Who can forget the awesome scene in 'Independence Day' when the

The humorist and storyteller Phoebe Robinson, with her keen eye for both irony and wonder, once exclaimed: “Who can forget the awesome scene in ‘Independence Day’ when the White House gets blown up by aliens? Sure, it looks cheesy now, but back in 1994, it was incredible.” Though at first glance her words may seem lighthearted — a nostalgic reflection on a famous moment of cinema — beneath them lies a profound meditation on the passage of time, the nature of awe, and the ever-changing relationship between imagination and reality. Her playful tone conceals a deeper truth: that what once inspires wonder in one age may evoke laughter in another, yet the spark of creativity that first lit that wonder remains sacred and eternal.

At its heart, this quote speaks of the power of perspective. Robinson reminds us that greatness is not fixed — it exists only in the eyes of those who behold it. When the film Independence Day was released, its images of celestial destruction and human defiance stirred audiences around the world. The sight of the White House — a symbol of power and permanence — being destroyed by forces beyond the Earth struck something primal in the human imagination: the fear of vulnerability, and the thrill of survival. To those who watched it in its time, it was nothing short of revolutionary — a spectacle that blended terror and triumph, fragility and hope. But years later, as technology advanced and visual effects became ever more sophisticated, that same moment began to appear dated, almost quaint. What was once breathtaking became “cheesy,” as Robinson notes — yet therein lies her wisdom. For in that shift, she captures the truth that all human creations, no matter how wondrous, are bound by the march of progress and the memory of awe.

The origin of this sentiment lies deep in the human longing to be amazed — the same force that drove our ancestors to look up at the stars, to paint on cave walls, to build cathedrals and pyramids. Each generation, in its time, believes its creations to be the pinnacle of possibility. The builders of the Great Pyramid of Giza, for example, surely thought no greater monument could ever stand; yet centuries later, the architects of Rome raised the Colosseum, and still later, the dreamers of Florence crowned the sky with Brunelleschi’s dome. What each age calls “incredible,” another may regard as “simple” or “primitive.” Yet each achievement, no matter how outdated it may seem, once expanded the boundaries of human imagination — just as that scene from Independence Day once did.

Robinson’s words remind us, too, of the fleeting nature of astonishment. What moves the heart today may fade into nostalgia tomorrow. But that does not diminish its worth. Indeed, the true measure of greatness lies not in how long it endures, but in how deeply it stirs the soul in its moment. When Independence Day filled theaters with gasps and applause, it united millions in shared wonder — proof of cinema’s power to make strangers feel, for a few hours, that they stood together before the unknown. It did what all art strives to do: it made the ordinary world seem extraordinary. And though its effects may age, its legacy — the memory of that collective awe — remains.

This phenomenon is not confined to film. Consider the story of the first moon landing in 1969. The world watched in astonishment as humans stepped onto the lunar surface, their grainy black-and-white images beamed across millions of televisions. Today, those same images appear crude to our digital eyes, yet the moment itself still carries the weight of myth. For greatness, like art, is not measured by perfection but by the courage to attempt what has never been done before. So too did Independence Day, in its time, dare to imagine humanity’s place in a universe filled with unknown dangers and unseen possibilities.

Robinson’s humor, then, conceals a deeper reverence. When she says it “looks cheesy now,” she does not mock — she reflects. She reminds us to hold reverence for the past, to remember that our current marvels will one day seem quaint, and that this is not tragedy, but the cycle of human progress. Each generation stands on the shoulders of the last, building upon their dreams. What we call outdated today was once the future; what we call primitive tomorrow will have paved the way for wonders yet unimagined.

The lesson, then, is simple but profound: do not scorn the past for seeming old, nor the future for seeming strange. Every act of creation, whether film, invention, or idea, is a bridge between what was and what can be. To laugh at the wonder of the past is to forget that it once taught us how to dream. Instead, honor it. Remember the feeling — that moment of awe, however brief — when the impossible seemed possible.

Thus, in Phoebe Robinson’s reflection lies an invitation: to see not only the spectacle on the screen, but the deeper miracle behind it — the human capacity to imagine, to create, and to inspire across time. Let us cherish the “cheesy” marvels of yesterday, for they were the stepping stones of our wonder today. And let us continue to create, knowing that one day, future generations may smile at our own triumphs — not with scorn, but with gratitude for the dreams we dared to bring to life.