shorts that I adored (and still do) above all else, E.T. was something truly special–a film where the focus was on the kids, kids who were smart and brave but also flawed, who strove to do the right thing and yet weren’t perfect paragons of cinematic characterization. They were, in essence, real kids, and I identified with them as much as I longed to actually be them, and to have an adventure with a cuddly alien all my own.
That focus on the children is not a mere by-product of the film’s central science-fiction storyline; it is the entire purpose of the film. Indeed, Spielberg, himself a child of divorce, had long sought to make a film about the myriad ways in which divorce affects kids. Told from the perspective of a family of three kids–two boys and a girl–E.T. is ultimately less about the titular alien than it is about the dynamics of a broken family, and how that damaged unit dusts itself off and learns to function as a smaller whole.
When we first meet the family (relaxing in their relatively isolated house on the edge of a suburban neighborhood, bounded by a dense forest), oldest brother Michael (Robert MacNaughton) holds court in the kitchen with a group of friends, while middle child Elliott (Henry Thomas) sits on the fringes, continually asking when he will be allowed to join in the fun. The kids’ mother, Mary (Dee Wallace), putters around the kitchen, somewhat oblivious to the goings-on in her own house (she has no idea that the kids have ordered pizza without permission); youngest child Gertie (Drew Barrymore) is presumably fast asleep in bed. The unnamed father is nowhere to be seen; as later carelessly pointed out by Elliott, Dad is “in Mexico” with another woman.
It is evident from the start that this is far from the picture-perfect suburban household that its setting might otherwise indicate. Mary does not function particularly well as a single mother; though she obviously cares deeply for her children, she is preoccupied throughout much of the film, and operates more as a peer than a parental figure. The kids refer to her interchangeably as “Mom” and “Mary” and, being self-sufficient latchkey children of the 80s, do not seem to view her as having much authority. Because of her obvious distraction, Michael (as older children are wont to do in similar circumstances) has taken on something of a “man of the house” role; he tries to shield his mother from reminders of his father, and chastises Elliott for bringing up the split (“Damn it, why don’t you grow up and think about how other people feel for a change?”). And while, like most older brothers, he takes advantage of every opportunity to tease his younger siblings, he does not hesitate to protect both them and his mother–and, later, surrogate family member E.T.–when necessary.
The central figure of the story, Elliott, is perhaps the most unanchored of the three children. He seems to have taken the parents’ split the hardest, and has a certain level of resentment toward Mary; when she questions his story about the “goblin” he spotted in the shed, he mutters that “Dad would believe me,” and somewhat spitefully reveals his father’s whereabouts in Mexico without a thought as to how that would affect his mother. He is actively searching for a father figure, and so it is wholly appropriate that he is the one who actively seeks out E.T., and takes him into the household with no hesitation, and gives himself so fully to this new friend that they become psychically linked. In the end, E.T. is as much about Elliott’s personal journey as it is about the healing of the family unit. Through Elliott’s bond with the alien, we see him open up to new possibilities, shed the intrinsic selfishness of childhood, and recognize that there is much more of importance in the world than just himself.
As a child, I identified greatly with the kids, particularly the attention-seeking Gertie (I, too, was the only girl among two brothers, and even though I was the oldest, I was nonetheless the stereotypical tomboy who always wanted to play with the neighborhood boys). But as an adult, I strongly identify with “Keys” (Peter Coyote), the enigmatic government agent who spends much of the film searching for E.T. Keys is a curious figure in the film, distinctly different than most of the other adults present throughout the action, and much of that is due to his own childlike mindset–not in a developmental sense, but in his acceptance of the weird and marvelous, and his professed and demonstrated desire to protect E.T., much like Elliott himself. “He came to me, too. I’ve been wishing for this since I was ten years old. I don’t want him to die,” Keys tells the boy, and the sincerity of this proclamation stands in marked contrast to the other adults in the room. It’s a pleasant surprise, considering the first two-thirds of the film builds up our expectation of a calculating hunter: recall that we never see Keys’ face until he appears in the quarantined house; all previous shots of him focus on the keys dangling from his waist as he scours the forest for signs of the alien. When Keys finally glimpses the alien he’s been seeking, he gazes at E.T.’s prone form with barely-concealed awe; he is not coldly assessing, but openly curious and respectful of the creature and the self-described “miracle” that brought them together for that brief moment. In a certain sense, Keys functions as a stand-in for the adult audience of the film, reflecting that inescapable pull of wonder that we feel in watching the story unfold.
