Jaws turns 35 this summer

June 9, 2010

by Scott Saalman

More than three decades have passed since I first witnessed, from the safety of my ancient Swiss Theater seat, a monstrous great white shark indulge in a feeding frenzy of actors – from its first victim, a skinny-dipping blonde tugged and jerked violently by an unseen underwater predator with a hunger for torso, to the final victim, Captain Quint, a crusty, shark-killing maniac fatally bitten when Jaws decides to board Quint’s sinking boat.

You could always tell how suspenseful a movie was at the Swiss by the squeaking of its old, torn seats. The night I saw Jaws, the theater was a squeak fest, moviegoers twisting and sinking and bouncing and screaming in their loud seats, gripping their chair arms like life preservers.

I was 10 when Jaws swam its way to Tell City, Ind. To this day, no movie has left a lasting impression on me the way Jaws did. Never before had I seen anything so frightful and graphic on the silver screen: a boy about my age devoured in broad daylight while floating on his raft (traditionally, hadn’t horror movies told us we were safe during the day?); a bloated human head popping out of a sunken, shark-bitten boat; a man’s pale, severed leg sinking to the bottom of the sea.

I became an indirect victim of Jaws. The great white scared me so much that I boycotted Saddle Lake the rest of that summer, certain that a freshwater equivalent of the sharp-toothed beast was waiting just beyond the ropes, a giant catfish, perhaps. If it was a movie, we could call it Whiskers.

I even received permission to sleep on my parents’ bedroom floor the night I returned from the movie…and the next night…and the next night. I gradually moved my sleeping bag into the hallway until eventually, swimming seasons later, I found the courage to sleep in my own bed again.

By then, Jaws 2 was released.

Just when you thought it was safe to go back into your bedroom.

I have seen Jaws scores of times since 1975.

I habitually re-watch it in the summer, each time relieved when Chief Brody finally blows up the shark, turning the man-eater into a shower of Technicolor chum.

Jaws holds a special place in my horror movie heart because it was the last movie to really scare me. I cling to Jaws, even more so today, because it reminds me of how scary a movie can be to a boy just as he enters his second decade of life. Unfortunately, that same boy must grow up too quickly and no longer fear the scripted horrors that Hollywood hashes out. Let’s face it, the curse of adulthood is that movies can no longer scare you.

I also watch Jaws as a reminder of the importance of the Swiss Theater, that towering, one-screen wonder with sticky floors, a cry-baby room and dreaded bouncers who threatened to drag your butt out onto Main Street for throwing popcorn at the screen.

Although the Swiss has been closed for decades, even now I can watch Jaws and still hear the squeaks, still taste the Oompas candy and sweet black-cherry pop, still recall the Friday night popcorn wars as the kernels flew through the dancing rays of the old projector lights.

Not long ago, I watched Jaws on TV again. I can’t think of a better movie to watch on a Saturday night. As Brody and Hooper, the ichthyologist, paddled toward shore and the movie credits rolled, I fought the temptation to call my parents to see if I could sleep on their floor. I did not sleep that night. NewsSip

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