Almost 35 years after first seeing Jaws (1975), I still don’t go boating or, God forbid, swimming, in any big body of water.  The poster image should explain why.

A backlash against Jaws has occurred in recent years as critics disparage it for inciting Hollywood’s summer blockbuster mentality and for demonizing one of nature’s most fascinating creations.  Both charges are true to some degree but that doesn’t lessen the film’s power, impact or artistry.  Steven Spielberg’s first huge hit is the Moby Dick of cinema; a seemingly simple premise of reluctant man against primal beast, shaded with layers of sharp characterization, social critique, pure adventure, tests of manhood, familial issues and, in the form of the obsessed shark itself, a dollop of mysticism.  All these elements combined to create a phenomenon that brought viewers to theatres in droves — and kept them off of beaches in the process.  I saw Jaws five times in local theaters before I was fifteen years old.  More than any other movie, it is responsible for my avid moviegoing habit.

Spielberg’s movie is a big improvement on the book by Peter Benchley.  Its genius in hiding the shark for so long was largely accidental, as the mechanical shark failed to work for much of the shoot.  It boasts endlessly quotable dialogue and some of the greatest movie moments of the past half-century.  It is, in my humble opinion, one of the best motion pictures ever created, despite its reputation as a “popcorn” movie.  It has caused me sleepless nights and countless thrills, many courtesy of John Williams’ brilliant score and Steven Spielberg’s mastery of the medium.  I adore this movie.  My rating:  ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆.  (10:4).