That self-same sense of wonderment permeates the film, from its mysterious opening scenes to its heartbreaking yet entirely hopeful ending. For, by the time E.T. boards his ship to return to his home planet, we are left with the sense that the formerly broken little family he leaves behind will be just fine. Though the loss of their new friend is a sad one, they are newly, tightly bound by the shared experience, one which few others could even understand. And in the end, there is a particular sense of beauty in their loss, because when you stop to think about it, aren’t some of the very best things in life–a beautiful chrysanthemum, a splendid day with a loving friend, even childhood itself–marked by how precious little time we are granted to cherish them in the moment?
“E.T. was something truly special–a film where the focus was on the kids, kids who were smart and brave but also flawed, who strove to do the right thing and yet weren’t perfect paragons of cinematic characterization. They were, in essence, real kids, and I identified with them as much as I longed to actually be them, and to have an adventure with a cuddly alien all my own.”
Really well said Brandie! You and I are the exact same age so our experiences with this came at about the same time in life. The depictions of the children as building self reliance, leadership and generally breaking free of the mold set for them is rather inspiring all around. I do think the film has a lot to say about childhood on the whole. And whether one is personally experienced with divorce or not, I think many of the themes are universal. I recently watched this film with my kids for the first time. It’s amazing how much emotion it brings up! Some of the appeal also has to do with the kids generally outsmarting the adults throughout the film. As a child, there is certainly that inborn fantasy of being able to take charge and make all the decisions, which is usually shot down by adults all around us. This film certainly gives weight to the possibilities in all of us, no matter what the age and lets the children somewhat break free of the shackles if only for brief periods at least.
A superb essay — many thanks!
The focus was not only on the kids, but the story was told from the point of view of Elliott and E.T. Spielberg inhabits the world of children, and enchants his viewers with a complete immersion of the childhood experience. All the famous sequences hold views captivated on repeat viewings – flying bicycles, Phone Home, the government intervention, the bedroom antics.
I can understand why as a child it meant so much to you Brandie. There is never a question of the integrity of point of view, and the fantastical premise takes on the reality of childhood. Lovely review!
Well darn I just thought it was a fun touching movie! Who knew all of that was going on under the surface. I was “grown up” when I saw this film at the movies with my Mother.
It was truly an experience, I know that I have seen it on TV through the years but have not experienced the film lately.
Brandie you have a wonderful view of this film which is on the money, a point of view of the children gives this film a perspective not often seen. Well done!
Excellent analysis of the troubled household and how separation was the catalyst for the fantasy that plays out. One could readily decipher themes and sub themes, but the exhilaration of being a child in discovery is what holds the emotional glue. The sweeping score by John Williams helps to solidify the narrative, though even without that kind of uplift the film exerts a quiet power all its own. The emotions run from one extreme to the other, but always steeped in wonderment. Spielberg is clearly trying to put himself fully in Elliot’s consciousness. Maybe I’m old-fashioned or maybe I need to “toughen up” (ha!) but I always thought that when a work of art elicits a powerful emotional response in the viewer or partaker, the transference was authentic and lasting. Nay sayers will contend it is fraudulent because THEY did not feel it, because THEY have issues with films that are driven by emotional concerns, and that THEY feel they are being shamelessly manipulated. Art is manipulation of course. Stephen Spielberg is a quintessential purveyor of the child’s mind, with most of his films focused on the psychology. If I had to use a single word for his cinema and this particular film I’d opt for “exhilaration.” People see horror films to be frightened or unnerved; they see Westerns for action and locales; they see film noir for characterization and atmosphere; they see comedies to guffaw; they see musicals for the inherent merriment. Spielberg is the master purveyor of exhilaration, which is not easy to perfect. (Yes we see all those genres for OTHER reasons too, but I went with prime motivators for many.)
Brandie, you’ve done a fabulous job assessing the film’s artistry, your childhood connections to it, and the family dynamics that seemingly open the door to an unleashing of love locked away. The film has well earned it’s place as an American classic.
And it is art, make no mistake about it. Its creator could triple the worth of Donald Trump, and I’d still feel the same way.
Well said Sam!