Sundays with Spielberg: "Jaws"
The shark movie has new resonance in the age of COVID.
First, a disclaimer: I wrote these thoughts on Jaws last summer, as I’m re-issuing my backlog of posts before getting into new ones. But I like the way it turned out, and I’ve changed very little. Just setting that for context, since the pandemic and our nation were in a much different spot at the time of writing. Enjoy!
For one of the all-time great monster movies, Jaws has a surprisingly low body count.
From the time Chrissie Watkins is dragged under the surf through that son of a bitch’s last smile, Jaws’ rogue great white only logs five deaths (six, if you count the dog). That’s pretty savage for a PG film (no way the movie would be released with that rating today), but nowhere near the kill count of other great movie monsters.
But the secret to Jaws’ enduring popularity is that Steven Spielberg, working at the height of his mastery, makes you feel every death.
Primal horror
In the early weeks of the COVID-19 pandemic, it was popular to see memes comparing Donald Trump’s overzealous cries to reopen the economy to the film’s mayor. It speaks to Jaws’ entrenched status as a classic that all it took was a still of Murray Hamilton in that god-awful suit for people to immediately understand the comparison.
Watching Jaws ten weeks into Michigan’s shutdown, in the same week seven barbers were arrested for giving “protest cuts” at the state capitol, it was easy to see that little had changed in 45 years. When money’s at stake, business comes before life. Keep the beaches open; a few people might die, but at least the sand is packed.
But in Jaws, Spielberg goes to pains to show that those deaths happen to real people, and they are to be mourned. Building on the suspense chops he showed in Duel, the director proves himself a master at ramping up the tension, whether it’s the slow build of the film’s iconic opening or the way he piles on the dread before Alex Kintner is pulled under in a horrifying blur of surf and gore. From Chrissie’s terrified cries of “it hurts” to the sight of Alex’s mangled raft washing ashore, Spielberg humanizes the horror and makes every death horrify. Even the film’s classic jump scare — Ben Gardner’s head lolling out from under his boat — lands because the film has mentioned Gardner in passing several times before Hooper and Brody set out.
But even beyond the social commentary of weighing human lives against the almighty dollar, Jaws has interesting parallels to our current crisis. It’s the story of a community besieged by a natural, primal threat, one that can’t be explained away or bought. The film’s great white isn’t a killer selecting its victims or a beast out for revenge (at least not until Jaws 4). As Hooper (Richard Dreyfus) says:
“What we are dealing with here is a perfect engine, an eating machine. It’s really a miracle of evolution. All this machine does is swim and eat and make little sharks and that’s all.”
Hubris thinks it can just ignore the shark and it will just disappear. It seeks a quick solution from everyday DIY-heroes, who load up their dinghies and head to sea hoping to take on the shark and win Mrs. Kintner’s reward. Capitalist mobs think that one death doesn’t matter compared to the thousands of businesses that will be destroyed. As Chief Brody tries to tell Mayor Vaughn that if he closes the beaches for the Fourth of July, he might be able to save August, I thought of Michigan’s governor trying to explain that it was better to keep closed early in the pandemic than to have to regress in two months should the pandemic spike (and, um, it did; twice).
But again, Spielberg never loses sight of the human toll. Perhaps the film’s most visceral and painful moment occurs not on the sea, but on dry land. In the middle of celebrating with a bunch of amateur fishermen, who think they’ve caught the rogue shark, Brody is stopped by Alex Kintner’s mother, still dressed in her mourning clothes. She slaps the chief on the face and berates him for opening the beach, even though he knew the waters were dangerous. “My boy is dead; I wanted you to know that.” The scene should have been sobering, essential viewing for every public official rushing to open the economy.
Battling with expertise
The film’s first half is so memorable and well presented that it can be easy to forget that Jaws is actually structured as two different films. The first is the more traditional monster movie, with innocent lives at risk. It’s where many of the film’s most memorable scenes play out; the shark attacks, the quiet moment where Brody and his son play shadow, the jump scare with Ben Gardner’s head.
