The sea is not merely a backdrop: it is the embodiment of what is beyond our control, of what we do not understand, and therefore, of what terrifies us most.
A poster of the film Jaws (1975), directed by Steven Spielberg.
In literature, the sea has always been the place where the boundary between the known and the unattainable is blurred.
Off the coast of Amity Island, it is not just an animal lurking in the waters; it is the abyss itself, the terror that feeds on infinity, that unfathomable space that remains the primal setting for human fear. Like a vast black mirror reflecting both our deepest anxieties and the cosmic indifference of the universe, the sea in Spielberg's Jaws is not mere scenery: it is the embodiment of what is beyond our control, of what we do not understand, and therefore of what terrifies us most.
This terror, as visceral as it is archaic, is not a script accident or a pretext for violence that draws the viewer into a spiral of raw emotions. It is a reflection of something that dwells within us: the fear of death, of dissolution, of oblivion. In the skin of the inhabitants of Amity, we glimpse our own fragility in the face of that ocean of uncertainties that every human being must cross. Deep down, we are not so far removed from those fishermen and police officers who are forced to face the incomprehensible.
Throughout the film, the shark that emerges from the depths is not just a physical threat: it is the emblem of the uncontrollable, of that which moves unseen, of the shadow of death that lurks faceless, rule-less, merciless. In this scenario, as spectators, we do not fear the monster as much as the void it represents; that presence that advances without cause or meaning, because evil often hides right there: in the immobile, in the uncertain, in what we cannot control.
The fear of the uncontrollable — of that which escapes reason and will — is manifested in Jaws with unusual force. It is not the shark that is the true object of our terror, but what it symbolises: the irrationality of death, that external force that lurks without warning, without justice or logic. Because if there is one thing that characterises death, it is precisely its lack of explanation. And it is this ignorance that terrifies us most. We are paralysed by the idea of being at the mercy of something we do not understand, of living in a world governed by blind forces, deaf to our ethics and alien to our understanding.
[destacate]We are not only afraid of being devoured, but of discovering that we are, ultimately, fragile. That everything we have built is suspended over an abyss[/destacate]This ancient fear has permeated literature since its origins. In Greek tragedy, heroes face an inescapable fate. In Camus' The Stranger, death imposes itself as an absurd, meaningless act that overwhelms man without him being able to do anything to prevent it. The anguish that envelops the characters in Jaws is the same that shakes human beings when they search for a purpose, an answer that explains suffering. Faced with the shark, the protagonists are not only fighting for survival: they are struggling to find meaning in what is happening to them, as if by fighting they could, at least for a moment, deny the omnipresence of death.In this confrontation, the true nature of fear is revealed. We are not only afraid of being devoured, but of discovering—even if only subconsciously—that we are, ultimately, fragile. That everything we have built, including our civilisation, is suspended over an abyss. The threat that emerges from the sea exposes not only our physical vulnerability, but also that of the soul, that soul that refuses to accept its dissolution. As in Kafka, where the inexplicable and the absurd drag man towards an opaque destiny, the shark ends up being the embodiment of an evil that needs no explanation to exist.
However, in Jaws, not everything is despair. In the midst of the darkness, the figure of the hero rises. Brody, Hooper and Quint, so different from each other, are forced to face the monster that inhabits the depths. They do not do so for justice or revenge, but out of an essential need: to face what they cannot control. And that struggle, like all true struggles, demands dedication.
Quint, marked by his own past, seems to understand that the fight with the shark is not just a matter of life and death, but an existential imperative. He faces the creature not only with determination, but with the certainty that there is no turning back. His sacrifice becomes a form of redemption, a last chance to rise up against the fear that has consumed him. And therein lies the symbolic power of the film: in the dedication. In the fact that someone is willing to die for others as the only response to what cannot be defeated.
[destacate]In the dark and turbulent waters lies the eternal enigma of human existence: why do we fight, if everything can be wiped out at any moment by a force that obeys no law?[/destacate]That sacrifice does not save the world, but it allows others to live. And, in some way, that willingness to face evil and give everything for a greater good is a principle that runs through the history of human thought, although rarely in such a concrete form as in the final sequence of Jaws.
