The Everyman and the Sublime
Before Steven Spielberg, the average person’s role in an alien invasion was simple: scream and run. Sci-fi of the 1950s and ‘60s was populated by generals, scientists, and presidents making grim decisions
in war rooms. But in *Close Encounters of the Third Kind* (1977), Spielberg rewrote the script. His protagonist, Roy Neary, isn’t a hero; he’s a schlubby Indiana lineman who has a transcendent experience on a dark country road. He’s not fighting aliens; he’s inexplicably, obsessively drawn to them. He sculpts their mountain in his mashed potatoes, gets fired from his job, and alienates his family, all in pursuit of a feeling of cosmic awe. This created the most powerful trope in the modern UFO narrative: the ordinary person as the chosen witness. The story of contact became personal, spiritual, and accessible. It suggested that you don't need a security clearance to be part of the big reveal—you just need to look up and be open to wonder.
The Alien as a Friend, Not a Foe
If *Close Encounters* opened the door to a non-hostile meeting, *E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial* (1982) invited the alien inside to raid the fridge. E.T. isn’t just non-threatening; he’s vulnerable, childlike, and deeply empathetic. He is a lost tourist, not an invader. The film’s emotional core is the bond between this gentle creature and a lonely suburban kid, Elliott. Their connection is telepathic, pure, and founded on a mutual need for companionship. This was a radical departure from the bug-eyed monsters and death rays that dominated the genre. Spielberg taught a generation of moviegoers to see the “other” not as a threat to be neutralized, but as a potential friend to be understood and protected. This cultural conditioning is profound. When people now hope for “disclosure,” they are often implicitly hoping for an E.T. scenario: a being we can connect with, learn from, and maybe even help.
The Government as the Antagonist
In both *Close Encounters* and *E.T.*, the true villain isn’t from outer space; it’s from Washington, D.C. The government agents in these films are shadowy, menacing figures who represent secrecy, paranoia, and a lack of imagination. In *Close Encounters*, they orchestrate a massive public deception to keep people away from Devils Tower. In *E.T.*, the faceless government scientists in hazmat suits descend on Elliott’s home, treating the gentle alien like a lab rat and nearly killing him in the process. Their clinical, fearful approach is a direct foil to the children’s open-hearted empathy. This narrative perfectly primed the public for the core tenet of modern UFOlogy: the belief in a massive, decades-long government cover-up. Spielberg’s films didn’t just suggest aliens might be friendly; they insisted that our own authorities were the primary obstacle to making contact, framing them as the untrustworthy gatekeepers of a beautiful truth.
A Deliberate Choice for Hope
It’s not that Spielberg can’t imagine a darker scenario. His 2005 adaptation of *War of the Worlds* is a brutal, terrifying, and relentless depiction of a hostile alien invasion. The film is a masterclass in sci-fi horror, proving he has the cinematic vocabulary for mass destruction. But that’s precisely what makes his earlier work so significant. The hopefulness of *Close Encounters* and *E.T.* wasn’t a default setting; it was a deliberate artistic and philosophical choice. In a post-Vietnam, Cold War-era America filled with cynicism and paranoia, Spielberg chose to offer audiences stories of wonder, connection, and spiritual catharsis. He used the canvas of an alien encounter to explore humanity’s capacity for awe and empathy, rather than its propensity for fear and violence. This optimistic vision became his defining legacy, and it’s the one that has most deeply permeated the culture.
