The Poltergeist Mystery: Who Really Directed Horror's Greatest Ghost Story

There’s a photo that tells the whole story. Steven Spielberg points confidently on the set of Poltergeist while Tobe Hooper stands beside him holding a can of Coke. It’s 1982, and the question that would haunt this film for decades is already crystallizing in that single frame: Who actually directed this movie?

On paper, it’s simple. Tobe Hooper gets top billing. The credits read“A Tobe Hooper Film”before introducing the movie’s title. But MGM’s marketing materials told a different story. A two-page Los Angeles Times ad from March 28, 1982 led with Spielberg’s accomplishments, relegating Hooper to a supporting mention. The trailer? It featured Spielberg’s name in noticeably larger letters than the director’s. That gaffe landed Hooper a $15,000 settlement from the Directors Guild of America—and sparked a controversy that would outlast both men’s careers.

The confusion didn’t come from nowhere. Producer Frank Marshall described Spielberg as“the creative force on this movie,”explaining that while Hooper directed and was on set every day, Spielberg designed every storyboard and was present except for three days in Hawaii with George Lucas. Actress JoBeth Williams called the experience“a collaboration with Steven having the final say.”Even more directly, Zelda Rubinstein said bluntly in a 2007 interview that Spielberg“directed all six days”she was there, setting up shots while Hooper made adjustments. Yet other cast members pushed back, insisting Hooper deserved full credit.

But here’s what matters: Spielberg created the story concept. He rewrote the screenplay. He was intimately involved in production design and post-production, including the final edit, mixing, and composer Jerry Goldsmith’s score. The film itself bears unmistakable Spielbergian fingerprints—the cluttered suburban home echoing Close Encounters of the Third Kind and E.T., the editing rhythms, and especially that moment where the Freeling family witnesses spirits descending their staircase with the wordless wonder that became his signature visual language.

Yet writing Hooper out entirely would be a grave mistake. Spielberg didn’t have a proper horror film in his repertoire, and he clearly needed Hooper to explore that territory with him. The Texas Chain Saw Massacre established Hooper as a horror virtuoso, and his later films—Lifeforce, Invaders From Mars, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2—proved he was a distinctive stylist with his own unmistakable sensibility. A Spielberg production doesn’t automatically become a Spielberg film, even when the name appears first.

Maybe the real answer is that the question itself is flawed. Film is collaboration, and the stronger the personalities involved, the messier the attribution becomes. Spielberg’s stamp presses deeper than most, but that doesn’t erase Hooper’s contributions or directorial acumen. The two called each other friends and worked together again on Amazing Stories and Taken. Neither man seemed interested in diminishing the other, even if the marketing machinery got it wrong. Perhaps some possessions—like this haunted house of a film—genuinely belong to more than one spirit.