Why Did E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial Almost Die?
There’s a moment in E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial when the fantasy of it all—the glowing fingers, the Reese’s Pieces, the makeshift communicator—gives way to something much heavier: E.T., small and fragile, lying pale and lifeless on the cold floor of a sterile government facility. For a film marketed around a lovable alien and a boy’s unlikely friendship, that image hits hard. It’s not just heartbreaking—it’s terrifying. But the real question is: why did E.T. almost die?
The answer isn’t just science fiction or a convenient dramatic beat. It’s something deeply human. E.T. nearly dies because he’s alone. That’s it. That’s the core. His physical deterioration isn’t just because Earth’s atmosphere is toxic to him, or because of human intervention, or because he didn’t eat enough junk food. It’s because his kind relies on connection—on the literal and emotional bonds between one another—to survive. When his ship left without him, it was more than a missed ride home. It was a severed lifeline.
He Was Never Meant to Be Alone
From the first moments of the film, it’s clear E.T. and his species are peaceful, empathetic beings. They’re botanists, not invaders. They come to Earth to study, not to conquer. They explore with childlike curiosity and communicate without force. We see them gathering plant samples, interacting in quiet communion with the natural world. They’re not here to dominate; they’re here to understand.
But when the humans arrive and E.T. gets separated in the woods, something breaks. Not just in the plot, but inside E.T. You can sense the panic in him—not because he’s in danger from guns or trucks, but because he’s just been cut off from the only energy source that matters to him: his people. And as the film progresses, you start to notice how this disconnect is slowly killing him.
The Dying Flowers: A Mirror to His Health
One of the most poetic visual cues in the film is the pot of geranium-like flowers that E.T. revives when he’s healthy—and that wilt when he begins to fade. It’s not just a fun sci-fi trick. It’s Spielberg telling you something crucial: E.T.’s life force is linked to connection, to energy, to love. When he’s thriving, life around him blooms. When he’s dying, everything near him starts to wilt too.
The flowers serve as a barometer not only of E.T.’s physical condition, but of his emotional state. They respond to what he’s feeling. They die when he’s hopeless. They resurrect when he’s surrounded by love. It’s a quiet, wordless message that emotional connection has physical power. E.T. isn’t just a creature from another planet—he’s a being defined by empathy. And empathy can’t exist in a vacuum.
Elliot Saves Him by Feeling With Him
Enter Elliott, the lonely boy next door. He isn’t particularly brave, or smart, or adventurous. But he’s open. He’s searching for something—someone—to understand him. When Elliott and E.T. meet, they don’t just become friends. They bond. Literally. They share thoughts, feelings, sensations. When E.T. gets drunk, Elliott stumbles around school. When E.T. is scared, Elliott trembles.
This connection becomes E.T.’s new tether. Where his shipmates provided emotional and perhaps biological stability before, Elliott now fills that role. Their bond is symbiotic—E.T. becomes stronger when he’s with Elliott, and Elliott becomes more complete, more emotionally developed, through E.T. It’s a child’s version of found family, and it saves them both.
But there’s a catch. The bond is so deep that when E.T. starts to fail, he pulls Elliott down with him. There’s a scene where E.T. is dying, and Elliott begs him, “You must be dead because I feel it.” The pain is shared. The emotional and physical are indistinguishable. And yet it’s also this bond that keeps E.T. hanging on, even as his body weakens. It gives him something to fight for.
He Needed Home, but Home Wasn’t a Place
The government arrives too late to help. Their wires and machines and sterilized rooms don’t understand what E.T. really needs. They try to revive him with science, with procedure, but it doesn’t work. Because E.T. doesn’t need oxygen. He needs connection. He needs someone to feel what he feels. That’s not something you can fix with a defibrillator.
When Elliott holds him and says, “I’ll believe in you all my life,” it’s not just a tearjerker line—it’s a vow. It’s the emotional charge that begins to reignite E.T.’s failing system. And when the flowers bloom again, we don’t need an explanation. We just know: he’s back. Not because someone saved him, but because someone believed in him. Someone shared his soul. That’s what brought him back.
Connection Isn’t Optional—It’s Survival
What E.T. does so beautifully is take this sci-fi premise and ground it in something everyone can understand. Loneliness can feel like death. Real connection can feel like life. E.T. almost dies because he’s isolated, cut off from the communal empathy that keeps his species alive. He is not a rugged individualist. He is not a lone warrior. He is a social being, sustained by bonds.
That idea—that connection isn’t a luxury but a biological necessity—is what gives E.T. its lasting emotional weight. It’s not about space or special effects. It’s about how we survive each other. About how life, in its truest sense, depends on our ability to feel, love, and share with someone else.
So yeah, E.T. almost died. But not because he crashed on the wrong planet. Not because he was hunted or experimented on. He almost died because no one was there. And he lived because someone showed up—and stayed.
That’s not just science fiction. That’s what makes us human.
