#24 ‘E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial’

Capitalism, Codependence, and the Needy Little Man-Child From Space

E.T., the 1982 Spielbergian sugar rush that convinced an entire generation to trust alien strangers, cry over glowing fingers, and believe that codependency is the purest form of childhood magic. It’s a story about friendship, empathy, and wonder—but let’s not pretend it’s anything more than suburban escapism with a heavy dose of soft-focus patriarchal grief and emotionally manipulative alien goo.

Elliott, our pint-sized protagonist with the emotional range of a mood ring, is the middle child of a recently divorced mom trying her best while her children build intergalactic escape plans in the backyard. His world is one of bike rides, bullies, and absentee fathers—until a waddling, bug-eyed, moist-skinned alien with the voice of a lifelong smoker stumbles into his tool shed and becomes his everything.

E.T., the titular alien, is basically a bald toddler with divine healing powers and the emotional boundaries of a golden retriever. He imprints on Elliott like a baby duck, and what unfolds is a mutual obsession that’s framed as transcendent love but reads more like mutual emotional collapse. Elliott gets physically ill when E.T. does. They scream together. They cry together. At one point, Elliott releases frogs from a science classroom in an act of psychic empathy, and we're meant to cheer like he just liberated Paris.

Meanwhile, Elliott’s mom (Dee Wallace, sainted and exhausted) runs around in a state of perpetual near-awareness. She cooks, cleans, drives carpools, and is never once informed that her son is harboring a government-grade biological anomaly in the closet. The film treats her like comic relief and emotional wallpaper—there to show just how serious the children are and how clueless the grown women can be.

Of course, the real villain here isn’t E.T. or even Elliott—it’s the cold, bureaucratic government, with their keys, walkie-talkies, and total lack of childlike wonder. Spielberg shoots them like stormtroopers invading Neverland. The implication? Trust children. Trust boys. Adults are either corrupt or irrelevant. Especially women.

Let’s talk about that ending: E.T. resurrects himself (Jesus parallels, anyone?), builds a glowing phallic spaceship out of scrap metal, and tells Elliott “I’ll be right here” by lighting up his heart like a Valentine’s Day card on fire. It’s Spielbergian sentimentality at full throttle, and audiences sobbed like they’d just been dumped by a celestial boyfriend. But step back, and what’s the takeaway? Your best friend leaves you, your government fails you, and your family still doesn’t understand what the hell just happened—but don’t worry, you’ve grown. Emotionally. Spiritually. Alone.

E.T. is a gorgeously shot, emotionally manipulative fairy tale about boyhood, loneliness, and the belief that love is real if it makes you sick. It’s not science fiction—it’s therapy for Spielberg’s inner child, with Reese’s Pieces product placement.

3 out of 5 glowing fingers
(One for the John Williams score. One for the cinematography. One for Dee Wallace, holding together a household while the men—terrestrial and extra—run away from accountability. The rest boarded that spaceship and left us sobbing on the lawn, again.)