Jaws is not really a movie about a killer shark…
…OK, it’s not only a movie about a killer shark. But it is a human drama first and a suspenseful creature feature second, and that’s why it has withstood the test of time.
As the wonderful screenplay by original author Peter Benchley and Carl Gottlieb unfolds, we truly grow to care about Police Chief Martin Brody because we get a firm sense of who he is, what he stands for, and what his vulnerabilities are. Specifically, Brody is afraid of the ocean, which makes him the perfect protagonist for a movie about conquering fear.
We also see Brody interact with his family in an intimate and believable way, which automatically endears him to us even more. As a result, it’s no coincidence that one of the most famous moments in Jaws doesn’t feature the shark in any way. It’s the scene where Brody’s son imitates his gestures at the dinner table - a loving moment where a boy inadvertently comforts his troubled father.
Moving beyond the traditional core family, we also grow to care about the second impromptu “family” that forms during the second half of the film, and it all stems from the cast's chemistry and charisma.
Brody the cop, Hooper the marine biologist, and Quint the fisherman - three very different characters with very distinct personalities - team up to hunt down the monster that is terrorizing their town. We love them because they are very scared in their own ways, and thus, they are very human.
We bond with Hooper because he is the sarcastic voice of reason who often says what we’re all thinking. And when Quint relays his chilling shark encounter from all those years ago – in what has to be the best “quiet before the third-act storm” scene of all time - we bond with him too because he genuinely makes us feel the helplessness he was feeling.
And the fact that Jaws is so expertly able to weave in its humanity in order to prop up its thrills is a testament to director Steven Spielberg’s craftsmanship, which is evidenced by its very first scene. Right from the get-go, we know we are in the hands of a master because Spielberg makes us feel empathy for poor Chrissy, even as we marvel at the ingenious ways in which he staged that first shark attack.
Actually, every shark-related set-piece is phenomenal here. But the most effective is probably the second attack involving the Kintner boy. In particular, Verna Fields’ precise editing - wherein the beachgoers passing in front of the camera are used as transitions between shots that become more and more claustrophobic - is among the best that has ever been.
But it’s not just the way those first two shark attacks are structured that makes them so psychologically impactful.
There is an almost subliminal terror permeating every scene in Jaws because Spielberg intentionally and repeatedly endangers the most vulnerable among us - a naked swimmer, several innocent children, even a dog. Consequently, we intuitively become awash in a sense of duty, just like Brody; we feel we must protect our most vulnerable victims from this emotionless killing machine.
And this brings me to the other key reason why we feel so unsettled throughout Jaws: that perfect, primal John Williams theme.
It is so deceptively simple, and yet it was so crucial to this film’s success. The real-life irony is that said theme was utilized - along with some very clever prop usage - because they couldn’t get the damn shark to work most of the time, so they needed a way to convey that it was even in the movie. (In retrospect, the scares in Jaws become even more impressive when we realize that the beast is only fully revealed to us during the climax.)
Thus, every time we hear that damn theme, we know that damn shark is approaching - and what’s worse, the characters don’t know it.
And that’s because, right from the beginning of the film, the theme was tied to the POV of this apex predator as it swam through the night, tapping into our raw flight-or-fight instinct of being hunted.
It’s that same feeling you get when you’re just floating along in the ocean… and then you make the mistake of looking down into that infinite darkness below you.
It’s not what you see that’s scary, it’s what you can’t.
And this is fitting because Jaws is about conquering fear, remember? And it makes its point by scaring us, sitting there in the dark, even as it makes us care enough to see the characters through.
The timeline is unparalleled:
In 1975, Steven Spielberg and his team of magicians essentially created summer movie season with Jaws, which unequivocally set the template for what a summer movie should be.
In the ensuing years, they kept the summer blockbusters coming with hits like E.T., the original Indiana Jones trilogy, and a slew of films Spielberg produced like The Goonies and Back to the Future.
Then in 1993, eighteen years after Jaws, Spielberg and company seismically shifted the Hollywood landscape again - not only by making yet another summer movie classic, but by forever changing the way movies of all kinds were made.
Even though some pivotal CGI milestones had been achieved beforehand in works like The Abyss and Terminator 2: Judgment Day, Jurassic Park was a truly revolutionary step forward for computer-generated imagery. And it seems to be because Spielberg and his magicians learned a key lesson about the technology right away: Visual effects should augment practical effects and serve the story, not replace them. Undeniably, that approach truly made us feel like we were watching dinosaurs live and breathe on screen.
That said, just as he did with Jaws, Spielberg used very sophisticated psychological techniques to make us feel so goddamn uneasy throughout Jurassic Park – primarily by withholding the dinosaurs until just the right moments.
The end result is a masterclass of “slow burn” suspense filmmaking: Spielberg sets up the story and the characters and the theme and lets them settle in as he builds up a sense of dread and anticipation via foreshadowing, only to earn a hell of a payoff when he releases the tension via rollercoater-like bursts of action and leaves people breathless by the end of the film.
