It happens out of nowhere. Over all of the world’s major cities, alien vessels descend out of the clouds, almost as wide and vast as the cities themselves. And they hover—ominously, indifferently. That is, until the hatches slide open, and a heavenly blue light peeks out. But this vaguely pleasant scene doesn’t last long, because this light is followed by a much stronger one—one that is capable of leveling civilizations. And that’s exactly what they do. They incinerate everything, like they’re orchestrating the universe’s most elaborate insurance scam. Neighborhoods. Shopping centers. All of humanity’s most beloved landmarks. We try lobbing the best weapons we have against them, but they only get absorbed through some kind of forcefield. It would be all but hopeless for humanity if it weren’t for humanity’s knack for supplying just the right handful of scrappy individuals at just the right times to solve whatever crisis might come its way. A man, for instance, crazy enough to face down a king-sized extraterrestrial with oozy skin, green blood, and flailing tentacles in the doorway of its space vessel, then cold-cock it across the face and proceed to drag its lifeless body through the desert.
Independence Day is pure spectacle with stars, stripes, and missile launchers. It has the reasoning skills of a Magic 8-Ball and the emotional depth of a marching band, but it’s hard not to admire its commitment. It’s War of the Worlds reimagined for the AOL age, even right down to its ending. (Though for it to really have worked, the extraterrestrials’ ships would have needed to be outfitted with Windows 95–compatible software. Which begs the question: what if they’re only trying to destroy Earth because they’re frustrated with our tech support? In which case, I say blast away, my slimy intergalactic brethren.)
Maybe most importantly, this was a special-effects juggernaut when it came out, and these days it still doesn’t come off too shabby. But the special effects, as world-class as they were, don’t drive this film alone. It’s the cast of characters, deployed here like a Character Actor Survival Kit. Will Smith as the maverick-type fighter pilot. Bill Pullman as a commander-in-chief with decency and a pilot’s license. Jeff Goldblum solving intergalactic equations on dial-up. Randy Quaid, possibly playing himself, as a national redemption arc in a crop duster. Brent Spiner going mad-scientist feral. Vivica A. Fox as a stripper. Judd Hirsch as a man who is very Jewish. Mary McDonnell as… a woman.
This isn’t a movie that builds so much as charges through a paper target with the blunt force of a cannonball. The dialogue sounds like it was written with poster quotes in mind. Logic was more a guideline, and even then, not a guideline that was followed too well. But it all works—stunningly well. It has everything you could ever want in a summer blockbuster: pyrotechnics, pageantry, and the kind of global unity that can only happen after something torches the Eiffel Tower.
I first saw this movie when I was in middle school—back in those tender years when I was Hollywood’s target audience. That first viewing is still scorched in memory. I loved it then, and I still do. It still pulls me in. Not because it’s clever, but because it steamrolls over its own plot holes like it knows you won’t care. And it was probably right.
