It was precisely 50 summers ago that Steven Spielberg’s second theatrical film emptied the oceans of human beings after filling cinemas with plenty of them. That film, Jaws, became a cultural phenomenon and changed how films were marketed and released forever.
Before Jaws, movies were distributed to the public in a limited fashion. New movies would initially play in select markets and then expand to other cities at a modest pace. Jaws was released to a then massive 466 theaters simultaneously. That number may seem paltry in the era of big-budget films opening in over 3,000 theaters the weekend of release, but in 1975, 466 movie houses at once was unheard of.
Art & Commerce
The marketing ploy by Universal Pictures didn’t just work (Jaws was the first movie to gross $100 million on initial release); it also led to wide release openings becoming the norm. With this new strategy came both benefits and drawbacks. The fact that new films can be seen by more people from the outset is inarguably beneficial to smaller markets. On the other hand, the wide release has led to films being judged as successes or failures based solely on their first weekend box office grosses. If a movie doesn’t do great business out of the gate, it’s often deemed a disappointment (regardless of its quality), sheds theaters quickly, and never gets a chance to recover until it reaches secondary markets (streaming, cable, DVD, etc.). To put it another way, films no longer have the luxury of breathing. The race to profitability is almost always a sprint, and seldom a marathon.
At the same time, blaming Jaws for creating a cinematic rush to judgment is akin to blaming Pearl Jam for the existence of Creed. Yes, one can accurately say that the first thing resulted in a dumbed-down version of itself in the future, but that doesn’t change the fact that Jaws is a great film, or that Pearl Jam is a great band. With their success came collateral damage. Bigger has become better even though it ain’t always so.
Spielberg’s killer shark, horror-thriller, is far too often spoken of in terms of its impact as opposed to its quality. Sure, Jaws is accepted as a great movie, but seldom is the “why” discussed beyond the film’s powerful delivery of frights. Make no mistake, for a (unconscionably) PG-rated film about a man (and child) eating shark, Jaws delivers the goods when it comes to horror. However, on a deeper dive, the film also makes a salient statement on the lust for profitability at all costs.
After multiple deaths by shark tooth, the town’s mayor (Murray Hamilton) is all too eager to fill his beaches with human chum once a single, far too small, shark is killed and displayed off a pier as the perpetrator of deadly aquatic deeds. The mayor ignores the expert advice of a marine biologist (Richard Dreyfuss, in a star-making turn), who measures the bite radius of the dead shark and concludes that it is no match for the killer on the loose off the Long Island town’s shores. It’s prime summer season on the East Coast, and fear of the shark will cut into the business of the tourism-dependent town. Unfortunately, the real perpetrating Great White, has plans to cut into more than seaside profits.
In our current society, we observe that the desire to cut corners to save or make money has led to numerous malfeasances. Whether it’s stock market shenanigans that lead to a crash (2008) or the cutting of disaster relief services (this week in Texas), the overwhelming need for more money comes with a terrible price tag. Spielberg may not have set out to make a strong statement about commerce, but it is undeniable that it exists within his blockbuster film.
Don’t Go In The Water
And what of that film? How effective is Jaws now as a thriller? We know that it was so powerful at the time that people became afraid to go in the water. I know I did when I saw the film as a child. I didn’t just avoid the ocean; I wouldn’t set foot in lakes, ponds, rivers, or even pools when I was a kid. Hell, I stopped taking bubble baths before I was ten because I needed to see my way to the bottom of the tub. Looking back, I’m pretty sure my mother should have lorded over my viewing habits just a bit more.
I’ve now seen Jaws at least fifteen times, and despite what that onerous PG rating might tell you, it’s still one hell of a creature feature. Spielberg has never been one of my favorite directors—his style is often too didactic and too obvious for me. As a filmmaker with prodigious gifts, I’ve always found it frustrating how Spielberg doesn’t trust his audience. He needs to tell you how to feel, which has often led to cloying moments even in his best films (see Tom Hanks’ teacher speech in Saving Private Ryan, or Liam Neeson’s “this pen” monologue in Schindler’s List). There is none of that in Jaws.
Bruce
The film is machine-like in its proficiency and unusually understated in terms of sentiment for a Spielberg movie. Jaws is a sea-worthy locomotive that brings the director’s technical skills and facility for emotion together in a seamless package of terror. The amusing thing is that the film is all the more successful because of the machine shark’s constant failure. The mechanical creation was dubbed “Bruce” (after Spielberg’s lawyer) on the set, but was probably better described by its secondary nickname, “Flaws.” The damn thing seldom worked, which turned out to be a blessing.
With his most significant special effect taken from him, Spielberg was forced to go full Hitchcock. The shark would be seldom seen, but often felt, thanks to Spielberg’s ability to insinuate danger, and John Williams’ minimalist, ominous, tuba-driven score. What you didn’t see was just as scary as what you did. Maybe even scarier. Then, late in the film, when the shark is given the full Monty, it’s all the more terrifying thanks to the restraint of its use in the rest of the film.
Jaws may be a monster movie (although it’s essential to note that real sharks don’t behave like “Bruce”); to Spielberg’s credit, the film doesn’t skimp on character development. Roy Scheider’s water-fearing Sheriff Brody supplies the heart of the film, as the small town lawman who must overcome his phobia while being faced with the realization of it. Only once had Scheider been better on film (All That Jazz), and there has seldom been a more human, as well as iconic, performance by an actor in a horror film. As Hooper, Richard Dreyfuss is both grounded and very entertaining while trying to assert himself as the voice of reason.
USS Indianapolis
As terrific as Scheider and Dreyfuss are, the film is stolen from them and the shark by Robert Shaw’s haunted and, eventually, deranged Quint, who goes on a shark-hunting mission with the sheriff and the marine biologist. Quint carries a hatred of sharks thanks to his experience as a crew member of the USS Indianapolis, a World War II naval cruiser that was sunk by a Japanese submarine, leading to the worst maritime disaster in U.S. history. The men of the Indianapolis were in the water for days, fighting dehydration, hypothermia, and, most critically to Jaws, hungry sharks.
There is much debate over who wrote Quint’s famous Indianapolis monologue for the film. The consensus has landed with uncredited screenwriter Howard Sackler having conceived of the speech, and other uncredited writers (including John Milius and Robert Zemeckis) having taken cracks at punching up the dialogue. However, there is no debate over the fact that Shaw (a playwright himself) synthesized the multiple drafts and reworked the sequence into what became its now legendary form. As much as the words mattered, it must be said that Shaw’s bone-chilling delivery of Quint’s words is what counted most. It’s a true “you could hear a pin drop” moment that still plays as a showstopper to this day.
Ahab
For Shaw’s Quint, the shark becomes his Moby Dick, and he the film’s Ahab. At times, the performance by Shaw is so theatrical as to verge on hammy, but you never doubt that Shaw isn’t completely invested, even (or maybe especially) when he meets a similar fate as Ahab due to his obsession. Robert Shaw brilliantly chews the scenery until the scenery chews him.
Regardless of what Jaws may have wrought in terms of being the seed from which future tentpoles emerged, it is also Spielberg’s best film. Running 124 lean minutes, without a single wasted second, Jaws earned its place in history as one of the most visceral film-going experiences and as a peak that its well-feted director would never crest again.
