Steven Spielberg was 27 when he directed Jaws and already under contract at Universal. He had some qualms about turning Peter Benchley's novel into a film, having made Duel, a thriller starring a big-rig stalker. He didn't want to become "a shark-and-truck director," as he memorably put it. What drew him to the project was the book's final 120 pages, as he explained back then, when the main characters "go on a hunt, a sea hunt for the great white shark." So, working with Benchley and others, Spielberg pared down the story to focus on the drama of men battling a massive shark.
Subplots were deleted and new scenes added. With a potential actors' strike looming, the film was rushed into production. There were lots of bumps and some publicly aired grievances. Spielberg, Benchley said, "has no knowledge of reality but movies," a criticism that long clung to the filmmaker. Benchley shared screenwriting credit with Carl Gottlieb, who also plays the toadying publisher of the Amity newspaper. Gottlieb amusingly details the making of the movie in his essential account The Jaws Log.
Spielberg knew what he had. Mid-production, he said, "We've really, I think, made a better movie than Jaws is a book." He was right: the film is as lean and clean as a denuded bone. Like the novel, it opens with the death of the skinny-dipper. Her name, you may recall though maybe not, is Chrissie. Women don't factor much here; one becomes dinner, another fusses in a kitchen. A crucial exception is the mother, Mrs. Kintner (Lee Fierro), who confronts Brody the day she buries her child. "You knew there was a shark out there," she says, after slapping him. "You knew it was dangerous but you let people go swimming anyway. You knew all those things. But still my boy is dead now."
After Fierro died in April from complications of Covid-19, The Los Angeles Times columnist Mary McNamara wrote, "We are all Mrs. Kintner now." These days, though, we are all more like the confused people of Amity who either recklessly rush into the water or stay away at a safe distance, watching in horror. Jaws is about a lot of things, including fear, death, science, accountability and the necessity — and fragility — of social solidarity. It's about knowledge and what people do with it. Brody grasps that there's a danger threatening Amity and its visitors and sets out to save them with help from a scientist (Richard Dreyfuss) and a fisherman (Robert Shaw). Movies love the romance of the white-hatted hero, but in real life we also need to save ourselves.
Gottlieb writes that after a triumphant sneak preview of Jaws in March 1975, a few months before it opened, he observed Universal suits convene in a theatre bathroom and change industry history. Before Jaws, studios generally opened their better films in limited theatres, slowly rolling them in a so-called platform release. In that bathroom, though, Gottlieb recounts, the studio brass decided to flood cinemas, putting the movie in more than 450 North American theaters. That's modest compared with today's event openings, but then it was a seismic shift. With its wide mouth and release, its saturation advertising and June 20 opening date, Jaws created the summer-blockbuster template.
It was, yes, a monster hit. For some critics, though, Jaws itself has always been monstrous, the first of two widely popular films that together ended the creatively fecund days of 1970s American cinema. The second, bigger blow was delivered two years later by Spielberg's friend, George Lucas, and the release of Star Wars. That's one take, at any rate, though the era and history are considerably more complicated and the films more diverse than 1970s fetishists sometimes remember. There was plenty of junk before Jaws and two of the box-office hits were The Towering Inferno and Earthquake, disaster movies bloated with stars and special effects.
These big-ticket spectacles hewed to the usual time-tested Hollywood script. The most haunting films of the era's catastrophe cinema, though, were grimmer and few were as uncompromisingly bleak as Soylent Green (1973), about the Earth at the edge of collapse. In it, the natural world has been decimated and human overpopulation has made resources terrifyingly scarce. In one scene, an old man (Edward G. Robinson) says farewell via state-sanctioned assisted suicide. As he fades away alone in an antiseptic room, he watches a big screen filled with images of the now-lost world: animals, trees, the watery deep.
It's a scene very much calibrated to growing consciousness about the environment. In the introduction to the 30th-anniversary edition of his bestseller, Benchley sounds defensive about his own awareness back then: "At the time I was writing Jaws, the environmental movement we know today didn't exist." Yet one did exist. The first Earth Day took place in 1970 (it was celebrated by Sesame Street), and the Marine Protection, Research and Sanctuaries Act was passed two years later. To his credit, Benchley became a conservationist, and there's even a lanternshark named after him, the Etmopterus benchleyi. "I could never write Jaws today," Benchley ceded.
In the decades since the film freaked us out, Hollywood has grown increasingly dependent on blockbusters. Yet even as its movies have grown bigger and shinier, they have become less tethered to real people and our scarily imperilled world. Critics read Jaws different ways: as a take on Moby-Dick or the Vietnam War, or as a tale about the return of the repressed. Of course it is also about a shark that kills people and is killed in turn, which makes it another story about humankind's domination of nature. If the threats on screen now are often extraterrestrial, it's partly, I think, because we can't bear to see what's happening, what we're doing, on Earth. Maybe the shark wasn't simply hunting us — not all of us, anyway — maybe it was warning us.
Written by: Manohla Dargis
Photographs by: Ben Giles
© 2020 THE NEW YORK TIMES
