The Gospel of Awe and Wonder
To understand the Spielberg formula, you only need to look up. His seminal alien films, *Close Encounters of the Third Kind* (1977) and *E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial* (1982), are built on a foundation of profound, almost religious awe. The narrative isn't
about invasion or conquest; it's about communication and understanding. In *Close Encounters*, an ordinary electrical lineman, Roy Neary, becomes obsessed not with fighting a threat, but with answering a call. He sculpts a mysterious mountain out of mashed potatoes, driven by a cosmic melody that feels more like a divine hymn than an alien signal. The aliens aren't monsters; they are artists painting the night sky with light and sound. The climax isn't a battle, but a concert. This is the core of the formula: the extraterrestrial is a source of sublime, world-altering beauty that elevates the ordinary human experience.
A Child’s-Eye View of the Cosmos
Crucially, Spielberg frames these encounters through the eyes of the innocent or the childlike. In *E.T.*, the story is told almost entirely from a child's height. The adults are often just faceless torsos and threatening legs—especially the government agents, who represent the real danger. The film’s emotional power comes from the pure, uncomplicated bond between a lonely boy, Elliott, and a lost creature. The alien isn’t a specimen to be studied or a foe to be vanquished; he’s a friend who needs to get home. Even in *Close Encounters*, the most receptive character besides Roy is a young boy, Barry, who greets the flashing lights with giggling delight, not terror. In Spielberg’s universe, the true enemies of progress and peace are cynical, fearful adults, particularly those in positions of authority. The wonder of the unknown is a gift, and only those with open hearts are worthy of receiving it.
Enter the Bureaucracy and the Algorithm
Now, contrast that cinematic dream with our mundane reality. The modern equivalent of first contact isn't a mothership blotting out the stars over Devil's Tower. It's a slow, bureaucratic drip of information. It's the Pentagon releasing a dry, 9-page preliminary assessment on “Unidentified Anomalous Phenomena” (UAPs). It’s a former intelligence official testifying before a congressional subcommittee about alleged government retrieval programs for “non-human biologics.” There is no single, unifying event. Instead, we have grainy cockpit videos, redacted documents, and political squabbling. The mystery isn't experienced; it's debated on cable news and dissected by YouTubers. If Roy Neary saw those five notes in the sky today, he wouldn’t build a mountain. He’d post a shaky video to TikTok, where it would be algorithmically buried beneath dance challenges and conspiracy theories.
Why Awe Can’t Survive a Whistleblower
This is why the Spielberg formula is so difficult to replicate for a hypothetical “Disclosure Day” movie. The entire emotional engine of his films relies on the individual’s private, transformative experience of the unknown. How can you capture that sense of personal wonder when the entire premise is that the government has known for decades and has been lying about it? The central conflict shifts from “What’s out there?” to “What are they hiding in a classified hangar?” Awe is replaced by suspicion. The faceless government agents in *E.T.* were a simple, monolithic threat. A modern film would have to navigate rival intelligence agencies, skeptical lawmakers, and a public primed for distrust. The narrative would be less about a transcendent encounter and more like a political thriller, closer to *All the President's Men* than *Close Encounters*. The magic evaporates under the fluorescent lights of a congressional hearing room.
