![]() We can wonder why that is, or we can marvel at Steven Spielberg conjuring an enduring classic from what is, in fact, a ludicrous, defenestrate-your-disbelief genre. No shark movie has bettered Jaws in the intervening decades, and that’s sort of the point. ![]() I loved that movie as much as the next child of the ’80s, and I still remember the excruciating terror of its final moments: Roy Scheider aslant on the sinking mast of his boat, desperately sighting the approaching fin with his rifle. Obviously, this is a legacy of Jaws, which was released in June of 1975 and became Hollywood’s first summer blockbuster. Call it my summer cocktail: blue sky, open sea, vulnerable divers, a gray leviathan emerging out of the murky deep. It’s a physical, seasonal longing like the one you might have for lemonade, soft-serve, or digging toes into sand. At a certain point in the summer, I need to see a shark movie.
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