But Jaws shifts into a different gear — and, arguably a completely different genre — in its final hour, as it moves from horror to adventure. After the shark leaves another swimmer dead and Brody’s son, who witnessed the attack, in shock, the chief forces Mayor Vaughn to write a check hiring Robert Shaw’s crusty fisherman, Quint, and he, Hooper and Brody set out to catch and kill the shark.
Spielberg handles the change in tone with such finesse that it took me several views to realize just how much of a shift it was. John Williams’ score changes from the thundering dread of his main theme to a more adventurous and intrepid take. Spielberg’s meticulous, Hitchcock-inspired shots shift to wider views and longer takes. And rather than the claustrophobic underwater shots, we catch the shark when it surfaces, wide sea and sky all around. The film feels less horrifying and more rousing. No longer is anyone playing victim to the shark; now, they’re taking it on themselves.
But Spielberg differentiates this charter from the scene earlier where bumbling fishermen tried to trap the fish with dynamite and homemade harpoons. This time, it’s three men with different backgrounds who are teaming up, leaving the task of ending the danger to those who have been trained and are ready for it.
Quint is, of course, the seasoned fisherman, haunted by his own personal trauma and blessed with a keen instinct on the water. He’s crass and salty, but Robert Shaw creates a character who feels at home in the water, trusting in his old-fashioned methods. It’s no wonder he butts heads with Hooper, a rich kid with a lot of head knowledge and passion for sharks, but with hands that prove he’s rarely hauled in a fishing net. It’s only when Hooper reveals his shark-proof cage, and his intention to go in the water with the shark, that Quint shows him respect.
And Brody? He’s out of place. He hates the water. Quint calls him out on his landlocked spirit and relegates him to shoveling out chum to bring the shark in. But Brody can’t sit it out; he’s responsible for Amity’s safety. He needs to see this through to the end. And, in the end, it’s his own instincts that end up taking the great white down.
It’s fascinating to watch how the three butt heads throughout this final course. Hooper and Quint snipe at each other trying to defend their territory, and Brody feels pushed to the side and emasculated in their presence. And yet, each plays a crucial role in bringing the shark down. It’s Quint’s old-fashioned barrel work that allows them to keep an eye on the fish, but Hooper’s cage and scuba gear set Brody up to deliver the final blow. All three men, working together to the best of their ability, provide the only hope of ending the threat.
That resonates in an age where medical experts are downplayed and do-it-yourself scientists on Facebook and Twitter try to argue for an easier, quick solution. The nation is full of amateur health professionals who opine on social media and distrust the media, the government and scientists. But the end of the pandemic, which is now in sight in several countries, depended on collaboration between those experts.
A perfect movie
Maybe I’m stretching. It’s very possible. Peter Benchley, of course, didn’t write Jaws in the age of a pandemic, and Spielberg didn’t direct the film in the midst of a quarantine. Jaws is timely not because it lines up perfectly with our crisis but because its human concerns will always be relevant. There will always be primal threats that humans think they can outsmart. Government and business will always weigh dollar signs against safety. And experts will always butt heads before they collaborate and find important solutions. Jaws isn’t timely; it’s timeless.
And perhaps I can be forgiven for overreaching and doubling down on this comparison. Because, after all, what else can I say about Jaws that hasn’t been said? It’s as taut and terrifying as ever. Spielberg fully steps into his role as America’s great populist director, and it’s a shame that the movie’s success and creation of the blockbuster days of cinema is often used as a ding against it (we’d be lucky if today’s summer movies had half of Jaws’ mastery). John Williams’ score? Perfect. The USS Indianapolis speech? Amazing. Quint’s death? Still gut-wrenching.
Jaws is a great movie; to say that again is just to add to the choir. While our mileage might vary on our favorite Spielberg films, this one makes a strong case for being his best. There isn’t a misstep or false beat. It’s a masterwork of tension, thrills and social commentary. The fact that it still feels as vital and effective as it did 46 years ago has less to do with its prescience so much as the fact that it’s just that great.
Previous Sundays with Spielberg entries: