JAWS at 50: Still the Only Film That Makes the Sea Look Like a Bad Idea

 I re watched Jaws today. The 50th Anniversary 4K restoration. Which sounds like the sort of thing only men of a certain age do, usually while muttering “they don’t make ’em like this anymore” and poking the television settings like it’s a wounded animal.

And here’s the thing.
They really don’t.

Because Jaws, even half a century on, is still utterly terrifying. Not in a modern, CGI, “look at the pixels” sort of way. But in the much worse way. The imagination way.

The shark, now rendered in pin-sharp 4K, still barely bloody works. You can practically hear it creaking. And yet it remains the most frightening monster in cinema history. Why? Because Steven Spielberg had the good sense to keep the thing off screen, let John Williams’ music do the heavy lifting, and trust the audience not to be idiots.

Modern films would’ve had the shark doing backflips in the first five minutes.

What really hits you on this rewatch, though, is not the shark. It’s the men.

Roy Scheider’s Brody is still the greatest example of a normal bloke being spectacularly unprepared for his job. Richard Dreyfuss’ Hooper is clever, annoying, and exactly the sort of man you’d want nearby until he opens his mouth. And then there’s Robert Shaw’s Quint.

Good grief.

That Indianapolis monologue, now crisp, clean, and brutally intimate in 4K, is still one of the finest pieces of acting ever committed to film. No music. No flashbacks. Just a man quietly describing four days in the water while sharks methodically eat his friends. It stops the film dead. And you let it. Because you’re too busy realising that this is what real horror sounds like.

You don’t need jump scares when you’ve got truth.

The 4K restoration doesn’t ruin anything, thankfully. It enhances the texture of the sea, the grit of Amity, the sweat on faces, and yes, the occasional rubbery nonsense of Bruce the Shark. But that’s part of the charm. Jaws is a perfectly imperfect machine, held together by character, pacing, and sheer bloody confidence.

And the score. Oh Lord, the score. Two notes. That’s it. Two notes, and suddenly your bath feels dangerous.

After fifty years, Jaws is still not really about a shark. It’s about fear, incompetence, bravado, masculinity, and the catastrophic consequences of ignoring the bloke who says, “Maybe we should close the beach.”

In short, it’s timeless.

I finished the film, turned off the telly, and came to a simple conclusion:
I don’t want to swim in the sea.
I don’t trust boats.
And I definitely don’t trust mayors in blazers.

Five stars. Still the best. And still absolutely terrifying.