E.T. Is for Extra Trauma by Chris Bujold

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Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!

-Gertie, E.T. the Extra Terrestrial (1982)

In 1982, at five years old, I was a nervous little boy with a bleach blond bowl cut and large front teeth. My mother and father worked in a restaurant (Val, a waitress, and Karl, a cook) and we lived a simple life in a small, pale yellow duplex on a dead end in Hudson, New Hampshire. We had a giant backyard with a rusty old swing set, some woods I loved to wander in, and a little brook that I often splashed around until I stepped on some broken glass that resulted in stitches. Our landlord, a stout, scrunchy-faced, mumu-wearing French Canadian woman named Pauline (whom my parents called “Pinworm” for reasons I am unaware), lived on the other side, and she had insufferable, pig-tailed, twin daughters named Tami and Tara who constantly harassed and chased me around the backyard, taunting me with chants of “Cutie pie! Cutie pie!” My half-sister Lisa, from my mother’s very young and naive previous marriage, usually came to my rescue to ward off the terrible twins. Five years my senior, Lisa did not get along with my father, whom she unaffectionately and very deliberately called by his first name.

My mother bore a resemblance to a young Teri Garr (blonde and fit), and she loved going to the movies. She definitely took me to the movies as an infant, she has told me as much, but the first film I remember seeing “at the Cinema” was Steven Spielberg’s E.T. the Extra Terrestrial. It seemed like the perfect family film to go to, with its cross-appeal and universal praise; it is now widely regarded as a masterpiece. It’s quintessentially “Spielbergian,” with the innocence of childhood juxtaposed with danger, fantastic scenarios and effects, and themes of broken families. It’s a cultural touchstone. It’s revered. And it has absolutely become one of the greatest films of all time.

And I absolutely hate it.

We went to see E.T. (and countless other films) in neighboring Manchester at the South Willow Street Cinemas, a multiplex with an expansive parking lot, tucked behind a guitar shop and next to a gas station. South Willow Street is the busiest street in Manchester; for a two mile stretch, it’s a four-lane state route (28) with dozens of restaurants and strip malls. Going there felt like going to a big city, not because of any tall buildings, but because of all the traffic. You always had to give yourself an extra ten minutes, ”just in case.”

I clutched my mother’s hand as we walked into the building. Happy, smiling people milled about, murmurs filled the air, popcorn wafted in my nose, and I could make out ambient arcade noises. We had to watch our steps as we traversed the navy carpet with a distinct 1980s pattern of brightly colored shapes on it, because gum, random popcorn, and spilled soda could be seen everywhere. We bought a jumbo tub of popcorn and super-size Twizzlers, and snuck in our own sodas. This would become a tradition for us. As we stood in line, waiting for the mulleted teenager to rip our tickets, I noticed the large cardboard cut-out of the now iconic “moon shot” of E.T. and Elliot riding his bike in the air.

What is this even about? 

A little overwhelmed as we walked into the packed theater with hundreds of people, I looked up at my mother and she smiled.

“Isn’t this exciting,” she cooed, and we found seats in the dead center of the theater. My mother to the right, my dad to the left, a Twizzler in my mouth and a bucket of popcorn in my lap, I thought to myself, things are going to be okay. The lights went down by half, and trailers for movies I didn’t care about played on the screen; I wasn’t even really sure I cared about this one. My thoughts raced as the lights started to fade, and the movie started…

Why are the lights doing that? Where’s the nightlight? I don’t like the dark. What’s happening? I hear music. Dreamy, creepy music that sounds like echoes in a cave and there are giant words on the screen. It’s really dark in here. There’s a forest and rustling sounds and fog and animals and OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT INHUMAN HAND REACHING OUT FOR THAT BRANCH?! And why has the music changed? Whose hand was that? And now all these cars and trucks and shadows and flashlights and feet and waists are assaulting this forest. Who are these people? What are they doing? WHY CAN’T I SEE THEIR FACES?! And “gross hand” just let out the most terrifying screech I’ve ever heard in my life and the dark ones are chasing him? And his friends just got on their spaceship and left him? WHAT IS HAPPENING?!

The shock and fear of the opening did not get better for me as things moved along. Elliot inspects a noise in his backyard and THAT HAND is creeping around the doorframe of that shed. Why are you going into the cornstalks? That doesn’t seem safe. AAAAAAHHHH! WHAT IS THAT FACE?! That is so much scarier than anything I could have ever imagined! I don’t like this!

Why is Elliot laying out Reese’s Pieces?! Agh! E.T. is coming right at me! Don’t come at me, monster! 

Why is E.T. purring? Am I supposed to feel comforted by this monstrosity? I’m conflicted by my feelings!

Gertie’s screaming! E.T. is screaming! I’M SCREAMING!

My mother shushed me.

I huddled in my seat and continued to watch without incident, until E.T. gets sick and gray and grotesque. Things went into full-on horror mode.

