The end of innocence has been at the core of many Steven Spielberg films, which is a theme that he and his screenwriters have often framed through the prism of broken families. This of course all stems from the divorce of Spielberg’s parents, the defining event of his life.
And as we analyze this recurring motif in Spielberg’s work, it’s fun to move backward through some of his most memorable movies. This will help us see that he had an intuitive command of this theme and its many iterations from the very start of his career.
Catch Me If You Can (2002)
Regardless of genre, many Spielberg films are prodigal son stories, involving a wayward child reconciling with his family.
Catch Me If You Can is a prodigal son story in the form of a playful caper film. Spielberg seems to revel in both the fantasy of becoming anyone you want and the thrill of the chase here, as evidenced by John Williams' bouncy score, the tactile 1960s production design, and the increasingly inventive cat-and-mouse confrontations. But an undercurrent of loneliness lies under the film’s surface.
Frank Abagnale Jr.’s motivations for living a life on the run, in which he is constantly trying to reinvent himself, reflects his inner desire to bring his family back together by creating a new life for them. One could even argue that the film’s title itself refers to Frank’s aspirational image of his father - an image Frank is forever trying to catch by following in his father’s footsteps as a conman.
In his second collaboration with Spielberg, Tom Hanks plays sardonic FBI agent Carl Hanratty, who eventually becomes a father figure to Frank. Hanks is an excellent match for Leonardo DiCaprio here, who makes for a sympathetic, charming lead - the two of them play quite well off each other throughout the story. And that central relationship is what makes this a slightly different kind of prodigal son story for Spielberg - mostly because it leads to irony instead of closure.
By film’s end, the familial reconciliation Frank seeks happens via proxy in the form of his new “father” Hanratty, who tells Frank that he can finally stop running. But then Hanratty surprisingly welcomes Frank into the FBI - his new “family” - where he will now help catch people like himself. People who just want to be someone else.
It’s not exactly what Frank had in mind, and it remains to be seen whether it will bring him emotional satisfaction or not. Because just as it was for the titular character in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, Frank’s name ends in “Junior.” Which means that no matter how many conmen Frank helps bring in, he will always be in his father’s shadow.
And he will never catch him.
Minority Report (2002)
In the intriguing world of Minority Report, a police authority known as the PreCrime Unit uses the premonitions of a trio of psychics called Precogs to arrest criminals before they commit their crimes. Tom Cruise brings gutsy determination and heartbreaking pathos to the lead role of PreCrime Captain John Anderton, providing an empathetic anchor for this brisk man-on-the-run thriller and its impressive set pieces. (The overhead single-take shot during the "Spider Robot" sequence is a dynamic highlight.)
What is truly striking about this film - other than its authentic sci-fi setting that is not too far removed from today’s technocratic society - was that it was the darkest “popcorn film” of Spielberg’s career at the time (until War of the Worlds three years later). And that is certainly fitting since the story deals with the literal end of innocence: a child’s death. The worst fear a parent can face.
As such, Minority Report represents the flipside of Spielberg’s prodigal son movies, which I call his “prodigal father” films. And the reconciliation this particular prodigal father must undergo is with the past.
Anderton must forgive himself for the disappearance and death of his son, which drove him to obsessively try to end the eternal struggle between fate and free will by becoming a PreCrime Officer. But there will never be a true winner in that fight - certainly not by holding people’s unmade choices against them. And this notion is only reinforced for Anderton once it becomes clear that even memories and emotions can be manipulated to favor one over the other.
That said, unlike Frank in Catch Me If You Can, Anderton is not chasing anything here; he is instead running from the truth. Hence the constant motif of “eyes” in the film - i.e. only seeing the light will set you free. And Anderton eventually comes to this realization by becoming a father figure to the clairvoyant Precog known as Agatha.
In the end, by protecting the childlike psychic in his care, Anderton is finally able to accept there are some things you just can’t control. Other than your own choices.
A.I.: Artificial Intelligence (2001)
Spielberg's critics often accuse him of being overly sentimental; many of them point to this film's ending as an example. But it's plain to see that A.I.'s closing moments are actually quite downbeat.
Yes, the robot boy finally gets what he always wanted: one final day of joy and comfort with his mother. But it's an artifice that will end when the sun goes down, and then he will be shut down forever.
It definitely makes for a challenging, sobering finale to this futuristic take on the Pinocchio story (with shades of Frankenstein), making this one of Spielberg's most heartbreaking and visually striking pictures to date.
Of course, A.I. also marks another prodigal son story for Spielberg. To that end, he fills every frame with symbolism and thematic resonance, providing a lot for us to ponder concerning morality and the human condition. But perhaps the film’s most damning notion has to do with the responsibility of creation, which it explores via two vital questions:
Why is it so easy for us to forget that our children will always need us?
And why are we so quick to abandon those who need us the most?
Unlike many of Spielberg’s other end-of-innocence films, A.I. doesn’t provide any easy answers. And in stark contrast to the uplifting tales Spielberg has often told in the realm of sci-fi and fantasy, he doesn’t want us to look up at the heavens in wonder.
