Jaws (1975) | 100 Movies Every Catholic Should See #147
Directed by Steven Spielberg. Starring Roy Scheider, Robert Shaw, and Richard Dreyfuss.
How a simple monster movie with a clunky animatronic shark captivated the world’s imagination and shifted the paradigm of filmmaking forever is one of cinema’s most fascinating chapters. It was a perfect storm of talent and happenstance that produced what has become an enduring classic, and perhaps the quintessential American film. In this 250th year of this nation’s founding and over 50 years after its release, there is no better time to examine Steven Spielberg’s classic, a film that proved to be a watershed moment in his career and has earned a place in the pantheon of all-time greats.
The release of Jaws saw the birth of what is now known as the summer blockbuster. With the collapse of the studio system in the 60s, and the bold experimentation of a maverick group of young, boundary-pushing filmmakers, the 1970s proved to be a crossroads for the cinematic art form. Jaws arrived at the perfect time, garnering instant and near-universal acclaim and shaping the future of how popular films were made. Yet despite its mass appeal, Jaws packs a surprising layer of sophistication, from its nuanced thematic exploration of human nature to a masterful score, which continues to inspire study and appreciation to this day. Despite its many layers, the film feels effortless and simple in its execution, the mark of a quality piece of art.
The term blockbuster conjures images of explosions and spectacle, often at the expense of quality storytelling and well-developed characters. Had Jaws arrived a few years later, perhaps it would not have resisted this temptation. Yet, as the film’s famously difficult production would have it, the technological limitations of the era proved to be greatly beneficial in forcing Spielberg and his team to use their ingenuity to craft a narrative that built a sense of dread through what was not onscreen rather than what was. The animatronic shark was beset with technical problems from the outset, so much so that it was only shown onscreen for brief moments, 4 minutes of the film’s 124-minute runtime, to be exact. The unseen is often far more terrifying than the seen, a psychological fact that informs almost every facet of reality. From the unnerving opening sequences, which featured John Williams’s ominous two-note motif against point-of-view underwater imagery slowly drawing closer to the swimmer at the surface, the film plays into this primal fear. It is a fear that drives each character in their own way, from the island’s mayor, who refuses to acknowledge the danger lurking beyond his shores, to Police Chief Martin Brody, whose phobia of water (and anything dangerous in general) initially causes passivity and inaction. With emphasis not on the monster or spectacle, Jaws is, at its heart, a story of ordinary humans and how they react to a seemingly unknown danger, something that is out of their control yet threatens those most dear.
Chief Brody represents the everyman, who, in the classical hero’s journey arc, is called from his mundane life to perform heroic deeds. Unlike many subsequent monster flicks which feature a macho, machete-wielding superman fighting sharks on jet skis (think The Meg’s Jason Statham character), Brody does not exhibit the physical characteristics of a hero who could single-handedly save a town from a monstrous incursion. He is introduced as a somewhat neurotic New York cop who has relocated his family to Amity Island to take a new post as police chief. He is unfamiliar with the island’s ways and struggles to fit in while trying to do his best to care for his wife and children. Spielberg is often known for his depictions of family dysfunction. Yet in Jaws, the emotional core of the film revolves around a very positive depiction of family life, with onscreen interactions between Brody and his wife and children showing a strong sense of familial bonds. However, like everyone on this earth, Brody is hampered by a flaw, in this case his fear of water, which proves to be an unfortunate characteristic for one charged with protecting those living on an island.
The shark attack is the pivotal moment by which each of the film’s colorful characters are forced to contend with their innermost fears. It is the memorable ensemble of imperfect yet relatable characters, from Chief Brody and Mayor Larry Vaughn to the grizzled local shark hunter Quint and the eccentrically brilliant oceanographer Matt Hooper, that ground the film and draw the audience to invest in the stakes at hand. Perhaps the film’s most fascinating exploration of human nature comes with the decision of whether to close Amity’s beaches ahead of the island’s most lucrative Independence Day tourist weekend in light of the recent shark attack which killed a young teen. Mayor Vaughn, fearing for his island’s economy, attempts to dispel the growing fear, pressuring the coroner to declare the young teen’s death the result of a boating accident despite clear evidence from Brody and Hooper pointing to a shark attack. He then attempts to assuage those fears further by framing a small tiger shark found dead on the beach as the killer, despite Brody and Hooper’s compelling evidence to the contrary. Time and again throughout history, this reaction has characterized those in power in an effort to preserve the status quo at all costs for the sake of economic or political gain. Greed and fear in the face of inconvenient danger lead to a disregard for the truth and, ultimately, human lives. Human history presents this episode time and again, examples including the explosion of the nuclear reactor at Chernobyl, during which Soviet officials forced the residents of Pripyat to participate in the May Day parade under an unseen shower of radiation, all for the sake of party optics and prestige.
Brody acquiesces to the mayor in keeping the beaches open despite knowledge of the grave danger, something that subsequently weighs heavily on his conscience when a child is killed in the heavily packed shallow waters. He is then forced to confront his own fears of the water, yet it is the desire to protect his own children swimming in the same dangerous waters that finally galvanizes him to act. He finally forces the mayor to acknowledge and act upon the reality of the danger, joining forces with Quint and Hooper and setting sail to end the ocean menace once and for all. This change in Brody is accentuated by the quieter moments Spielberg allows throughout the film, from a quiet hug with his son at the dinner table following the attack to moments of small conversation on the boat. The restraint from spectacle, and focus on the humanity of characters such as Brody, make the brief moments of action all the more exciting. And ultimately, Brody’s arc becomes all the more edifying, as he strives to put aside his fears and risk stepping into the very place he is most afraid of to save his family and all of those living on the island. It’s a simple story at heart, but when executed at the level Spielberg and his team were operating, it becomes incredibly effective.
While the masterful exploration of human nature deserves its adulation, one would be remiss not to briefly mention the technical achievement behind the camera. The screenplay by Peter Benchley and Carl Gottlieb provides a masterclass in scriptwriting, with its simplicity and focus, buildup of suspense, and overall structure. Within the first 10 minutes, the world, stakes, and characters are clearly established. Every scene feels purposeful, and not a moment is wasted. Bill Butler’s cinematography, paired with the production design, makes for a world that feels grounded and lived in. However, it is John Williams’s score that ties it all together, elevating the entire affair to an almost mythic status.
There is perhaps no more iconic or effective two-note pairing in history than John Williams’s shark theme. Two notes—F and F♯—played over and over by the growling tones of the double bass were all that was needed to elevate the suspense and burn the fear of sharks into the nation’s subconscious. It is this utter simplicity which encapsulates the entire ethos of the Jaws production. Nothing was wasted, everything was intentional, and everything hit home. There is a lesser-known moment in the score that is worth pointing out, especially for the musically inclined. This is the Shark Cage Fugue, which deftly mixes many of the film’s key leitmotifs into a thrilling contrapuntal exposition in the tradition of Bach. Few film scores have utilized classical music’s most complex compositional technique, the fugue, yet here John Williams lets one rip as the boat cruises out of the harbor in search of the shark.
Jaws is rightfully lauded and studied as a masterclass in filmmaking, deftly balancing populist appeal with artistic excellence and thematic depth. It’s an exploration of human nature, and ultimately a film that depicts the everyman’s hero’s journey, a man who realizes his full potential by facing his fears and putting his life on the line to defend his family. In a production where everything went wrong, Spielberg managed to turn every setback to his advantage, bringing about a timeless masterpiece. As the summer season sets in, there is no more perfect time to revisit this all-American classic.