Oh God, more faceless government silhouettes walking toward me! Spacesuit men are jumping out from every corner of the house! Please stop. These doctors are poking and prodding and uncaring and Elliot is crying…But wait…this one man is really kind and gentle, and I can see his face! He wants to save E.T.? Am I supposed to like him? Stop toying with my emotions! Now there’s a thrilling chase through the suburbs? Why do I want E.T. to get away? He scares me. And now they are saying goodbye and this man is there and E.T. is saying “I’ll be…right…here,” and Elliot is crying and my parents are crying and the whole audience is crying and I’m crying but is it because I’m sad or mad or afraid and I DON’T UNDERSTAND THESE FEELINGS. 

***

As the lights came up, I saw my mother wipe away her tears, but she had a big smile on her face. “Wasn’t that movie wonderful?”

I didn’t know what to say or do, so I just nodded.

“I know. I’m kind of speechless, too,” and she picked me up and carried me out to the car.

***

As if the harrowing experience of seeing that film wasn’t enough, I saw E.T. everywhere. The film broke box-office records all over the globe and pushed more merchandise than Mickey Mouse: E.T. stuffed animals, E.T. puzzles, E.T. lunchboxes, coloring books, t-shirts, and a famously terrible Atari 2600 game. E.T. even sold candy. Remember those Reese’s Pieces?

While the rest of the world basked in E.T.’s essence, I saw a nightmare around every corner. Every toy store was a panic attack waiting to happen. Every doctor’s office waiting room had that ugly mug on magazines, taunting me. Every time I opened my closet door, I thought E.T. might be hiding there, stretching his neck, screeching at me. Relatives, thinking any five-year-old would love some E.T. merchandise, would give me trinkets and toys and talk about him constantly.

WHY ARE YOU GIVING ME COLORING BOOKS OF THIS MONSTER? 

“They’re going to make a sequel! Isn’t that exciting?“

“What are you going to be for Halloween? E.T.? Ha ha.”

“Oh no, did you get hurt? Oooooouuuuuuch.”

STOP!

It never stopped. Throughout the 1980s: Reese’s Pieces while trick or treating – No thank you. Ten years later: The “E.T. Adventure” ride at Universal – No thank you. Twenty years later: Rerelease with a flurry of praising reviews – No thank you. 

I realize now what E.T. means to me, and has meant to me since the beginning: Trauma. E.T. is for Extra Trauma. And trauma doesn’t ever really go away. Rereleased in 2002 for its 20th anniversary, E.T. had only become more beloved. But mild panic attacks still managed to creep in when commercials ordered me to see the classic again. But you learn to cope; shove those feelings deep down inside. Just ignore; look the other way and move on as time passes. Real healthy stuff.

I’ve had plenty of other traumas in my life through film, most of them before I turned ten:

There’s a moment in Snow White and the Seven Dwarves where the titular heroine is running through the woods and comes across some crocodiles. I started crying hysterically and my cousin Marc had to escort me out of the theater. Logs in water terrified me for several years after that.

Two scenes in Poltergeist really took hold of me when I was young (interestingly enough, Poltergeist came out the same year as E.T., produced by guess who: Spielberg). The first is the storm scene, where Robbie, Carol Ann’s brother, counts the seconds between lightning and thunder and the twisted, creepy tree outside his window crashes through and grabs him and tries to eat him while ghosts abduct his sister. It's harrowing, and I couldn’t look at or go near dead, twisted trees for a long time (even now, every time I see one, I shudder a little).

The other scene is when the clown doll grabs Robbie from under his bed and snakes its arms around him and drags him under. That scene set off a lifetime of terror for me. I even wrote a song in high school called “Kill All the Clown Dolls.”

And let’s not forget about the twins in The Shining. Every time I’m in a hotel and turn a corner I expect to see them, standing there, beckoning me to “come play with” them “forever…and ever…and ever.”

When I had kids, I tried so hard to shield them from experiencing the type of reaction I had with E.T. I wanted to protect them. But it’s impossible.

Recently, I thought The Nightmare Before Christmas would be fun to watch with my children. I hadn’t seen it in a good twenty years but figured it would be fine. Thirty seconds in, my youngest son (five at the time) started screaming after “I am the clown with the tearaway face!”

Whoops. I forgot about that part. 

I suppose we have to let these things happen. We all have our “movie we saw way too young.” It’s a rite of passage. But E.T. takes the cake for me, probably because it’s the first film I saw in theaters.

That’s the impact of movies and how they can define us and help form our identities. For good or bad, movies make us who we are. They terrify and traumatize us in ways we don’t expect and aren’t prepared for. But they also teach us about divorce and death and sickness and abuse and bad guys and storms. They teach us about empathy and love and adventure and excitement. They teach us about merchandise. About art. Family. Community. They teach us about life, and about terrifying aliens that want to go home.

Chris Bujold has a BA in Theatre Arts, MA in Teaching English, and loves movies.  He is an occasional improv comedian and currently teaches English, Film, and Theatre in a typical public high school in New Hampshire. Once upon a time he lived in New York City and started a theatre company. He then moved back to New Hampshire, founded, directed, and performed in various improv groups around New England. He lives a chaotic life with his wife, three kids, and two dogs. Instagram: @bujold.chris and Substack.com/@thebuj