And the setup here is masterful.
Covering the full tonal gamut, act one sees the characters go from being awestruck in the shadow of this scientific miracle to being skeptical about how it was achieved.
And this leads to the “Mr. DNA” sequence, which effortlessly establishes how these dinosaurs were brought into the modern world with a whimsical three-minute video. And for me, this is the ideal way to deliver exposition. Here’s why:
The video is part of a ride, so the sequence feels organic to the plot.
The sequence informs the characters and the audience in a concise way, without needlessly repeating anything that is already known.
With lots of help from the cast’s well-timed interjections and reaction shots, the sequence is entertaining as hell. In particular, the Disney-like “aw, shucks” tone of the video is such a great touch, especially if you’ve ever been to one of their theme parks. It’s spot on!
This all culminates in an evergreen debate about the ethics of science that crystallizes around the film’s central theme, as expressed via Jeff Goldblum’s Ian Malcom:
“Your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn't stop to think if they should.”
Then more unpredictable events start snowballing, building upon one another, all in the name of supporting Ian Malcom’s thematic statement: The park tour goes south, the security grid goes down, a tropical storm makes landfall, etc. Nothing goes as planned, which is indeed the point.
And that’s because the script leans right into chaos theory - a variation on “everything that can go wrong will go wrong” - which is another philosophy Malcolm warns about. Yet all this chaos feels like precisely plotted clockwork that is falling into place so it can pay off later. Overall, the filmmakers are able to make so many clock gears work so well here, and that’s as impressive as any special effect. (Kudos to original author Michael Crichton and David Koepp for crafting a damn good screenplay that is well-structured, weighty, and fun!)
Oh yes, and then there are the raptors.
By that point, these nasties had effectively been established as the “villains” of the film. And while we had glimpsed a few intimidating flashes of them in a few scenes, we don’t see the raptors in full till the third act - again, just as it was with the damn shark in Jaws.
And this is just fine because our leading man Alan Grant sets up why we should be so scared of the raptors early on, via a terrifying monologue involving a raptor’s fossilized claw and pretending to slice open a little kid.
Sure, the kid is a bratty kid, but he’s still a kid – and as you might remember from Jaws, Spielberg knows that going after our innocents will really get under our skin. As such, that one monologue functions exactly like the Jaws theme did:
It tells us when to be afraid.
Thus, late in the film when we finally do see an actual raptor’s claw eerily click-click-clicking on that kitchen floor, we’ve been conditioned to think, “Oh, god, that thing can cut open a kid’s stomach like nothing.”
And it just so happens to be that there are two kids trapped in that kitchen…
All that being said, as great as the film is overall, I still maintain that Jurassic Park’s success all came down to one scene: the T. rex jeep attack.
Just as he did with Jaws (mostly out of necessity), Spielberg masterfully uses all of the tools at his disposal here: the audience’s imagination, silence*, sound effects, camera placement, pacing, editing, character moments, and tension-breaking humor.
As a result, the T. rex scene was an instant all-timer.
* While John Williams’ work on Jurassic Park is just as iconic as his work on Jaws, the most famous themes from JP’s score invoke adventure and wonder as opposed to terror. So it’s fascinating to see how effectively Spielberg and Williams use silence here when they don’t need to rely on the score as much for their scares.
Do you remember what it was like seeing that scene for the first time?
The BOOMING sounds of giant footsteps…
The vibrating cup of water…
The metal wires of the enclosure falling away one… by… one…
…and then the T. rex is out.
I vividly recall how mind-blowing this reveal was in the theater - you could feel the heat rise up around you as everyone seemed to collectively hold their breath. It was as if this scene reached into the primordial part of our brains, where we still remember what it was like to be something’s prey. (Yup, again, just like with that damn shark.)
It was personal and universal all at once. And it felt exactly like that in every screening I saw that summer. Pure electricity.
To top it all off, this sequence is thematically essential because it represents the film’s point of no return. By shifting all of the story power away from the humans onto their creations, the conflict becomes real here, and the inherent danger of these genetically resurrected titans is unleashed.
This is when the movie shows us exactly why Ian Malcolm was right: It’s not such a good idea for humankind to mess with science.
This is when Frankenstein’s monster escapes from the lab… and the T. rex escapes from its cage.
Because life does indeed find a way.
So, there you have it, Spielberg’s incredible summer movie bookends (with an E.T. and three Indys in the middle)!
A killer shark movie that is really about overcoming our fears. A killer dinosaur movie that is really about the dangers of playing God (as articulated by a godlike Jeff Goldblum and some game-changing visual effects).
And to my mind, the fact that they are both such character-driven, thematically resonant thrill rides only reinforces the notion that Jaws and Jurassic Park are the best monster movies ever made.
And it's not just because of the monsters.