I was but a wee tot when I first watched Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Less than ten, I believe.
I don’t remember much of that first viewing, and what I do remember has been jumbled up and confused with a lifetime of parody and homage. I don’t think I was much taken by the film – my mind already polluted by George Lucas and his own brand of aliens and starships.
Justice sat beneath the Tree of Fire and contemplated existence. Each leaf upon the tree was living tissue paper, so thin and delicate that the merest concentration or focus of the sun’s rays was enough to conflagrate the wispy leaves, turning them to brilliant ash.
When the moon fell to earth many were surprised to find it no bigger than a garbage truck. It rotated slowly over Manhattan, emitting a dull, ominous hum, occasionally pausing over Central Park, or Fifth Avenue, seemingly intent on touring the entire city.