E.T. & ME
Hollywood, You're
Still Blowing My Mind

Commentary by M. Sammons

The first film I ever saw was a gem, a true classic, a real work of cinematic art. That film was E.T.

I fell in love with that strange but kind-hearted, ugly but cute, foolish yet genius monstrosity of Hollywood's enchanting illusion campaign of "Industrial Light and Magic."

I persuaded my mother to take me to see this fine film at least three times in one week. Then I succeeded in coercing one of my much older cousins to take me to that same picture twice the following week.

And, if memory serves me, I not only insisted that Grandma Helen accompany me to see E.T. two times further, but, by an immaculately cunning ruse of my own invention (the description of which would require, at the least, seven or eight more paragraphs), I secured reception of a Christmas present in the form of a videocassette that made it possible to watch the story of that wondrous cinematic wonder, E.T, on my home television device.

My collection of E.T. paraphernalia ran the entire gauntlet of collectible E.T. crap: t-shirts, underwear, watches, board games, posters, puzzles, you name it. Of course, I held ownership of a ridiculously shiny lunchbox upon which E.T., Elliott, and other characters were depicted in medias res of that famous "flying bike scene." Today, I have no idea as to where all that crap has gone.

My, did I think it so very amusing when my mother told me once of how she happened upon E.T. in my closet while I was away at school one morning! Get it? Do you not remember the scene where Elliott's mom sees E.T. in the closet, but fails to realize that she's eye to eye with an extra-terrestrial creature, because E.T. has hidden his repulsive (yet cute) self amongst a throng of variously-hued and multi-formed stuffed animals?

Further evidence of my juvenile fixation is the fact that my first pet was given, by yours truly, the extra fine moniker, "E.T." in homage to my alien hero. My E.T. was an orange striped and (arguably) retarded feline whom I secretly despised, but kept around purely for the extreme entertainment value inherent in the myriad ways to malign a furry little pussy.

Since the days of my E.T. experience-some might call it obsession - I have yet to glean any similar sort of wonder or intrigue (much less joy) from another movie. And it's not that I haven't tried. Until only a few months ago, I continued the search for that same feeling. But alas! I've found such charm in no other film.

The truth is that recently, after witnessing the first 15 minutes of the film E.T. once more, a revelation shook me. It was this: either I, when young, was a moron; or I, now older, am a moron. Because I just don't get it these days. Frankly, I am now certain that the film sucks. Why did I find this creature and his tale so wonderful and amusing?

Either I was a moron when I was young for thinking it was so great, or I am a moron now for thinking that it sucks. Either way, I remain unimpressed with the film, and slightly annoyed with my previous affection for E.T. himself.

Things have changed on the cinematic landscape since E.T. busted the blocks and now we have so many different, bigger, stranger and more expensive movies to see!

We have Vin Diesels, Tom Hankses, Jim Carreys, Julia Robertses, Tom Cruises, etc., etc. We have gladiators and pimps, criminals and lovers, faster cars, bigger explosions, tinier phones, and funnier fart-jokes. But all of these new biggers and betters have somehow been lost on me.

There's just something about the way Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire says that famous, "You complete me" line that makes me want to murder myself.

I also hated that little kid from his first scene, and I still do. I see him, in fact, in my dreams; I see him as myself, as though I have taken his form. When I awaken, I am filled with an intensity of loathing so great that I have to start drinking beer the instant I get out of bed.

As the days go by, and more and more movies are made, seen, talked about amongst friends, and reported on by Hollywood "news" programs, I am forced to admit to myself that Hollywood is still blowing my fucking mind.

I can't deal with it. It's too much. The Matrix. The Matrix II. 2 Fast 2 Furious. It's as though the Hollywood bigwigs are just out to cram as much shit up my backside as possible.

Oh, the humanity! I am constipated with all this Hollywood crap. I no longer covet movie-themed lunchboxes or posters. I no longer name my pets after film stars. I no longer feel compelled to see new films. Now, all I do is bitch about them. And I blame Hollywood at large and all those who still kiss Hollywood's ass.

* * * * *

Only a few weeks ago, I became aware of the fact that this Hollywood thing was really getting to me. It happened like this:

One of my friends has a nephew with severe autism. His thing is movies. This kid knows everything there is to know about practically every single movie ever made. He's like all Rainman and shit, only somewhere along the line he said, "screw the numbers game, I'm going into the movie biz."

When I first met this kid, the first thing he said to me was, "Don't you just love Ray Liotta?" I told him that I did. But I was lying. I hate Ray Liotta, and I hate films and, most of all, I hate Hollywood.

----

Reader Comments

No Comments.

Citizine Home