KWIF = Kent's Week(end) in Film.
This Week:
E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial (1982, d. Steven Spielberg - Crave)
Blink Twice (2024, d. Zoe Kravitz - AmazonPrime)
Miracle Mile (1988, d. Steve De Jarnatt - HollywoodSuite)
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Yes, E.T. is iconic, but unlike so many other pop culture icons he's not remained ubiquitous like he was in the 80's, he's not remained a pitch-thing for Reese's Pieces or been seen regularly schlepping for Honda or KFC or used in Space Jam or Wreck-It Ralph-style movies where "remember that thing" properties go for nostalgia tugs. No, E.T. remains (*taps forehead*) right here.
Did I love E.T. The Extra-Terrstrial as a kid? It's hard to say. I know I watched it enough times to be intimately familiar with its story, its repeated mantras, and have specific scenes live loudly in my mind. But, I was a Star Wars kid. To me the most exciting part of E.T. was when Elliott was introducing the spaceman to his Star Wars action figure collection. As an adult I now see how brilliantly director Spielberg and writer Melissa Mathison allowed the kids to exist as kids in this space, and a scene like that would absolutely resonate with the kids in the audience at that time, most of whom would probably have at least a couple Star Wars action figures in their room, and perhaps were important enough to them to be one of the first things they introduce to a friendly space goblin they've brought home.
Like most of us from the time, we grew up into angsty teenagers who tried to dismiss or erase their childhood. I would get pretty destructive with some of my childhood toys, and the films and television I enjoyed as a kid would be "baby stuff" and I would get pretty dismissive towards it [and yet, I never really stopped loving Star Wars, or the Muppets, or He-Man or most of my childhood things, so maybe it was just E.T.?]. I'm sure many of us in our teenage years looked at E.T. as emotionally manipulative claptrap for children, and for some of us that perception never went away.
There's nothing cool about E.T. It's not a wild adventure movie, nor is it an action-packed space opera. It's a rousing drama about those brief, but intense moments from childhood that stick with us forever. Henry Thomas' Elliott is our guide through this spirited time of adolescence, the middle child who is too old and boyish to connect with his younger sister, Gertie (Drew Barrymore), and too young and annoying for his older brother, Michael (Robert MacNaughton), to want to spend time with him. His dad has just run off with his mistress to Mexico, leaving his mom (Dee Wallace) to stoically do her best for her children, but it's clear she's barely holding it together.
When E.T. enters Elliott's life, after initially freaking each other out, there is a bond that is forged. Elliott is a lonely child, and he's unconsciously reeling from the absence of his father, and E.T. is a gentle stranded creature being hunted by men with flashlights in need of refuge. They fill an immediate need in each other's life, but quickly they come to care for each other, and they are literally psychically connected. They sense what each other is feeling. (I don't think I ever truly understood this aspect of their relationship as a kid.)
E.T. becomes a bonding point for Elliott and his siblings. The sister that he was distanced from is pulled into his circle of confidence, and his older brother suddenly is not only hanging out with him, but deferring to Elliott regarding what is in E.T.'s best interests. I would not have picked up on these sibling and family dynamics, nor how a third-party was a necessary thing in their life to bring them together in the wake of their father's abandonment of them.
Late in the second act of the film, E.T. has fallen ill, and so has Elliott as a sympathetic response. The visual of the pasty white E.T. and ailing Elliott in his waffle knit longjohns laying together on the bathroom floor was viscerally upsetting to me as a child. I never wanted to wear white waffle-knitted longjohns again, in case I would fall sick too. Michael is doing his best to try and care for the two of them, but he has no clue what to do. Their mom walks in only to panic, grab her children and try to flee they dying space goblin just as space-suited men start busting into every entrance of the home. It's a zombie attack-like sequence, and it was terrifying as a child. (As an adult, I think the NASA space suits, complete with sun-visor, is way overkill).
E.T.'s sudden resurrection is a result of his psychic connection with his people being restored. Elliott knows his friend's revival is because his people are on their way back to retrieve him. It was E.T.'s disconnect from his people, not Earthly conditions or downing a six-pack of beer that caused him to fall ill. It's not something the film spells out for the audience (which could have been done easily through Elliott), but it is the answer to something I never understood as a child watching it.
The film is now over 40 years old, and it still packs a pretty good emotional whollop. The weight of the film falls heavily on Henry Thomas' young shoulders, with a pretty even distribution landing squarely on the extra-terrestrial of the title. Thomas is absolutely stellar, making clear choices and reacting with an exaggerated honesty that is incredible for a performer his age. The E.T. creature design is so alien as to be immediately off-putting but there's a gentleness in both the form and its expressiveness that softens the innate reaction. There's a couple of "bits" with E.T. getting drunk or getting dressed up in drag that require comedic timing and the puppeteers deliver. The micromovements in E.T.s face and the expressiveness of the extending neck, along with the glowing bits and the adorable waddle, they all contribute to making a beloved character out of an aggressively unappealing exterior.
