Take 38: Jaws
I am not someone who was raised on Jaws. I saw it for the first time two summers ago, and beyond the vintage theme music, and “we’re gonna need a bigger boat” I was slightly more than totally ignorant. I was raised on other Spielberg though, E.T. was my first favorite movie, and I would watch Jurassic Park and Indiana Jones at every opportunity.
Is there any evidence that it’s possible for another human being to produce an action adventure movie with such cross generational appeal as well as Spielberg? The rugged leading men who trotted across his sets are endlessly quotable, and he’s able to strike a precarious balance between character exposition and narrative tension that’s dubiously effortless. Those 90’s adventure films were a genre unto themselves, delicately tuned at Spielberg’s hands as he evoked tone through atmosphere. When it starts raining in Jurassic Park, the family fun time in the park shifts itself from awe inspiring to disaster ridden. The foggy darkness of E.T. has a noir quality at the beginning (the viewer knows something is out there, but we don’t know what it is or if it’s threatening) and when the government trucks roll in with their sterile labs ready to cut open Eliot’s new friend, the invasiveness of their presence is more resounding against the backdrop of the densely wooded Pacific Northwest. Pathetic fallacy abounds throughout Spielberg’s illustrious career.
Part of what makes Jaws so enduring is the landscape and tone of summer (!!!); the perfectly crafted contrast of wholesome fun cut with terror — a mechanism very close to the beating heart of horror. Amity Island is a thinly veiled recreation of Martha’s Vineyard, and throughout the first act of the film the heat of the summer sun bounces off of every surface on the island, full of warm oranges and deep reds, making the cool blue of the sea appear that much more alluring. The characters squint through the rays of heat at one another as they exchange neighborly complaints about loiterers and paint their white picket fences ahead of the big holiday weekend. The billboard depicting a smiling golden brown surfer sporting an itty, bitty, bikini welcomes tourists to the town with a smile broad enough to promise both joy and an absence of fear.
That smiling surfer becomes sinister fast. The first victim of the shark attack is found on the beach almost immediately after the opening credits. Teenagers drink around a bonfire on the shore and when a vixen (with no lines) tempts a local boy to follow her into the sea, he is saved only by his inability to remove his pants as he passed out on the seashore in a drunken stupor. The girl is not so lucky, and she is added the ever growing list of nameless, expendable, teenagers who are killed in the opening scenes of horror movies.
When the Police Chief, Martin Brody, discovers what remains of her body, he makes the decision to close down the beaches without a second thought. However, the Mayor of Amity colludes with the medical examiner to officially determine that her death was not in fact caused by a shark attack, as the evidence overwhelmingly suggests, but instead that she drowned. The Mayor’s motives are financial, pure and simple. It is Fourth of July weekend after all, their biggest source of income for the year and the beaches being closed would spell economic ruin for the small community. Under pressure from the business owners, Chief Brody caves and allows the beaches to remain open. He is not an islander (and we know he never will be, because he was not born there) it’s his first summer, and he is reluctant to rock the dangerously unseaworthy boat.
Jaws is riddled with themes of isolation and rogues. It’s Fourth of July weekend, the symbol of our nation’s rebellion and ultimate representation of American recreation. The shark is labelled a “rogue” who was in unfamiliar territory by the Marine Biologist, Matt Hooper, when he comes to assess the scene. Amity Island itself is remote and isolated, only reachable (and escapable) by boat. Captain Quinn, when he first appears and makes his list of demands, includes an edict that he must work alone. The multitude of solitary currents in the film are forced together as the island’s uninitiated, swirling around the perimeter of the hive, are forced to interact.
However, the hivemind in Jaws isn’t its most terrifying element, it’s the shark. He is a stealthy creature, lurking ominously below the dark surface of the water, ready to strike at any second. I found the scenes from the shark’s point of view to be the most terrifying because through his eyes we’re able to truly appreciate his power. He’s quiet and nearly imperceptible, and that perspective demonstrates just how in control of his surroundings he is. The swimmers wade into the water, and he picks them over, striking deliberately.
