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Maternal Unity

Close Encounters is about feeding, not conquest.

Its drama is the story of a hunger being answered, rather than a heroic reclamation or destruction of an opposing force.

To illustrate how Spielberg and composer John Williams construct a unified cinematic field that expresses this core dramatic move, we can trace key audiovisual techniques and explain the dramatic work each one performs: how each turn in craft advances the journey from lack to being deeply met.


1) Inciting appetite: tone from darkness

The film begins in darkness with a single unison tone, before any image appears, so our first experience is not information but pressure. This choice teaches us to read what follows as relief to strain, rather than mere plot. When forms do arrive they feel like answers to a need that has already been established in our body; this is precisely the drama the ending will and must resolve.

2) The image inside: Devil’s Tower

Roy’s compulsive shaping of the mountain, first in mashed food, then in wire, clay, and garden debris, comes from an implanted vision, a sense that something outside him will satiate him. Psychoanalysts believe this is the most fundamental preconception that we possess. It is the foundation for all communications between human beings, from infancy onwards. In Close Encounters, Devil’s Tower operates as an imago of such an object, a pre-verbal shape in the mind that the psyche recognizes before it can name it. By letting compulsion register as a necessity for us and the protagonists, the film aligns us deeply with Roy’s orientation. The final encounter will feel like fulfilment of this recognition rather than ‘the solution to a puzzle’. Usually films ‘solve problems’, whereas Close Encounters is compelled by that which underlies all problems: the hunger for satiation.

3) Paternal foil: noise, glare, command

Against this hunger, the film stages a foil in the complex domestic sphere and the authoritative paternal order. Roy’s home is loud with televisions, fluorescent spill, and criss-crossed wishes. Extending this narrative space, the government’s bureaucratic apparatus adds procedure, masks, and a false toxin scare. Williams’s music is far more ordered and strict: martial drums, organized looping figures. This is the paternal order trying to manage anxiety through control and noise, to suppress hunger itself. It is made to fail in both registers, so that another mode of containment can appear: the maternal. It is the maternally satiating that Roy, Jillian, and Lacombe seek. By working to exhaust this zone of ‘command’, the film clears a space for reception as an alternative to domination.

4) The Score as mother tongue: the five-notes

Williams’s five-note motif (mapping uncannily onto the five letters of ‘hello’, its 3rd and 4th notes repeated an octave apart) is deliberately legible at the level of the child. Anyone can play it, understand it, repeat it, hum it, and deeply answer it. Spielberg lets it exist both inside the diegetic story world itself (Barry plays it on the xylophone, Jillian hums it, synths declaim it at the finale) and around it (the non-diegetic orchestra). This dissolves the seam between space inside and outside the film, in an almost unique way in film scoring. It positions music not as ‘accompaniment’ but as carrying the medium of recognition itself for us and protagonists, so that our hearing of the motif becomes participation in the act of meeting. We’re pulled into the same journey as the characters we love.

5) Harmony’s arc: from scarcity to plenitude

Williams maps this psychological journey onto harmony: early cues slip tonally and delay cadences, creating a felt scarcity; mid-film the five notes stabilise and centres clarify; at the mountain the harmony opens into pandiatonic fullness, all seven diatonic degrees sounding without rigid hierarchy, so the ear hears inclusion rather than victory. The sonic message of the ending is ‘nothing excluded,’ which is what being held, heard, and fed feels like.

6) Orchestration and mix: building a holding environment

Timbre does the maternal labor. Low brass and contrabass winds carry weight and threat; upper strings, harp, celesta, and glockenspiel trace precise, caring contours; a wordless choir offers the pre-linguistic voice of welcome; colours bridge human breath and electronic reply. Reverb and distance are shaped dramaturgically so sounds move from far to near, outside to inside, until the world itself seems to listen back and include us within its acoustic room.

7) Camera and light as psychology-bearing grammar

Visually, faces are repeatedly lit by off-screen radiance, and low angles tilt attention towards an answering above; at home, sodium glare and cluttered frames make cognition feel over-saturated, while at the mountain the palette cleans to clarified whites and saturated primaries. These choices convert looking from interrogation to reception: the image adopts the same posture as the musical harmony, promising that what was scattered will become legible and kind.

8) Rhythm and duration: time that feeds

The film’s rhythmic design mirrors the journey of the act of feeding: long crescendi and pedal points create expectancy; phrase lengths widen as trust grows; silences puncture spectacle so the meeting can be felt. The cadence of visual cuts quietly aligns with musical breath, letting images ‘exhale’ as harmony relaxes from hunger and governmental tension. Anxiety is gradually converted by Spielberg and Williams into expectancy, so when the answer arrives it lands as relief rather than shock.

9) The conversation at the base: attunement / conquest

Like the conversation between mother and infant, a call-and-response is staged literally at the mountain finale. Humans and mothership trade the five musical notes as connection itself. They develop like coos becoming words, testing transpositions and widening phrase endings as confidence blooms. Orchestral timbres and synthesised tones answer one another until their articulations match, painting their mutual calibration. The scene refuses ‘supremacy’ on either side. There are no winners or losers. Two subjectivities negotiate a shared utterance, which is the film’s core aim enacted in real time.

10) Light-Sound fusion: one cinematic instrument

In the finale, color and sound fuse. Color behaves like chords and brightness like register. Light pulses synchronize to the onscreen score’s pitched phrases until their timing and contours become one. When this light performs as orchestration and sound behaves like architecture, integration ceases to be an idea and instead becomes our very perception. Here, cinema itself turns into the maternal moment, different elements held together without remainder, so Spielberg’s core thesis is felt as a single ‘cinematic instrument’ playing across sight and sound.

11) Macro-form and ethical cost: why Roy’s departure belongs

The finale unfolds as an extended adagio: time dilates, cadence is withheld and finally joyously granted, and Roy leaves satiated. The film reframes an arc of self-assertion as an arc of being received (selection by attunement, not by merit), and acknowledges loss so that the answer does not curdle into omnipotent fantasy. Satiation, deep inner fulfilment, is actually achieved.

12) The discreet wish inside the machinery

Beneath all the spectacle hums a private wish for attunement, one-ness. Spielberg’s biography is not dramatised directly here, though it was later in his far less dramatic film The Fabelmans. Here, it is transformed into cinematic materials: timbre, interval, pulse, colour, duration. By carrying longing into the fabric of the work rather than into some blatant form of ‘confession’, this film universalises the wish for connection. Viewers do not merely interpret fulfilment; they undergo it audiovisually, through the medium of cinema.


Why the whole holds together

All these techniques fuse the whole into one cinematic process. The Image supplies the orienting primal representation of communion. The score’s diegetic location and motivic approach teach the ear what inclusion sounds like. The camera, from darkness to kaleidoscopic light, adopts the posture of welcome. Rhythm converts anxiety into arrival. Spielberg and Williams fuse psychology with their craft so fully that Close Encounters performs a meeting upon the audience. We are left satiated and inwardly joyous, rather than outwardly triumphant. There are few films that do this, and fewer that do it so utterly completely.