Returning to this as an adult, it's hard not to be swept up in such a deceptively simple story, especially when it features a sweeping John Williams score that punctuates every emotional beat. It's Williams' score even more than the beats of the story that lead me to the "emotionally manipulative" critique. But that is the conductor's job is to accentuate the story and does it ever! I couldn't help but let some tears loose (but oddly not at the moments you would think). The film connected to deep-seated emotions no matter how much I wanted to fold my arms and harumph my way through it.
Even the "bad guys" of the film aren't really the bad guys. Peter Coyote's man-with-the-keys-on-his-belt, unseen in full until the third act, is a most menacing figure that even at a young age we know from storytelling tropes that he's bad news. Except he's not. He's not effectively there to help E.T. get home, but he is there semi-altruistically to meet an alien, something he's dreamed of since childhood. He recognizes Elliot's connection to E.T., and being an adult, is aware of the nature of man, and is grateful to Elliott that he got to him first. All the scientists and whatnot try to help save both the alien and the child, unaware of their psychic connection nor the creature's need to return to his people. Their sin as the film's villains is that of adults throughout the film, of being emotionally oblivious to the needs of the world and its people and creatures.
Do I love E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial? Nah. Not so much. I still kind of find it to be emotionally manipulative bullshit. But I can see things in it as an adult that I couldn't see as a child that tip me off to the immeasurable craft and care that went into the production, and the exceptionalism is evident all throughout the film.
E.T. is incredibly well-constructed, and plays like magic, but there are still things that keep me at arms length from truly embracing the film (outside of the traumatic childhood response). While I'm quite fond of E.T.'s empathic connection to Elliott, I hate his telekinetic ability. I hate that he floats things around and especially hate the flying bikes. Even as a kid I didn't care for these sequences that tried to recall Superman (with another Williams score). It never made sense to me invoking superpowers into this otherwise grounded tale, and it winds a pretty convenient deus ex machina. I also don't like that E.T., despite coming to a certain comprehension of our language, never presents his (its) name to his Earthly friends...assuming his people have names. I'm fine with "E.T." as a film title, but kind of hate it as a character name. Can't he be called, like, Grogu or something?
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Roommates Frida (Naomi Ackie) and Jess (Alia Shawkat) are also best friends and coworkers. Their current gig is as caterers at the Met Gala, where Frida spies billionaire tech mogul Slater (Channing Tatum). She had just seen him earlier on social media making apology statements about some misconduct or other, but it's clear Frida was fixating on him, not what he did or what he was saying. At the gala, she fixates on him, and can't seem to pull her attention away.
Frida and Jess ditch their waiting garb for eye-catching red and blue dresses (respectively) and Frida once again spies Slater and starts to stride towards him, but breaking her heel and careening hard to the ground. It's Slater who picks her up and seems utterly fascinated by her. He takes Frida and Jess into his inner circle, introducing them to all the names and faces within (including Christian Slater, Simon Rex, Adria Arjona, Haley Joel Osment and Kyle MacLachlan). The conversation is freewheeling among them all, but Slater and Frida seem most locked in on each other. Slater says the party is going to his private island retreat, and asks if Jess and Frida would like to join.
At the island homestead all phones are requested, so as not to interrupt the festivities. Frida and Jess are each given private quarters and bleached-white bikinis with vibrant white linen skirts and shawls. All the women are. They settle in by the olympic-sized pool for cocktails and big fat blunts and other drugs, with exquisite catered dinners and relaxed conversation, though with strangely pointed personal questions, a few directed right at Frida, feeling both an outsider and yet, somehow, comfortable in this space with Slater fawning attention on her. The frivolity extends into the evening women running in the massive grass courtyard, their white linens flowing behind them as they giggle and squeal.
And the days seem to repeat themselves. Drugs, drinks, food, pool, dancing, frolicking. The days blur into a sameness of dejavu, but one that seems too blissful to want to escape from.
All is not perfect however as the staff, who don't seem to speak fluent English, tend to avoid Frida. One woman on staff, an elderly maid, spies Frida and points at her repeating "red rabbit" over and over again. And there's also a snake problem that the staff spend a lot of time tending to. But Jess gets bitten by a snake, and hours later starts freaking out, the bliss of this retreat completely gone. Frida tries to soothe her, but wakes up the next morning to find Jess not only gone but her existence completely unacknowledged by anyone else.
It's from there that Frida starts to unravel herself, and the island seems more like a prison than a vacation.
Even without the trigger warning at the head of the film, I'm pretty certain Kravitz's fairly exceptional direction leads us to understand that Slater is "stranger danger" and his uncontrollable allure to Frida is a bit of a puzzle. Frida and Jess agreeing to go with feels like an "oh no" moment, doubled when cel phones are requested be handed over, and once more when all the wome are graced with the same exact wardrobe. It's a definite "Get Out" vibe.