After the scene where we know the shark is going to strike, and the delightful tension of wondering who’s going to get it next, the dust settles and we discover that it was a young boy (and probably a dog). While one might expect the death of a child to hit the viewer hard, the aftermath of that tragedy is pushed aside to discuss the pressing matters of economic security on the island. The lack of sentimentality on behalf of the town leaders is unsettling, but it is almost forgotten by the the time the distraught mother of the dead boy reappears, dressed in mourning black from head to toe, lacy veil and all. She slaps Chief Brody and chides him for allowing the beaches to remain open after the initial shark attack, while the townspeople who pressured him to make that decision look on in silence. It’s an abrupt disruption. A similar contrast occurs when Chief Brody says goodbye to his wife before boarding Captain Quinn’s ship for a shark hunting expedition. They cry and kiss each other, dripping with the tension of a seaman and his lover parting ways for what may be the last time. Captain Quinn looks on from the prow of the boat, and with a wry smile sings a limerick that runs jagged through the scene. The effect is the inverse of the grieving mother who interrupts a discussion that should be focused on grief — while the emotional exchange between Brody and his wife made me wither with discomfort, the limerick added levity to the otherwise melodramatic sentimentality.
When Hooper and Brody board Quinn’s ship, the final act begins and we have our crew of merry revelers firmly established. The old drunken Captain, who is rough around the edges but lovable in the middle. The Chief of police who wants to do the right thing and uphold his duty, but who also happens to be oceanphobic and petrified of boats. The young buck with his fancy tools and science, who lugs aboard a cage and poison tipped harpoon. These three disparate forces are tasked with snagging nature’s most infamous villain. The highlight of the movie, for me is when Hooper and Quinn finally bond over drinks in the galley of the boat.
After a long day of shark hunting turns up nothing, the pair goes shot for shot, comparing scars and exchanging tales of closes calls. Chief Brody looks on, still apart but closer to the two more experienced seamen. Here, masculinity is coupled with the the theme of individualism.
Brody is most often afraid and he looks on with no scars of his own to show off, and because of this he plummets to the bottom of the chain of command. The other two sailors drink and swap tales of adventure, their respect for one another growing with every shot and thickly weaved yarn. The apex of the story — off is when Quinn relays the tale of being on a submarine crew in WWII responsible for delivering a bomb and they run into a shark (to be honest, I got super lost during the story but it looked intense and Richard Dreyfuss’s sad eyes made me think it must have been really bad, whatever it was) and somehow he made it out alive but most of his fellow Navy men perished at sea. This is our first introduction to the idea of a concerted effort, of brothers in arms willing to sacrifice for one another.
The weaving of the braid comprising our disparate heroes is finally starting to come together. After their backgrounds are fleshed out (and soaked in vodka) we see them bonded together and the stronger for it. Our final rogue, the shark, has no allies and no chance against the trinity of hunters. He also has no origin story of his own, he is not Moby Dick’s white whale, a storied creature of legend. He is a new force, explainable by Hooper’s science and (outside of his pure strength and the size of his jaws) characterless. He is not sympathetic or amorphized in anyway, he is closer to machine than creature. Before the final sequence of the film, his body is teased out, flashing through the water in pieces, making the full impact of his snapping bite and body mass that much more potent when it is finally revealed.
When I heard people say they didn’t swim in the ocean after seeing Jaws, I usually do a mental eye roll and find it ridiculous. I still find it a little silly, but no more so than when people claim they didn’t shower for weeks after watching Psycho. It occurred to me that maybe we aren’t afraid of sharks lurking below the water, or psychotic inn keepers, but rather that the image of blood infusing with water is so visceral we cannot rid it from our minds when we find ourselves in those moments of vulnerability.
Blood and water are our bodies. We are naked in the shower so we wall ourselves in to protect our modesty, in turn subjecting ourselves to the mercy of those on the other side of the barrier. When we swim in the ocean we are a part of vast network of seas and currents, forces well beyond our control, but we are also humbled in the face of this vastness. Sailors know that you cannot command the sea. While Brody and Hooper prevailed against the shark, they also learned the hard lesson that chain of command is malleable. Who has the power to reduce a body to its elements? Whose blood will return to water, and who will walk away with scars and a story to tell?
