By Alex Hudson

June 18, 2002

No moviemaker in the history of cinema has created as many indelible entertainments or made as many financial blockbusters as Steven Spielberg. An empire unto himself, Spielberg has directed seven of the top 50 highest domestic-grossing movies. His 20 movies have garnered a total of 87 Oscar® nominations. But more than sheer numbers, Steven Spielberg's mark on the cinematic and cultural landscape is immeasurable.

Steven Spielberg was the child of divorce and escaped to the world of movies. Obsessed with the escapist power and transfixing imagery of movies since childhood, Spielberg channeled this love into making short films. Impressed with Spielberg's earnestness and diligence - and the sophistication of his short films - Universal gave Spielberg a seven-year contract, allowing him to direct episodic television ranging from Marcus Welby, MD to Night Gallery to Owen Marshall: Counselor at Law.

Early Success

After paying his dues with mostly by-the-book and soulless television series work, Spielberg helmed Duel, a made-for-television movie that finally afforded the 25-year-old Spielberg a chance to flex his artistic muscles. Written by the criminally-underrated Richard Matheson, Duel pits David [every] Mann against his Goliath, a mechanical beast in the form of a 351 Peterbilt diesel truck driven by an unnamed, unseen driver.

Duel is a model in simplicity. From start to finish, the film follows David Mann (played by the sufficiently-mediocre Dennis Weaver) on a business trip in his 1970 Plymouth Valiant. Mann approaches and passes the slow-moving diesel truck, lets the same, now resurgent truck pass him, re-passes the again slow-moving truck once more, then spends the rest of the film being pursued by the beastly machine in a cat-and-mouse death race.

A clear precursor to Jaws, Duel plays to our most primal fears. Mann is alone and desperate, his targeting by the truck is seemingly arbitrary and the extent and duration of the pursuit is irrational and nightmarish. Spielberg imposes a Hitchcockian loss of anonymity and control upon the overwhelmed and undermanned Mann; his frustration is palpable and his desperation is heartbreaking. Duel was so surprisingly good, it received a theatrical release in Europe, collecting rave reviews along the way and earned Spielberg the opportunity to direct his first feature film, The Sugarland Express.

On a modest budget and with little fanfare, Spielberg's feature debut is a tragically-affecting tale based upon the 1969 real-life case of a woman who helped her husband escape from prison to reunite with their baby who had been unjustly (or justly, depending on your perspective) placed to live with a better-means foster family. Strikingly reminiscent of Terrence Malick's debut, Badlands, which was made just a year prior, The Sugarland Express chronicles the on-the-road travails of the slow-witted and naïve couple; gradually, their cause becomes ours and their plight becomes sympathetic.

The Sugarland Express showcases Spielberg's talents in a non-self-satisfied way. The film is, for the most part, pure and subtle. There comes a scene when the young couple (a youthful Goldie Hawn at her lovable best as Lou Jean Poplin and William Atherton as her simple beau, Clovis Michael Poplin) stand mesmerized before the reflective glow of a drive-in movie screen, their collective attention focused on the images of the Road Runner fleeing the irascible Wile E. Coyote. The camera fixes on Clovis' innocuous face, and unnoticeably zooms in, as his smile of amusement slowly reshapes into a grimace of bemusement, as his realization of his impending fate overtakes him.

Blockbuster

Spielberg's next film, Jaws, would change the course of moviemaking. Based on the Peter Benchley bestseller, Jaws was absolute misery to make. Shooting much of film on water proved exceptionally difficult for the crew, and recurring difficulties with the mechanical shark compounded problems. The budget escalated to $12 million, and studio heads were bracing for the worst. With little warning, Jaws proceeded to make more money than any film had made before it, raking in a staggering $260 million domestic and $210 million abroad.

A certifiable phenomenon, Jaws proved to be both blessing and curse. The film marked the death knell to the auteur-driven art film movement of the 1970s. No longer would filmmakers be given artistic free reign by studios unless strong box-office potential could justify expenditures. Jaws was the first of the blockbusters; a taut, thrilling film that lacked the humanity of Spielberg's first two films, but revealed his growing narrative command and ability to tap into the collective unconscious.