I don't know if the film hadn't had the trigger warning if I would have felt the opening time on the island was more casual...a more "where is this going" sensibility? I would have maybe wondered if they were all in danger. Given the stacked cast, there was a Glass Onion sensibility mixed in with the Get Out vibe. It could have went anywhere, but the trigger warning spelled out where it was going from the start. Not completely, but we know. And I was on edge, nerves frayed, the entire time.
There is a process of discovery, and my stomach started to churn as things unravelled. It's what we thought it was, but also somehow so much worse. But it's not just trauma porn, it's also a revenge flick. We so desperately want the tables to turn, and when they do it's only somewhat satisfying. Almost too beholden to the power dynamics, Kravitz concedes that this can't just be an easy win, and it gets pretty ugly.
The power dynamics are the baseline to the entire plot, and the conclusion subverts those dynamics in the most...capitalistic way possible, such that I wasn't satisfied by it, but I got it. It's a control thing.
In the moment, I was too frazzled (and quite invested) in Frida's increasingly horrifying predicament and not necessarily examining the scenario she was in. There are questions and holes to be poked into the way memories are masqued and restored, but it's best not to look too deeply as it could all unravel, and as much as I was upset by it, I liked the film enough not to want to pull it apart.
Kravitz's debut feature looks amazing. It's a sun-baked film with vibrant colours and Adam Newport-Berr's cinematography captures picture-perfect frames in a movie where photos are constantly being taken but never seen. It all reminds me a tid of Don't Worry Darling, another exceptional-looking feature from an actress-turned-director that tells a fundamentally flawed story of abuse and assault set in a heightened reality very very well. I would say Blink Twice hangs together much better than Don't Worry Darling (which is more of a puzzle box) but it's not a competition and we don't need to pit the two films against one another. Ultimately it is important that stories about assault and abuse and/or the fear and anxiety and/or trauma thereof come from women storytellers and are presented on the main stage rather than as niche or arthouse features.
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The film Miracle Mile opens with Harry (Anthony Edwards) providing a monologue over a montage of images, talking about love and connections and missed opportunities, as he spies Julie (Mare Winningham), and can't help but be captivated by her, following her around the La Brea Tarpit museum. They eventually connect, their dialogue is cute and flirty, and they have a couple of dates that dip in and out of montage. Visually it's all gauzy, hammering home the dreamy falling-in-love moments. Julie promises a more intimate encounter for their third date, and she advises Harry to head back to his hotel to rest up while she heads to her waitressing gig, ending at midnight.
A power surge interrupts Harry's alarm clock and he wakes up three hours late. At the all-hours diner where she works Harry tries to draw out Julie's contact info from the waitress. After making a futile call in the phone booth outside the diner, the phone rings back. Harry picks it up. On the other end is someone frantic, mistaking Harry for their father, and telling them about how the missiles have been launched. It's an hour and counting to doomsday.
Edwards is fantastic in wrestling with the info he's received from this phone call. He doesn't know how to parse it out, and the patrons of the diner, most he's never met, are his only lifeline to his sanity. It just so happens there's someone in the diner with enough connections that they can at least corroborate that Harry heard something he wasn't supposed to, and it sparks off panic among the diners. It's time to get the eff outta dodge. But Harry, having just met the love of his life, isn't going to leave Julie behind.
Just getting to her is an epic feat on its own, nevermind getting to the rooftop helipad that will take them to the airport and to safety. Events continue to escalate into increasingly upsetting acts of violence as zero hour looms. It's all happening real-time as well, which adds to the tension. We rarely leave Harry's side, though the camera may glance away at some aspect of chaos or another or linger behind in a situation before jump cutting back to Harry.
By the time dawn breaks, the streets have erupted, and it's straight-up madness. Some familiar faces come back around, but in more dire straights. Harry starts to question, given the timing, whether he "Chicken Littled" the whole scenario and has all this rioting, death and chaos on his shoulders.
Miracle Mile works exceptionally well because of its real-time gimmick. It lets us feel the intensity as those minutes counting down without relying on any countdown clock motif (but occasional check-ins with the time via community clocks do give us bearings). It also works so incredibly well because it does cast that doubt that Harry just might have misconstrued something, or that it was an elaborate prank call. It's easy to forget amongst all this that Harry is just a tourist, that this isn't his home and that he doesn't know his way around very well. He relies upon others, but learns quickly that most others aren't easy to rely upon. His desperation isn't self-survival but to hold onto the love he's only briefly found, and it's his greatest desire to service that love, protect it, even over self-preservation. It drives him to extremes, but even some things are still an extreme too far for him.
It's a pulse-pounding, exciting and somewhat upsetting film, as pre-apocalyptic stories tend to be. It's only through Winningham's winning affability that there's some oasis from all the weight of the night's events.
I had seen Miracle Mile a couple decades ago and I have a vague recollection of liking it, I didn't remember much outside of images of the diner, the mall, 80's clothing, and the very memorable ending. It was great to revisit it with almost fresh eyes and I can't see forgetting it any time soon.
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