What if the aliens show up later today? Will you take a break during a never-ending conference call and let them in? Or, will do you as so many ostriches have done before you, and go on as if nothing out of the ordinary occurred? Are we really ready to welcome them into our homes for a game of charades and arm wrestling? Do we have the provisions to break bread with them or whatever gluten-filled galactic equivalent they actually prefer? Have we made the effort to learn about them, find what makes them tick, turns them on and rubs them the wrong way? I doubt it.
That’s a problem. We view aliens as bothersome creatures, popping in unannounced and disrupting things. How selfish of us. There’s an inherent hostility towards them showing up on our doorstep without calling first. Since as far back as I can remember, aliens enjoy spontaneity. If they called the state department prior to landing in a Midwestern cornfield it ruins the surprise. Whatever happened to showing a little good old-fashioned American hospitality?
They’re our guests, after all. And guests deserve to be pampered, to be taken on the town, to be shown a good time. Not to be treated as interstellar afterthoughts, always checking our timepieces until they leave. Just imagine for a second that you’re an alien. You’ve spent your formative years preparing for this journey. They have expectations for us, too. They’ve grown up and learned a lot about human beings, albeit from a slightly jaundiced perspective. But the stories are out there. They’ve come all this way, the least we could do is humor them for a few hours.
They expect the red carpet. They see how we treat pizza delivery boys and taco delivery girls, giving out large tips in small bills. They wonder: where did I go wrong? Like so much else in America, Hollywood is to blame. They are guilty of a great deal. For years, moguls and big kahunas resting atop pyramids of money have vilified aliens whenever it suited them. And they’re not even here to defend themselves. In film after film the alien always plays the bad guy.
I know what you’re thinking: What about E.T? Wasn’t that picture a positive portrait of an artist as a young alien? If you want to believe that, go right ahead. It’s another film in a long line of stories bought and paid for by the bicycle lobby. Are we really supposed to labor under the delusion that an alien derives pleasure from pedaling a two-wheeler like an artisanal Brooklyn glassblower, running red lights, riding on the sidewalk and carrying his beloved seat with him at all times whenever he’s not inflating red hot molten glass into large, unstable bubbles? I don't think so.
If you watch one movie about aliens prior to their inevitable, imminent arrival, let it be a wholly wholesome one. Let it be John Q. Alien. The story centers around John Q. Alien (portrayed by young a Michael Keaton), an alien who crash lands in the New York Harbor after a long voyage from his home planet. He’s rescued by a couple city sanitation workers (Tony Sirico and Richard Attenborough) before drowning. In case you’ve forgotten, the Big Apple’s rivers are tidal, which makes this rescue scene a hallmark of dramatic celluloid splendor. John’s nursed back to health by a nurse (Andie McDowell) who he goes on to marry. Together, they have three kids, three dogs, two cats and a parakeet named Benitez (Raul Julia). John gets a good job working as a dentist despite missing dental school. Aliens just have a feel for the mouth. He doesn’t want special treatment though. There’s very little that goes wrong expect for a malpractice suit in the third act. It's the result of a disgruntled patient (Ed Harris) who claims his fillings were made from some “alien voodoo material.” John countersues and the courtroom scene sees him taking the stand. “I’m just an alien,” he says to the jury. “But I still know what’s right.”
"I came in peace."
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