As blessing, Jaws earned Spielberg the right to make the films of his choosing with all the finest casts and crews. Close Encounters of the Third Kind was made in 1977 on a $20 million budget, made $128 million domestic and $171 million overseas. Spielberg was a bona fide hit-maker and the hits would keep coming. Raiders of the Lost Ark was released in 1981 and made $242 million. ET would come three years later and ultimately earn over $700 million worldwide.

The overwhelming popularity and success of Spielberg's films made between 1975 and 1984 would catapult Spielberg into a stratosphere where no others resided. Spielberg became a household name, and his reputation for making magical, whimsical entertainments was only overshadowed by his reputation for being commercially invincible.

Empiria

Close Encounters, Raiders and ET are linked by their escapist allure, their refreshing ease of digestibility and, of course, their monumental financial success. But where this trio succeeds is where this trio fails. As unabashedly populist odes to the bygone Hollywood era which Spielberg grew up idolizing, the films work exponentially, but in each case, Spielberg's inherent need to appease the widest possible audience with blatant sentimentality rendered these films difficult to fully embrace; we are distractingly conscious of Spielberg's consciously distracting attempt to move us.

Seemingly aware of this strength/weakness, Spielberg sought to rectify his career imbalance by delving into more adult-themed, solemn fare that would also stand a better chance at nabbing Oscar gold. Thus born were The Color Purple and Empire of the Sun. Both films are pathos-driven coming-of-age stories told with impeccable visual flair and immense narrative scope. As effectively moving as The Color Purple is, it functions as a warm-up to Empire of the Sun.

There are certain films that stir the imagination, films lovingly crafted that by their very existence exalt the craft of filmmaking, films like Seven Samurai, The Searchers, Days of Heaven, 2001. Empire of the Sun belongs to that class of picture for its epic scope and its epic depiction of the resiliency of the human spirit.

Inhuman

All that was left for Spielberg was to cleanse his soul. After reaching the absolute pinnacle of commercial and critical adulation, Spielberg made Schindler's List. A triumph in every regard, Schindler's List reinvigorated Spielberg's artistry after the tiresome artistic failures of Always and Hook. Behind Janusz Kaminski's haunting images and John Williams' resonant chords, Spielberg seamlessly filmed Steven Zaillian's sprawling script of the Thomas Keneally novel chronicling human salvation at an inhuman time.

A bookend to the horrors of World War II, Saving Private Ryan completed Spielberg's maturation as a filmmaker with another soul-searching attempt to recreate and record history. Saving Private Ryan would win Spielberg a second Oscar® for Best Director, coming on the heels of Schindler's List, which gave him Best Picture and Director wins.

Blue Fairy

Stanley Kubrick began work on his dream project, AI, in 1982. For over a decade, he toiled over perfecting the story of an artificial boy who looks no different than a real one. For Kubrick, this was his Pinocchio, his fable of innocence gained. Kubrick died before his final masterpiece could be made. But recognizing that this tragic cinematic injustice needed to be corrected, Spielberg collected the multitudinous pre-production artist renderings and script ideas and gave us Artificial Intelligence: AI.

AI will eventually garner the respect it deserves. For now, it stands as a monument to the profound vision of both Kubrick and Spielberg. David, our Pinocchio, wants nothing but to be real, to be accepted and to savor his emotions with the knowledge that the love he feels is true. For Spielberg, the David of our story, the goals of his career and life are no different, and nor are ours.

Beyond

Spielberg's latest sure-fire blockbuster is Minority Report, based upon the Philip K. Dick science-fiction short story and starring Tom Cruise. To follow is Catch Me If You Can, with Tom Hanks and Leonardo DiCaprio, slated for release on Christmas Day. The fourth installment of the Indiana Jones series also looms on Spielberg's profitable horizon.

Even when he tried not to be, Steven Spielberg was a throwback. Like his films, he has a purity of heart and joy for life that almost doesn't belong to this era. Irreconcilably jaded cynics tend to exploit Spielberg's sentimentality as his weakness; they point to the magic and whimsy as though it were fault. The real fault is their inability to fully appreciate the magic inherent in moviemaking, which Spielberg has mastered. The obsession with movies has never died in Spielberg. His films are thankful testaments to the escapist power of movies. His films are offerings to cinema for fueling his escape from a painful childhood, for the easing of mind and stirring of imagination.

View other columns by Alex Hudson