Originally published in Wildcat Weekly on October 11, 2024
…once.
My one time was on Thursday, November 24, 2016, which was Thanksgiving. I went with my sci-fi-obsessed family to an Amy Adams movie about aliens. The film disoriented me, blanketing over extraterrestrial thrills and international intrigue with a thick filter of indie haze and random clips interjected regularly, but it gripped me because the alien story is actually a story about linguistic problem-solving and brilliant people immersed in their process fascinate me. Directed by Denis Villeneuve, now the hotshot auteur behind Dune, Arrival wears its limited budget well thanks to strong performances from Adams and Jeremy Renner. It’s a grounded and ponderous take on first contact.
When the movie ended that night and we walked out to the car, I said nothing. Unlike every other holiday evening at the cinema we’d done, I had no questions, I made no observations, and I offered no feedback. Arrival, then and now, felt instantly foundational, like something that had always been in the fabric of me. I spent the drive home on my phone, pre-ordering two copies of the film on DVD. Already, I understood Arrival would be one I needed to share.
Which confirms that there’s something more to Arrival than merely a story about a lady talking to aliens. I can’t be more specific because that would threaten your experience. I turned on the film Saturday morning, and it took only a few notes of the Max Richter piano piece that opens the film to have its totality bubble to the surface. It had been several years since I last watched it, yet I knew every machination of the script. Still, my lack of surprise robbed nothing: I felt the film more powerfully than ever before. It’s fundamental that way. I won’t decode why for you—just report the most important piece of advice I have for your viewing:
You can only watch Arrival from beginning to end…