It is then that the sea, that endless ocean, becomes more than a setting: it becomes a symbol. In it, life and death are intertwined. In its dark and turbulent waters lies the eternal enigma of human existence: why do we fight, if everything can be wiped out at any moment by a force that obeys no law?
The film confronts us with this dilemma: fighting to live is, ultimately, a tragic act. Not because it lacks value, but because it is always threatened by the uncontrollable. The sea, in its immensity, evokes the sublime: that which, according to Burke and Kant, surpasses us, moves us and terrifies us at the same time. But that same immensity that frightens us is what defines us, tests us, confronts us with our limits. In it, as in the cosmos, human beings discover their smallness, and yet they rise up to fight.
This struggle against the unknown is reminiscent of Captain Ahab in Moby Dick, where the sea represents an evil that challenges the world order. The shark, like the white whale, is a force that eludes all human categorisation. And as in Melville's novel, man is drawn into the fight, as if only by challenging the impossible could he wrest meaning from life.
And yet, when the battle is over and the shark is defeated, when the sea—that vast dark expanse—returns to calm, something is restored. But not without a price. Reconciliation with the incomprehensible does not come without wounds. Hope does not emerge as easy consolation, but as the fruit of a profound struggle.
Jaws, without proclaiming it, presents a tragic but redemptive vision of sacrifice. Like the heroes of great literature, its protagonists face evil not to destroy it completely, but to redeem something within themselves. Even if evil does not disappear, courage, dedication and love of life become the answer. Not the definitive answer, but the most human one.
At the end of Jaws, when the monster sinks into the water with its mouth open and its shadow dissolved in the foam, it is not simply an animal that has been defeated: it is an ancestral fear. The sea, which roared like an abyss, falls silent. But we all know — the characters know it, the viewer knows it — that the calm is not eternal. That the depths are not empty. Evil, death, meaninglessness will return. Because that shark was not just a shark: it was the invisible face of everything that surpasses us.
[destacate]The gospel is not a theory of evil: it is a victory over it. The Son of God did not come to teach us to swim better, but to save us from what no human effort can overcome[/destacate]The film offers no answers. It merely suggests, questions, poses: is courage enough? Is it enough to sacrifice oneself for others? Can we stand alone against an evil that has no face and no law? Literature, philosophy, cinema — and Jaws among them — have been haunted by this question for centuries: what can save us when the threat has no logic or morality?
And all human responses, even the most noble, eventually wear thin. Heroism runs out. Sacrifice is consumed. The sea keeps moving.
But the gospel does provide an answer. Not tentative, not aesthetic, not symbolic: definitive. Faced with the abyss, it does not propose methods, rituals or narratives. It proposes a person. Someone who did not throw himself down for his own sake, but descended into the depths to disarm the abyss from within. Someone who was not devoured by evil, but defeated it by taking it upon himself and passing through it, returning alive.
The gospel is not a theory of evil: it is a victory over it. The Son of God did not come to teach us to swim better, but to save us from what no human effort can overcome.
What appears as a symbol in Jaws—the struggle, the blood, the sacrifice of one for the other—becomes real, historical, irreversible in Christ. His sacrifice does not prolong our hope: it grounds it. He did not come to offer us a more hopeful narrative, but to intervene in history with the irrevocable act of his resurrection.
That is why the gospel is not just another option, nor a possible interpretation of the monster. It is the only answer that does not remain on the surface. It does not hide fear: it overcomes it. It does not cover up death: it strikes it at its core. It does not seek meaning in the abyss: it illuminates it from within and nullifies it.
That proclamation—old and new, simple and unbeatable—continues to float today like a plank in the water: whoever believes in Him will not sink.
Everything else—art, courage, beauty, even resistance—are true lights, yes, but incapable of completely crossing the waters. They shine, they move us, they guide us. But only one light crosses the water to the bottom. Only one saves us. And unlike the shark, its name does have a face. And it does respond when we call it.
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