A Toast to Childhood, Spielberg, and Spanish Ladies

E. Mark Windle     15 February 2024.

Reflecting on Jaws, the iconic movie that defined an era. Its literary inspiration, why today’s kids don’t get it, and what they are missing.

Society has a habit of compartmentalising history. It occurs all the time where the arts are concerned. Some creative masterpieces maintain permanent legendary status, while changes in societal norms and the general passage of time erode the relative importance of others.

Movies suffer this fate, though admittedly Steven Spielberg’s 1975 blockbuster Jaws is a bit of an anomaly. Film critics continue to applaud the film as an industry milestone. In the eyes of so many 50- and 60-somethings, its godly status has never been questioned. On the other hand, our younger generations struggle to comprehend the appeal. Maybe it’s something to do with contemporary relevance (what? Horror movies are no longer in vogue?). Or the awful sequels. Or perhaps the disinterest is a reflection of our now technologically advanced society. I honestly can’t remember what my thoughts were of Bruce the Rubber Shark back in the mid-seventies, but it clearly didn’t matter. Jaws scared the bejesus out of me and my pals: a giddy rollercoaster of anticipation, tension, and shock. The film may be a dead dog to most millennials, Gen Zs and probably Gen Alphas if they ever get around to checking it out, but we must forgive their inability to empathise with the oldies.

I’m a non-fiction writer by trade. My failing—as my family constantly remind me—is that I don’t read enough fiction. I’m inclined to agree, but the day job just gets in the way. Too much of my time is spent dipping into books on civil rights, history, culture or being immersed in online research. Admittedly I prefer my fiction on the big screen, though I did love reading it as a kid. At one point Saturday mornings routinely consisted of Mum dragging me along with her for the weekly shop, invariably including a visit to Woolworths. While Mum disappeared off to the clothes and household goods aisles, I’d head for the bookracks. It was here where I came across a copy of Peter Benchley’s book, actually the one before the movie adaptation. To this day my mother still loves telling everyone that I’d read little chunks, then stash the book at the back of the shelf with the page corner folded, ready for my return the following week.

Jaws was Peter Benchley’s first novel. The project was a real slow burner, until his motivation to complete it was sparked by the threat of having to return a $1000 advance. Doubleday Publishing released the book with a to-the-wire decision on the title (Jaws being the only one that came to mind some 20 minutes before it went to press). Critics knocked it for its lightness, unlikeable characters and dubious subplots. All that would be was water off a duck’s back though—Benchley and his publisher knew they were onto a good thing when Jaws spent much of 1974 on the New York Times bestseller list. US book sales hit the stratosphere, and Steven Spielberg and his producers ordered 100 copies to share with film industry acquaintances. By the time the movie appeared the following year and with co-promotion of the book (now with character and plot tweaks), around 20 million copies of the book were sold worldwide.

That book and the film cemented my childhood interest in all things shark. If you needed to know about different species, where they could be found in the world, statistics on countries with the most attacks and annual percentage fatalities, I was your go-to kid. Seriously, lots of us were at it. Its often said that Jaws demonised sharks, and I do get that to an extent. The juxtaposition is that the movie also inspired many to study these magnificent creatures, and in the long term created an awareness that we need to protect them. I didn’t exactly end up an oceanographer or marine biologist, but I did mop up a ton of stuff about biology, ecology and ichthyology. Indirectly, it probably even informed my decision to take up a 25-year science-based career before switching to writing full time.

Fast-forward 35 years. The Windles are on a family holiday in St. Pete’s in Tampa Bay, Florida. After the obligatory aquarium visit on the pier, we move on for some dolphin spotting in the coastal inlet. It’s early season and as we’re the only tourists on the boat hire, there’s plenty of time for leisurely chat with Alan, our friendly captain. Turns out Al’s family emigrated to the US from the UK when he was a small boy. In between his assistant’s calls for the dolphins to come alongside the boat (“Come on baby! Come on baby!”), Al also reminds us that St Pete’s Bay is a major breeding ground for hammerheads. As a naïve young scouser in a new land and unused to the searing summer heat of the South, little Al wouldn’t think twice about jumping in the bay with his pals to cool off. That all stopped in the summer of ‘75 of course. He’s not been in since.

