On the
blockbuster that’s American in the worst, but perhaps also the best, senses.
The weekend of
July 4th, 1996, saw the release of a summer blockbuster that in its
own ways changed the game just as fully as did Jaws. Independence Day (otherwise known as
ID4) might not have been the first
summer movie to emphasize over-the-top spectacle and special effects and catastrophic
destruction and a barely-used ginormous cast and Will Smith makin’ jokes at
inappropriate moments and etc., but maybe it was, and it certainly was one
of the first to recoup its bloated budget thanks to all those elements (I
assume; it sure wasn’t thanks to subtle, character-driven filmmaking). Although
it did feature the always wonderful and criminally underused Judd Hirsch, so I suppose
I can’t be too angry with Roland Emmerich’s behemoth of a blockbuster.
On the other
hand, the problems with ID4 go deeper
than just special effects or budget, and connect very fully to some of the most
frustrating and limiting American narratives. There would be plenty of thematic
nits to pick, but I’m thinking specifically about the striking thread of American
Exceptionalism that runs throughout the film. Ostensibly the alien invasion
affects the whole world, and the film includes various establishing shots of
worldwide destruction and subsequent communities of survivors in various
national settings and garb. But the story is an American one, and not just in
terms of the characters whom we follow—it’s the American scientist and American
soldier who come up with the plan to save the day, the American pilots who take
down the alien mothership, and, most crucially, the very American president
who gives the speech to rally those troops and the whole world to the
cause. When that president proclaims that “Today [the Fourth of July] we
celebrate our independence day,” I suppose it could feel like he’s uniting the
whole world—but it feels more like he’s just Americanizing the world, much
like Hollywood itself has so often done.
So on the whole,
ID4 embodies some of the worst
features of both the big-budget blockbuster and American excess. But there’s
one particular thread that links a few characters and connects to a very
different kind of national narrative. In their own ways, Jeff Goldblum’s
scientist, Randy Quaid’s cropduster pilot, and Bill Pullman’s president are
all, at the film’s opening, failures, men who have let down those for whom they
are responsible (wife, children, and citizens, respectively). Since this is a
crowd-pleasing action film, of course by the end all three have redeemed
themselves—but the way they do it is still worth noting: not by heroic acts of rugged
individualism (that’s left to the Fresh Prince and his alien-punches) but by
collective effort, working with each other to become something better than what
any of them had been and perhaps could have been on their own. That’s a
blockbuster lesson well worth the price of admission.
Another summer movie tomorrow,
Ben
PS. What do you
think? Summer movie memories and analyses you’d share?
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