"Close Encounters of the Third Kind" is my (close) favorite films of all time, and regularly races to the top spot on most occasions, besting 1962's "The Manchurian Candidate." It is brilliant, the first film I saw that got my wheels spinning in my head on what film as art can mean, and how it plays with our minds and souls. And about aliens.
Steven Spielberg's 1977 film is a religion to me, the story of a family man (Richard Dreyfuss) who doesn't quite fit into the world, suddenly sucked into the drama of the arrival of aliens in America. Meanwhile, a small boy (Cary Guffey) and his mother (Melinda Dillon) also have visits from the extra-terrestrials, with the child being sucked from his home in a tour-de-force scene of light, smashing appliances and John William's knock out score. The world government moves fast to cover up the visits.
Every time I see this film I'm fascinated about a new aspect, and I've seen this film easily three dozen times. One glorious time on the big screen in Charlotte. My latest obsession -- the use of language in the film, the constant need of interpretation among the Americans, Mexicans, Spanish, Indians and a host of other races, but the aliens cut through all that and are heard and understood through music.
The finale at Devil's Tower, Wyo., still gives goose bumps (especially when I caught this at that theater) as the mother ship -- a floating fortress of lights like an oil refinery -- arrives in a thundercloud and one man finally finds where he belongs. Not here.
The kicker: We have nothing to fear from those outside our world, it's ourselves that are the enemy. I could go on, but I haven't the time. A+
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