So, what exactly is the magic hold that Jaws has on us? Pigeon-holing it as a movie is tricky. I guess that’s part of the appeal though: it’s a thriller, a psychological drama and ultimately a horror film (the midnight-skinny-dipping-goes-wrong opening scene is hard to beat, no?). Its instant nostalgia-conjuring ability is another reason why it still resonates with my age group. Not just a yearning for a return to flares, skinny tees and hot summers though, or even to a time of childhood innocence. Quite the opposite. Jaws was the first coming-of-age movie for my generation, revealing that life isn’t always so rosy. You never know what’s lurking 50 yards away in the water while you’re messing around on the beach or your mother is picking burnt skin off your shoulders.

Then there’s the cinematography and direction. Jaws is a truly visual feast.  It doesn’t really matter that it was shot in Martha’s Vineyard (where the water was shallow enough to operate Bruce) rather than Montauk, the original inspiration for Benchley’s Amity Island. The picturesque settings, including the golden sands and white and coloured wood-siding houses of Massachusetts’s pretty coastal hamlets, along with John Williams’ iconic film score, was perfect. Spielberg didn’t miss a trick with character diversity either, even if their storylines deviated from the original book. I seem to recall from my Saturday sessions in Woolies that Matt Hooper the marine biologist was less innocent than the amiable portrayal by Richard Dreyfuss. Benchley’s Hooper took a shine to the police chief’s wife, Ellen Brody. They even had an affair in a dodgy motel. But in the movie, we do have Martin Brody, the world-weary small-town cop who cares about his community, and Larry Vaughan, the jerk of a mayor determined to keep the beaches open at all costs.

Most Jaws lovers have their favourite character. Mine is Robert Shaw’s Quint, the drunken modern-day Captain Ahab (after all, Jaws is Moby Dick). Benchley claimed Quint was based on a charter fisherman he once met in Montauk named Frank Mundus. The similarities were certainly there; Mundus was an eccentric, occasionally lovable rogue, and his early practices were not at all shark friendly. For balance, he once assisted in the rescue of guests from a party boat which had capsized in treacherous conditions. Mundus was one of those responsible for bringing the survivors and the dead back to shore. He was hardly a saint though. Neither was Quint.

Quint leads one of the most memorable scenes where he, Brody and Hooper are getting drunk on board the Orca as night-time descends. This is the calm before the storm. The open water is dark and still, as Quint starts the tragic and largely true account of the USS Indianapolis, which was torpedoed in the Philippines during World War II. Nine hundred men jumped in the water to avoid going down with the ship, but rescue was delayed as the boat had been on a secret mission to carry components of the atom bomb that was about to be dropped on Hiroshima. Due to security reasons the ship’s exact location was kept quiet, even to the US Navy. For four days and nights the crew were subjected to dehydration, sun exposure, hypothermia, and relentless attacks by oceanic whitetips and tiger sharks. Quint’s tale has a sobering effect as all three men are left to reflect on the horrific events. He then attempts to lighten the atmosphere with rowdy renditions of Spanish Ladies and Show Me the Way to Go Home… Then THUD! The great white smashes into the hull, returning for another bite and the terror resumes. Pure genius.

Fifty years on, the appeal of Jaws goes beyond mere nostalgia. I reckon its status as one of the greatest movies of all time is assured, at least for people of a certain age. At the next late night re-run, you’ll find me there on the sofa with beer and a bucket of popcorn. Now where’s that remote control…

(Copyright 2024) E. Mark Windle is an independent freelance writer and biographer. He has also written for Story Terrace (London, UK) as a senior writer, and with Sheridan Hill / Real Life Stories LLC (North Carolina, USA) as a ghostwriter.

Follow Mark at https://www.facebook.com/windlefreelance