E.T. the EXTRA-TERRESTRIAL, we’re sorry to say (OK, not really) just doesn’t do it for this kid. Now, if I was a kid, or had been one in 1982, when it took the world by the googoo charm whiskers, maybe I’d gaze skyward and share in the universal deification. We like “heart-warming” as much as the next gorilla. But apart from the swell performances of the child actors (working under maybe the best director of children this side of Pluto) and appreciation for the grade-A smoothness of its various working parts, we respectfully have to semi-recuse from this case of terminal “awww….” If you can’t say something nice…*

Synopsis? Please. If you’re reading movie reviews, we’ll take a wild guess that you know already. Skipping that, let’s be gallant and duly compliment the terrific work from Henry Thomas, age 10, Robert McNaughton, 15 in his debut, and especially mischievous 6-year-old sparkler Drew Barrymore. Applause also to Dee Wallace, though we’d rather think of her in The Howling. Yes, the $1,500,000 creature designed by Carlo Rambaldi (animatronics/puppet/small people inside) is amusing: cue sound of a thousand people in a theater going “awww…”

Melissa Mathison’s script called for M&M’s to be used as bait for the accidental tourist, but the supreme beings at (not on) Mars nixed nummies because they didn’t want their candy to possibly scare kids (rotting their teeth wasn’t discussed), so Hershey stepped in with Reese’s Pieces: after release, sales zoomed 65%. Why didn’t they go with those pink & white circus animals?

Now, put away the scaling ladders—we truly admire director-producer Steven Spielberg as one of the all-time champs, but (as of 2025) we prefer nearly all of his 34 features as director. Likewise, we love a ton of John Williams soundtracks, but his “beloved” score for this one leaves us with a shrug. Continually putting up with sourballs who honk about how they don’t like (and often downright hate) Christmas, Valentine’s Day, fireworks, dogs, cats, Tom Cruise, Julia Roberts, Titanic, Disneyland, It’s A Wonderful Life, candy corn—all of which I like or love, we think fair play allows being lukewarm on Steven’s space critter. No-one will care. Maybe somebody in lockup.

Factoidia: done for $10,500,000, it was, by a light year, the #1 hit of 1982. The eventual USA take of $416,700,000 was just part of a global swipe of $792,900,000. That was followed by $250,000,000 in VHS sales, then more than $24,400,000 in DVDs. Lower shields, we get the public popularity: there are families out there. The tidal wave of critical gush and tear-streaked sermons about What It All Means And Says About Us is harder to surf.

Then, talk about Lost in Space! The Oscar stampede? Nine nominations, four wins. The takeaways were for Music Score (ralph!), Visual Effects, Sound and Sound Effects Editing.  Music, if there was justice (hearty laugh) in the time-space continuum, should have gone to the un-nominated Conan The Barbarian, a Krom-sized snub. Sound to Das Boot, Visual Effects and Sound Effects Editing to Poltergeist. The other nominations: Best Picture, Director, Screenplay, Cinematography, Film Editing. Whatever. Sigh. We’re gonna need a bigger blog.

With Peter Coyote, C. Thomas Howell (15, debut) and Erika Eleniak (12, debut). 114 minutes. Hey, it’s a good movie, a very good one. But it ain’t the cure for cancer. Apologies to 98 % of the population of Earth.

* Space cadet Steven: “It’s about human values. It’s about the understanding people have toward one another. It’s about compassion and love. They share so much of what they know about their own environments with each other and they come to have a great understanding for each other’s problems.”

One might add it’s “about” one billion dollars in marketing of E.T. toys, including 15,000,000 dolls. It’s about the death threats you can expect by foolishly daring to venture it might not be the greatest thing since the discovery of fire. Or green M&Ms.

As long as I’m on vent—it’s about the apocalypse now memories of my ghastly stepmother—who was Not of This Earth and so brainless she probably thought the movie was a documentary—who redefined ‘cloying’ by referring to my Dad as ‘E.T.’ Because those were his initials. Little could she fathom that behind the grimace-smile I simulated was the fervent wish that the alien from Alien would meet her in the bathroom. I don’t blame Spielberg (except for Hook). Dad, normally sharp, just made a lonely guy mistake (granted, on the order of invading Russia) so he’s forgiven. However, that person who shall remain nameless (she doesn’t have a Latin scientific category) shares blame for ruining a movie for me, one that everyone else on the planet loves. I think I just self-exorcised…

Only lingering decency prevents commenting on the usefulness of anti-aircraft guns