Sometimes, there are just no stars to wish upon.
Hook (1991)
Depending on how you look at it, this is probably Spielberg’s first true “prodigal father” film. And because Spielberg explores his favorite theme via the Peter Pan story here, Hook has more to do with the embracing of childhood than the ending of it. And it does so by exploring an ingenious and intriguing notion:
What if Peter Pan grew up?
Putting the meta nature of that question aside regarding Spielberg himself, there is nonetheless an undercurrent of loss in this film, as evidenced by the moving centerpiece wherein the adult Peter flashes back to his melancholic past.
And when Peter finally remembers what made him grow up – his “happy thought” - Spielberg brings us to a poignant answer: love. Whether it’s plutonic or romantic or familial, love changes us. It is the first time we truly become responsible for someone other than ourselves.
And that can give us the power to fly.
The story also features a very strong message about retaining the light of childhood even as adults. Captain Hook, the symbol of everything that is dark about adulthood, tries to turn Peter Pan’s children against him.
And because Peter’s kids serve as surrogates for his own inner child, their imperilment teaches him that while we must let go of our youthful innocence as a part of growing up, we must also incorporate the heart, humor, and magic of childhood into our grown-up worlds. And only then can we finally, fully feel alive.
For as Peter himself says: “To live will be an awfully big adventure.”
Side note: I loved this one as a kid. I'm pretty sure I'm the only person ever to have owned Hook action figures.
E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (1982)
This is it. Spielberg’s ultimate end-of-innocence film.
Or put another way, E.T. is the undisputable fulcrum of Spielberg’s entire career. All the traits and themes we’ve seen in his previous and subsequent films about broken families flow from here, in both directions.
Here are some examples (some of which also involve aliens, and others of which have been discussed in this very essay):
Close Encounters of the Third Kind throws an adult into a childlike situation (“come”), while E.T. throws a child into an adultlike situation (“stay”). And while both films are supported by John Williams’ most awe-inspiring scores, Spielberg nonetheless flips their central dramatic questions around to fit those differing worldviews.
In E.T., we see youthful innocence nurtured via an alien presence; in War of the Worlds, we see it destroyed.
Empire of the Sun, Catch Me If You Can, Minority Report, and E.T. all involve abandonment and the healing that occurs when a new relationship is forged with a stand-in for the person who was lost.
While not as overtly as in A.I., Spielberg’s penchant for fairy tales permeates every frame of E.T. as well (there’s even a nod to Peter Pan midway through). And both films also end with leaving childhood behind.
It’s all here. And while some of the films above are separated by decades, Spielberg was nonetheless able to tap into what he unearthed in E.T. over and over.
And I truly believe that if he never made E.T. - if he was never able to successfully allegorize the familial events that formed him - then he wouldn’t have been able to make those other films. And that includes 2022’s The Fabelmans, wherein Spielberg took the feelings he had processed here and used them to tell an autobiographical tale that was anchored by his emotional breakthrough.
That said, E.T.’s most crucial feat is that it effortlessly makes us feel the universal wonder and heartbreak of growing up, and it is almost exclusively because of young actor Henry Thomas.
By bonding with this empathetic boy during the casting process, Spielberg was able to coax out what might be the best child performance of all time. Moreover, as wonderfully emotive as Carlo Rambaldi’s E.T. puppet is, if we didn’t believe that Henry Thomas believed he was talking to a breathing, living creature, then the story would’ve fallen apart. (Exactly as it was with Mark Hamill and Yoda in The Empire Strikes Back.)
Instead, we become emotionally connected to Elliott, just as he becomes telepathically connected to E.T. And through their intimate interactions, we truly do experience the warmth, whimsy, and emotional truths of their unbreakable bond.
Most importantly, by capturing Elliott and E.T.’s relationship so elegantly here, Spielberg also captures both sides of the prodigal child/parent theme he’d go on to explore repeatedly. Meaning, while Elliott’s innocence may end, the lessons he learns by becoming both savior and saved to E.T. prove to be transcendent.
On the one hand, throughout the adventure he undergoes to save his soulmate, Elliott assumes the parental role of protector because he must make sure that E.T. gets home.
This serves as a profound allegory for the aftermath of divorce, which is an ugly process because it gives us no choice but to move on. Just as Elliott had no choice but to grow up fast and help E.T. leave him forever.
On the other hand, Elliott learns that, despite the pain, there is still light in the darkness. He will always have his happy memories of the soulful, gentle friend who helped him process the dissolution of his family. In short, E.T. saved Elliott too, and Elliott articulates his eternal gratitude via this moving line:
“I’ll believe in you all my life…”
And these two seemingly conflicting yet symbiotic truths are perfectly encapsulated both by the iconic "moon silhouette" bike ride and the climactic departure of E.T. One minute, you’re flying across the sky; the next, you’re having to say goodbye.
And just like that, we are given the bookends of childhood, the highs and lows of innocence, all in one film.
And just like that, E.T. will be right here, always.