UFOctober: SUPER 8 (2011)
J.J. Abrams has a resume longer than the list of Jared Leto’s crimes against the very concept of art. With a television history including Alias and Lost, along with helming MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE III and the STAR TREK reboot, it wasn’t until 2011 where he birthed his first truly original cinematic baby with SUPER 8. Taking his trademark “mystery box” approach, it turns out that the real surprise wasn’t any sort of reveal, but rather the amount of times you’ll find your cheeks stained with tears.
In 1979, four months after the death of his mother in a work accident, Joe (Joel Courtney) agrees to help his friend, aspiring filmmaker Charles (Riley Griffiths), make a movie. Including Joe, Charles enlists the help Cary (Ryan Lee), Preston (Zach Mills), and Martin (Gabriel Basso). Miraculously, he also convinces local cool girl, Alice (Elle Fanning), to join them. It isn’t long into filming at the local train station when all hell breaks loose, with a truck showing up on the tracks to derail everything… literally and figuratively.
As our misfits struggle to stay safe during an insane series of explosions, something breaks free from the wreck. Before escaping the approaching military, the kids find that the man in the truck is a biology teacher at their school, Dr. Woodward (Glynn Turman), who urges them at gunpoint to forget what they saw and run.
One of the first things you’ll notice about SUPER 8 is it wears its inspirations on its sleeve. Abrams isn’t shy when it comes to borrowing from Spielberg, but that’s not a downside. If anything, it’s a strength. What separates this from so many others aiming for the same vibe is that underneath all its influences resides a strong bull of a beating heart.
Thematically, the narrative focuses primarily on grief and empathy. What’s so interesting however is how it expands its sympathies to both human and alien alike. While yes, the creature of this feature does gobble people down with more ferocity than garbage disposal, that doesn’t necessarily make it a monster.
Put yourself in its shoes. You’re part of an advanced species marooned on a foreign planet where the locals treat you as a lab rat, as something to conquer. Then, rubbing salt in the wound, they try to steal your technology despite being collectively too dumb to understand it. Over the years your resentment would obviously build. Hell, if I were the big fella, I’d want to make an all-you-can-eat buffet out of humanity too.
That being said, there’s a reason it spares Joe instead of treating him like a Dorito when he goes to rescue Alice in the third act. It’s an empath, having formed a psychic relationship with Dr. Woodward, resulting in his reckless attempt to free it. When it has Joe in its grasp, a connection is made. It knows that, like it, he carries the pain of that heartbreak. In an act of not just mercy, but solidarity, it chooses to let the two go. When all is said and done, it just wants to go home in the same way Joe just wants his mom back.
This sense of shared loss is also what binds Joe and Alice. They each get what it’s like to have a hole suddenly ripped into their world, and as much as that sucks, it’s also what shapes their bond for the best. On the other hand, there’s the fractured relationship between Joe and his father, deputy sheriff Jack (Kyle Chandler). Ever since the accident, something changed. They talk, but they don’t communicate. They live in the same house, but it’s not a home.
There’s a moment where Joe witnesses his father crying, something Jack clearly didn’t want him to see. Joe however needs to see it, and Jack needs to let himself feel it, as his stubborn refusal to acknowledge the hurt does nothing but widen the gap between them. It’s bits like this that are so impactful precisely because they’re so human. Anyone who’s experienced loss knows what its like to have to navigate life in the aftermath of a world flipped unceremoniously on its head.
If there’s one thing that forces a person to really reflect though, it’s facing the threat of experiencing the dreadful déjà vu of death. Once Jack becomes aware his son is in danger, he drags Alice’s dad, Louis (Ron Eldard), out of his drunken stupor to go save their kiddos, leading to a scene that is arguably the major thematic crux of the film.
We learn early on that the reason Jack’s wife and Joe’s mom was even working that day was because Louis was too hungover to show up, having lost himself further into the bottle after his own wife left, and Jack can’t help but blame him. Anger and denial are parts of grief for a reason, but by projecting these onto Louis, what he’s really doing is trying to reject the reality that sometimes bad things happen and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. The truth that anything could happen to anyone at anytime is not easy to sit with, but ignoring it won’t do you any favors. Them’s just the facts, Jack.
With their kids in peril, they’re forced to reflect however. A guilt-ridden Louis apologizes, hating himself for not only what happened, but for losing his wife as a result of his drinking and possibly even losing his daughter because of it too. Jack sees his hurt, and can tell he’s legitimately remorseful. He also understands that both of them have a strained relationship with their children for similar reasons.
It’s at this point that Jack forgives Louis by reassuring him it was nothing more than an accident, a catharsis both of them very much needed. This gift of absolution, facilitated ultimately by the bonkers situation they’ve found themselves thrust into, is, in essence, what SUPER 8 is all about. Like any great monster movie, the alien serves a dual purpose: to act as both a narrative focal point and a thematic catalyst. The real irony is that if it never ran amuck the character’s might never have overcome their hurt in the ways they needed to.
SUPER 8 could have come across as mimicking sentimentality rather than being genuinely sentimental. Yet, it avoids this by meticulously carving out its characters internal lives and relationships, whether human or alien. It doesn’t matter if you’re a hulking beast from light years away or a glorified ape on this rotating rock, some things are just universal, and if we’re willing to face them we can find ourselves capable of going further than we thought possible.
There’s no beauty in losing a loved one, but what Abrams is trying to tell us is that in spite of that, in spite of the void left behind by loss, good can come from it. The ache never goes away, but the bonds we form from our pain can give our lives meaning in ways we never even conceived of before.
