Close Encounters of the Third Kind

I grew up seven miles north of Muncie, Indiana, a shrinking post-industrial city northeast of Indianapolis. I spent the first 24 years of my life there, and a few more scattered years since.

I've been thinking a lot about Muncie lately. Last week, I discovered a Facebook group called "Lost Muncie," which has more than 1,000 pictures of the places and people of Muncie from throughout the 20th century. I clicked through every single photo, hoping to find pieces of my history — any image that would make me feel more connected to the past.

I saw stores and buildings that haven't stood in years. I saw restaurants that no longer exist, and I could smell the food again. I could smell the upholstery in my parents' truck and feel the metal of the door against my skin as we drove around town with the windows down.

I've felt uprooted from Muncie for years. I left out of necessity. Several of my friends stayed behind and got jobs, but there aren't that many opportunities in Muncie, so most people leave. Since I left, I've felt untethered, even though my wife and I tell each other that home is where we make our home, not where we grew up. We can visit. We're only an hour away.

You'd think we'd visit more, but we don't. I've probably spent a total of 72 hours in Muncie in the last four years. I don't know why. I've spent more time in England, my wife's home, in that same span. I miss home.

Close Encounters of the Third Kind is a part of Muncie's pop culture lore, and in a small town where nothing much ever happens, a film like this can thrill people. Not only do we get alien life, but we get to see our home on the big screen too. Double the thrill, you know?

I still get chills when the film cuts to the farmhouse and the title reads, "Muncie, Indiana." When Richard Dreyfuss is talking fractions with his son, a Ball State University paddle and a BSU ring binder are clearly visible over Dreyfuss's shoulders, and there's a pennant hanging on the wall in his living room. Dreyfuss wears a "Ball U." jersey later in the film.

You spot stuff like this when you spend most of your life in a place.

I've driven on Cornbread Road many times over the years, and often at night, but of course, I never saw any lights in the sky. I never saw any scenic overlooks either. There are no elevated, winding roads in or around Muncie. There is no "Harper Valley" anywhere near Muncie. There are no tollbooths leading you to Ohio. East Central Indiana and West Central Ohio are a flat, great big empty.

But the Ball State logos are here. There actually is a Cornbread Road. I've had plenty of milk from Miller Milkhouse over the years. Mom had the same Corningware (still does as far as I know).

Spielberg featured these markers so prominently in the film, I can't really fault the geographical issues. Let's be honest: Muncie isn't pretty to look at, and Spielberg had to know this. So the Muncie markers he does include seem so intentionally well-placed, they seem like concessions, as if Spielberg truly wanted us to believe that he tried to get Muncie as right as possible.

I do wish Hollywood would make something truthful about home. Close Encounters wasn't even shot in Muncie — not one scene. That's the biggest error I see, but I'm biased.

The film is excellent despite obvious flaws, most of which have taken on a charm. I love that no one can hear a helicopter approaching, and that all these scientists can't recognize repeatedly transmitted global coordinates until a cartographer shows up — and then they need to go steal a globe rather than just, you know, ask the cartographer. How come the map maker can't just rattle off that location? "Oh, I know where that is." I guess a bunch of scientists rolling a globe around is more dramatic?

Close Encounters of the Third Kind reminds me of home in many ways, though not in the way you'd expect. Sure there are the obvious Muncie references, and I feel a weird sense of pride. Most of the time, I don't feel anything about Muncie except the desire to get away. That is until someone taps a nerve. No one picks on my hometown but me, you know? I know the place sucks. I can't help where my parents raised me. I can't help where I spent my formative years. There is something strangely comfortable about going home and finding everything the same. I'm jarred (pun intended?) when I come home to find things different. I want home to stay as I left it, so I can come back and pick right up. Nothing works that way.

Putting all nostalgia aside, let's face facts here: When Hollywood sets a major motion picture in your podunk hometown, that's pretty cool.

So is this.