Online Film School Free » Classic Film Analysis » Jaws (1975)
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ToggleSet in the seaside town of Amity Island, Jaws begins with a young woman attacked and killed by a mysterious force in the ocean. As beachgoers flood the town for the summer, Police Chief Martin Brody (Roy Scheider) becomes convinced a great white shark is prowling the waters. Despite mounting evidence—and another death—the mayor refuses to close the beaches, fearing the loss of tourism revenue. Brody teams up with marine biologist Matt Hooper (Richard Dreyfuss) and hardened shark hunter Quint (Robert Shaw) to track and kill the creature.
The film shifts in tone from political thriller and public panic to maritime adventure and primal horror as the trio sets out into the open sea. What follows is a game of survival—man vs. nature, rationality vs. instinct, and control vs. chaos.
Behind its smooth surface, Jaws was anything but easy to make. It was, by Spielberg’s own admission, a “massive production failure”—one that constantly threatened to derail the entire film.
As a result:
This forced adaptation turned into creative alchemy. What could have been a B-movie became a masterclass in implication, pacing, and tonal precision.
Rather than sink the film, the chaos taught Spielberg (and filmmakers everywhere) that improvisation and constraint can lead to artistic breakthroughs.
The final film, despite its rocky production, is now seen as a masterclass in structure—and much of that credit belongs to editor Verna Fields, one of the great unsung heroes of the project.
What emerged was:
🡒 “The film was saved by editing,” Spielberg later said, and the results speak for themselves. It’s a testament to how cinema is often born not in shooting, but in shaping.
Released in June 1975, Jaws didn’t just redefine success—it invented it. It was the first film to open in hundreds of theaters simultaneously, backed by a massive nationwide TV ad campaign. It became the first film to gross over $100 million and held the title of highest-grossing film of all time until Star Wars arrived two years later.
But Jaws didn’t change film history with marketing alone—it did so through craft. It redefined what genre filmmaking could be: visceral, intelligent, commercially viable, and artistically refined. For filmmakers, it became the prototype for suspense, pacing, and how to manipulate audience psychology through visual and auditory means.
Famously, Spielberg had planned to show the mechanical shark (“Bruce”) far more frequently. But technical issues plagued the production, rendering most of the footage unusable. Rather than ruin the film, this limitation forced Spielberg into what would become one of the most influential directorial pivots in cinema: show less, suggest more.
Using:
🡒 The result: fear of the unseen shark became far more powerful than any on-screen monster
Though Jaws is not typically remembered for bold or expressive color schemes, Spielberg’s use of color is deliberate, functional, and emotionally charged. Color in Jaws is not decorative—it’s strategic. It guides emotion, builds tension, and emphasizes key narrative elements with startling efficiency.
Blue dominates the palette of Jaws: the ocean, the sky, the police uniforms, even the lighting in many daytime scenes. This calm, naturalistic base is what makes the rare appearance of red—especially blood—so jarring and unforgettable.
In the iconic scene where the child is killed by the shark, the explosion of red blood in the blue sea becomes one of the film’s most traumatic and indelible images. Red appears rarely, but always as a signal of danger, death, or panic; its absence only intensifies its impact when it does emerge.
Spielberg understands that within a subdued color space, a sudden burst of red functions as pure cinematic alarm.
Perhaps the most iconic visual substitution in the film is the use of yellow barrels. After the malfunctioning shark prop prevented Spielberg from showing the creature itself, the floating barrels—attached to the shark via harpoons—became stand-ins for its presence.
The bright yellow cuts sharply through the deep blue ocean, creating an immediate visual cue. Even when the shark isn’t seen, the audience feels its presence through the color, a constant, ominous reminder that something lurks below. The barrels become an extension of the monster. Spielberg turned a technical problem into a masterstroke of visual suspense.
🡒 Color in Jaws helps construct a visual hierarchy: between land and sea, law and chaos, humanity and nature.
The use of color in Jaws may appear naturalistic at first glance, but it’s deeply embedded in the film’s emotional architecture. Spielberg uses color:
🡒 It’s a silent language in the film – one that speaks directly to the body, bypassing logic to tap into instinctual fear and anticipation.
John Williams’ now-iconic two-note motif is more than a soundtrack—it’s a psychological tool. It begins slow, grows faster, mimicking a heartbeat, escalating until attack.
But Spielberg and Williams also use strategic silence to unsettle the viewer. In several key moments—such as the beach attack with the child—no music plays until the last second, making the intrusion of the shark cue a sudden wave of terror.
Why it works:
🡒 Williams’ score, like Bernard Herrmann’s in Psycho, became part of the film’s identity—an audible signal of dread.
In one of the film’s most quoted shots, Brody watches in horror as he realizes a shark has attacked a swimmer. The background recedes while the camera zooms in—a technique known as the “dolly zoom” or “Vertigo shot” (pioneered by Hitchcock).
How it works:
It turns subjective fear into visual form literally altering space to match mental shock.
This shot became a visual shorthand in cinema for sudden realization or psychic disturbance and is often imitated (Goodfellas, Lord of the Rings, Ringu).
Jaws doesn’t rely solely on terror—it’s grounded in dynamic characters. The trio of Brody, Hooper, and Quint is archetypal yet richly developed.
The shark is the threat, but the human tension is the engine.
Their interplay, particularly aboard the Orca, turns the final act into a study of masculinity, trauma, and camaraderie under pressure.
The entire film is a play in contrasts: safety vs. threat, seen vs. unseen, order vs. chaos.
Why It Matters?
For filmmakers, Jaws is a Rosetta Stone: how to craft suspense, manage limitations, build characters, and leverage sound and space. It’s not just about fear of sharks—it’s about how film creates fear, controls information, and communicates directly with the subconscious.
Jaws changed the movie business. But more importantly, it changed movies themselves.


