In the pantheon of cinematic history, few moments are as iconic as the departure of the titular character in Steven Spielberg’s 1982 masterpiece, E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. It remains a touchstone of childhood wonder, a definitive exploration of loneliness, and a tear-jerking exercise in cinematic empathy. For decades, fans have wondered what became of the gentle botanist from the stars. Did he thrive? Did he miss Elliott? Did they ever meet again?
During a recent appearance on the Happy Sad Confused podcast, host Joshua Horowitz posed this very question to Steven Spielberg. The director’s answer was succinct: “No.” Spielberg posited that while the psychic bond between Elliott and E.T. persisted, allowing the boy to dream of his friend, a physical reunion never occurred.
However, this definitive declaration hits a massive, leafy snag: E.T.: The Book of the Green Planet. Published in 1985, this official, Spielberg-sanctioned novel—written by the film’s original novelizer, William Kotzwinkle—serves as the canonical sequel to the blockbuster. It details a journey that contradicts Spielberg’s current recollection, suggesting that perhaps even the legendary director has allowed this bizarre, vegetable-themed space odyssey to slip into the abyss of his own memory.
The Chronology of a Botanical B-Movie
To understand why this sequel is so rarely discussed, one must look at the timeline of its creation. Following the unprecedented success of the 1982 film, the thirst for more E.T. content was insatiable. Merchandising, sequels, and spin-offs were common discussions in the high-stakes boardrooms of the mid-80s.
William Kotzwinkle, who had successfully translated the film’s emotional beats into prose for the 1982 novelization, was commissioned to continue the story. E.T.: The Book of the Green Planet hit bookshelves in 1985. It picks up immediately following the events of the film, tracking E.T.’s voyage back to his home world, Brodo Asogi (known colloquially as “The Green Planet”).
While the film ended on a note of triumph—the spaceship ascending into the stars—the book begins with a bureaucratic nightmare. Upon his return, E.T. is not hailed as a hero; he is effectively demoted. His status as a prestigious plant scientist is revoked, and he is reassigned to the role of a lowly farmer. The prestige of his cross-galactic mission is dismissed by his superiors, leaving E.T. isolated and pining for the boy who saved his life.
A Surreal Narrative: Psychic Replicants and Flying Turnips
The narrative of The Book of the Green Planet is, to put it mildly, hallucinogenic. It leans heavily into the world-building of the Asogians, a species defined by their deep, biological connection to flora. We learn that their society is built on organic technology—homes grown from giant, hollowed-out squash and sentient plants that communicate with their handlers.
Desperate to return to Earth, E.T. begins to abuse the psychic link he shares with Elliott. He creates miniature, tangible psychic “replicants” of himself, projecting them across the cosmos to manifest in Elliott’s bedroom. These are not merely ghosts or dreams; they are physical, if fragile, manifestations of the alien.
The ensuing sequences are absurd: these tiny E.T.s are frequently thwarted by the mundane dangers of a suburban household, such as being accidentally sucked down drains or crushed by everyday objects. Meanwhile, back on Earth, Elliott is maturing, grappling with the complexities of adolescence and a burgeoning romance, largely unaware that his alien friend is essentially haunting his home via botanical projection.
The climax of the book involves E.T. hijacking a vessel to return to Earth. In a twist that defies the sleek, polished aesthetic of Spielberg’s film, the ship is a giant, biological, flying turnip. This vegetable vessel, piloted by a disgraced botanist, spends the final chapters traversing the galaxy to reach the Milky Way, with the explicit promise of a reunion.
The Discrepancy: Memory vs. Canon
The central tension lies in the clash between the creator’s current narrative and the published, licensed work of the past. Spielberg’s recent assertion that Elliott and E.T. never reunited is a direct rebuttal to the ending of Kotzwinkle’s book, which concludes with the turnip ship successfully navigating the galaxy to reach Earth.
According to interviews with Kotzwinkle, Spielberg’s involvement in the book was limited to the conceptual phase. He approved the project, sanctioned its publication as the official sequel, and signed off on the characterizations. Yet, today, the work is largely treated as a curiosity—or a mistake.
Is it possible that Spielberg, in his vast and storied career, has simply chosen to excise this chapter from his internal canon? The “turnip ship” narrative is, objectively, a strange departure from the grounded, human-centric tone of the film. It is highly probable that the director views the book as a commercial artifact of the 80s rather than a true extension of his artistic vision.
The Implications of a “Forgotten” Sequel
The existence of The Book of the Green Planet raises interesting questions about the nature of intellectual property and authorial intent. In an era of tightly controlled cinematic universes like the MCU or Star Wars, where every piece of media is meticulously vetted for continuity, E.T. exists in a looser, more chaotic space.
If we accept the book as canon, the story of E.T. changes from a bittersweet tale of separation into a multi-generational struggle involving interdimensional botany. If we follow Spielberg’s recent interview, we are forced to re-evaluate the status of licensed literature. Does a creator’s current stance override previously approved, published material?
For the fans who grew up with the novel, the book represents a crucial part of the E.T. experience. For the general public, it is a piece of trivia so bizarre it sounds like an internet hoax.
Could There Be a Darker Truth?
There is, however, a more cynical interpretation of the situation. Perhaps Spielberg remembers the book perfectly, and his dismissal of a reunion is an intentional retcon. If the “turnip ship” is indeed a fragile, poorly constructed vessel, who is to say it made it?
Perhaps the psychic connection dimmed as Elliott grew up, and E.T.’s quest to return was a tragic, doomed attempt to recapture a moment of perfection that could never be repeated. Maybe the “no reunion” answer is actually a reflection of the book’s inherent sadness—the idea that even with all the love and psychic energy in the universe, the distance between two worlds, or two lives, is sometimes simply too great to bridge.
Regardless of the intent, the juxtaposition of the master filmmaker’s simple, melancholy answer against the sprawling, vegetable-filled lunacy of the official sequel provides a fascinating window into the evolution of storytelling. Some stories are meant to be remembered, and some are destined to be left behind in the garden, eventually turning into compost.
Steven Spielberg may have forgotten the giant flying turnip, but in the annals of literary oddities, it remains a permanent, if somewhat surreal, footnote to one of the greatest films ever made. Whether canon or not, the Book of the Green Planet serves as a reminder that even the most beloved characters can take strange, unexpected paths when they leave the director’s chair and enter the wild, unkempt world of the imagination.
Neng Nana
Nana Wu
Asro