"I don't think he was left here intentionally, but his being here is a miracle, Elliot. It's a miracle and you did the best that anybody could do. I'm glad he met you first."
Steven Spielberg's E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial shattered box office records on its release and became the highest-grossing film of all time, even beating out George Lucas's powerhouse Star Wars (1977).
On a personal note, I remember trying to see the Spielberg film three times, and being confronted each time with lines that stretched around the movie theater, and beyond that, around a city block. Finally, I nudged, bumped and pushed my way into an overcrowded, tiny multiplex auditorium, and there were literally people camped out in the aisles, seated on the floor. I've never again been in such a crowded, uncomfortable viewing environment, but when the movie started, that questionable environment just drifted away. The crowded house fell silent as Spielberg's story captured the imagination.
The summer of 1982 was the summer, no doubt, of E.T.
Yet even thirty years after its blockbuster theatrical debut, the emotional miracle of Steven Spielberg's E.T. remains the film's steadfast ability to make a viewer feel young again; to make the audience sympathize with the world and viewpoint of a child, in particularly the world of lonely Elliott (Henry Thomas). Spielberg accomplishes this miracle in several deliberate and intelligent ways.
Secondly, the screenplay by Melissa Mathison routinely and persistently makes allusion to J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan, a well-known fairy tale of perpetual childhood and youth. Spielberg has often been accused of suffering from the "Peter Pan Syndrome" in terms of his personal fascination with "fantasy" and so-called "childish" material. But here, the story of Peter Pan functions ably on a thematic level, and furthers the director's conceit of making a movie that expresses a child's viewpoint.
And thirdly, E.T. highlights a canny production design that assiduously stresses the importance of friendly "monsters" lurking in modern American pop culture. Spielberg builds a case that a child's "open" mind is the one that can best accept the idea of aliens or the out-of-the-ordinary, or the wondrous. After all, children are by nature imaginative and trusting, and so can readily accept the notion that what is ugly, or what appears menacing (like the Incredible Hulk, for instance...) can actually be good or heroic. Spielberg here pioneers the cliche or convention I term "This Boy's Bedroom" (seen also in Tobe Hooper's Invaders from Mars  and recently in J.J. Abrams' Super 8 ) in which a child's internal, emotional, imaginative life is reflected by the toys/memorabilia/hobbies he showcases/displays in his room.
The stranded and frightened alien escapes from several human pursuers, and makes its way to a small suburban community in California. There, E.T. befriends a boy named Elliott (Henry Thomas), his brother Michael (Robert McNaughton) and his sister Gertie (Drew Barrymore).
There, in the woods, two friends must say farewell...
As Hardy also observed: "the film is virtually completely shot from hip height, a literalization of a child's perspective" as is the way Spielberg effortlessly moves from terror through comedy and death..."
These pursuers are visualized by Spielberg as shadows, mostly, because their motives and personalities are in some way opaque or incomprehensible to children. These men are symbols of an adult world that Elliott and the others do not understand, and so that's how Spielberg physically represents them: amorphous threats lacking faces.
Also, one can't fail to note that these figures or darkness and shadow -- with their blinding flashlights and jangling, cacophonous keys -- somehow represent the mysterious nature of science and technology; mysteries somehow antithetical to the organic nature of gentle E.T, a friend the audience is asked to countenance emotionally, not in terms of "what he represents" to men and women in white coats, or in the annals of human history.
When Elliott (whose give name begins in E. and ends in T., by the way), first speaks to E.T. he suddenly becomes a motor mouth, speaking literally a mile-a-minute. It's as though he's had to keep his own counsel and feelings to himself for so long that he just can't keep the words from spilling out now. E.T. is like the (imaginary?) friend who wants to listen, wants to understand, and will never, ever let you down. Again, he is the kind of friend that kids, especially lonely ones, might dream about. Discovering E.T. is, in some sense, about wish-fulfillment.
It's quite significant that the one adult man we eventually get to know as a person and not as merely a menacing silhouette, Keys (Peter Coyote), lauds Elliott and his behavior. He even mentions his own dream from childhood. "I've been wishing for this since I was ten years old," he says. He is thus the adult who wishes to be young again. Peter Pan, all grown up. Discovering E.T. and Elliott has awakened that child in Keys. And suddenly, Elliott receives the approbation of the heretofore missing father figure.
What Spielberg gives audiences here is a newfangled Peter Pan story for the 1980s, one in which aliens will come to Earth, perhaps, if we believe in them. This is the film's ultimate, optimistic destination. In a beautiful and expressive image, Elliott finds a spaceship at the end of the rainbow. At the end of childhood and belief (as visualized by the rainbow), there are wonders if only we open our eyes to them, the film seems to state.
On the TV, This Island Earth (1951) plays in the background, and of course, that's the story of friendly Exeter (Jeff Morrow) and the doomed Metalunans.
While out trick-or-treating, E.T. encounters Yoda, the Jedi guru of The Empire Strikes Back (1980).
In Elliott's bedroom, we see quilts and light switches featuring imagery of Marvel's The Incredible Hulk, a "monster" with good intentions and a fearsome physicality.
In short order, we are also introduced to Lando Calrissian, Hammerhead, Snaggletooth, Walrus Man and other "beings" from the Star Wars (1977) cantina. There is also much discussion of the Dungeons and Dragons world, where goblins, elves, and other magical creatures exist in the imagination, and act alongside (and against) heroes.
E.T. purposefully asks audiences to accept that which is alternative or seem different, and judge it not by how it looks. On the contrary, E.T. and Elliott develop a symbiosis, and so come to understand the feelings of one another. No matter how different or alien someone may seem, they possess the same feelings that you do. That too is E.T.'s message.
E.T. asks Elliott to return to his home world with him. Elliott asks E.T. to "stay." In the end, neither can give up their lives to be with the other, and the friends have no choice but to part. I remember there was not a dry eye in the house when Elliott spoke his farewell to E .T., and said "I love you."
"We could grow up together, E.T," suggests Elliott, filled with hope, and that's the dream of all children. Life is always easier with a buddy at your side. I remember, during my own childhood, having to say goodbye to a dear friend who lived next door to me. He had lived there for three years or so (from 1979 to 1982, just about) and we had become best friends. And then one day it was all over because his parents wanted to move. The difficulty of saying goodbye is one I haven't forgotten.
E.T. is a movie about an alien who meets a human kid. But the secret is the kid already feels like an alien, himself.
And, unless you're very, very lucky, you've probably felt that way about yourself at some point too.
We all get to see him, and in doing so, we remember a special time in our own lives when his brand of magic seemed possible.