A calm and gracious man, Steven Spielberg over the years has carefully masked his passion for mayhem – creative mayhem, that is. Perhaps it has cost him: Through the last decade he has missed the unique excitement of a summer mega-hit.

The opening of Disclosure Day this week would seem to fulfill Spielberg’s appetite, but will it do so the same for his audience – one that sees him as their joyful dinosaur daddy and space scout?

A glimpse at marquees this week reveals a confused outlook: Marvel magic seems wobbly at the box office and Disney’s summer slate remains a “maybe.” By contrast, Spielberg’s Disclosure Day is finding not only glints of alien life but also box office rewards approaching $44 million U.S.

Given these incentives, the world’s busiest and wealthiest filmmaker nearing age 80 is redeploying his  mastery of the interview circuit. He’s undistracted by YouTube intruders or by those snarky critics trying to remind ticket buyers that they’ve encountered his skeletal, wide-eyed space travelers once or twice before. 

Some analysts even suggest that previous “encounters” might have been more fun: A rerun of Close Encounters harkens back to the familial wonderment, angst and buzzy confusion.

Still, put in perspective, Spielberg’s cinematic universe over seven decades represents an astonishing range of topics and tensions. Some of his characters may be easily dismissible (The BFG), yet some are embedded in our consciousness (the stalwart Indy and the immortal E.T.).

Those Gen-Z filmmakers responsible for “torture porn” or horror hits may legitimately ask, ‘How has Spielberg sustained his extraordinary ubiquity? What is the secret sauce of his enduring energy and theatricality?’

A clue: I recall a personal encounter with Spielberg at a past industry function where five or six admirers were noisily nattering at him, each with a pressing agenda. Their idol was patiently listening to their pitches — until, exasperated and perspiring, he wheeled and crashed into me.

We knew each other well enough to share a quick embrace and pained smile. “Why am I here?” he asked, abashed.

“Because you have an urgent need for mayhem?” I suggested.

“Then I guess I own it,” he replied calmly. 

At that moment, in the late 1990s, his “need” was all-encompassing: On his ambitious slate was Amistad,  a drama about a slave ship (Spielberg was directing), plus The Mask of Zorro, a swashbuckling thriller (he was producing). Plus an entirely new slate of features orchestrated as a partner in DreamWorks, his new company that had just announced its intention to become a major Hollywood studio.

Was Spielberg uneasy? No, he seemed positively thrilled by the challenge. DreamWorks, of course, would turn out to be a stressful launch – David Geffen and Jeffrey Katzenberg were intense partners who hoped to build an MGM-like studio complete with sound stages. It didn’t happen.   

On personal Spielbergian projects, Zorro, still in pre-production, had already consumed the energies of five writers and three directors, while Amistad’s racial theme was stirring at once admiration and controversy.

All of these ventures would be destined for success, in one form or another. Yet Spielberg knew that I,  then chief of a rival production company, would understand the cost they represented in terms of money and mayhem.

This week, Spielberg, with the opening of Disclosure Day, his 39th directing gig, finds himself yet again in the midst of a scene he covets. The world is noticing and taking interest; however, civilization is not stopping, as it seemed to do when Jaws opened, or when E.T. came to earth. Or when Schindler had completed his list.

And Spielberg already is at work on his next movie. Mayhem beckons.