Sometimes The Shark He Go Away
The real message for me behind Spielberg's single greatest scene, and how it might be the best way that I can explain how my brain works.
‘Jaws’ first premiered in theaters across America fifty years ago this weekend. To celebrate this milestone of an American classic, we present an early piece from the WAIM Archives that features my interpretation of director Steven Spielberg’s single greatest scene.
This piece is from the What Am I Making Archives. It was first published on April 5, 2023. This version has been lightly updated and edited for this posting.
I was recently asked what my favorite Steven Spielberg film is. It was a casual conversation with a few friends, but it was far from the first time that I had ever pondered the thought experiment. In fact, this wasn’t even the first time I’d had this conversation with most of the people in the room.
The unsexy answer is, it’s a tie between two films; Raiders Of The Lost Ark and Jaws. Forced to choose one or the other at that moment, I chose the latter. In my mind, I could have said either title, and it would have been equally as genuine in my soul.
If I had been asked to pick my favorite scene from a Spielberg film, it would have been an absolute no-brainer; It is Robert Shaw’s monologue detailing Captain Quint’s story of his time on the USS Indianapolis. You can watch the whole scene below, but if you’re anything like me, you probably already know it by rote.
It’s a superb piece of acting and storytelling done in the simplest of ways. A man recalls a harrowing tale of survival in the small room of a small vessel adrift at sea. He never stands, or even raises his voice. He directly, and succinctly relays the gruesome details of his ordeal in the water where nearly 800 of his shipmates were devoured by sharks in the waters around him. More than once while he relays this awful saga, he chuckles.
For three and half minutes we are allowed to bear witness to the might of direct and honest storytelling with nowhere to hide. Chief Brody (Roy Scheider) and shark expert Matt Hooper (Richard Dreyfus) are transfixed by what they hear. In that room, they are our eyes and ears. We are in turn them, as we sit in our living rooms or stream from our iPads, and listen with rapt attention and full hearts, as Quint tells about his friend Herbie Robinson, a baseball player from Cleveland that he found bitten in half after mistakenly trying to wake him up.
Everyone I know who enjoys movies loves this scene. While I dislike the idea of defining artistic perfection, if there is a test case for the perfect monologue in a film, this one ticks all of the boxes.
None of these are the reasons why it is my favorite scene in a Spielberg joint though, nor are they the reasons why it might be my favorite cinematic monologue. When I hear Quint talk about the USS Indianapolis, the sharks mean something very different; They are manifestation of my mental illness, and I am there in the water with Herbie, and Quint, and all of those other stranded sailors terrified, just waiting to be rescued.
In the waters of my mind, the sharks are depression, anxiety, crippling self-doubt, and ADHD.
What happens immediately before Quint begins his tale is almost as important as the actual story itself. After having spent the entirety of their daylight hours tracking the giant shark, and affixing the fish with three barrels to keep it near the surface of the water, our heroes retire to the interior of the cabin for food and refreshment.
The following few minutes are some of the funniest moments in the movie, and it’s already a terribly funny film for a thriller. Fairly drunk and boisterous, things quickly devolve into a pissing contest between Quint and Hooper as they compare their battle scars with one other. They show off bull shark wounds, lesions from threshers, and even a bump on the head from a rowdy St. Patrick’s Day in Boston some years before.
After much back and forth, and more drinking, Hooper offers us what her refers to as the “creme de la creme”. He unbuttons his shirt, and then dramatically points to the center of his hairy chest and says, “Mary Ellen Moffatt, she broke my heart.”
The entire room erupts in laughter. I’ve seen it dozens of times. I know it’s coming, and still it always brings a chuckle.
As the laughter dies, Hooper notices a mark on Quint’s arm, and remarks, “What’s that?”
After a bit of cajoling, Quint explains to Hooper that the mark is a tattoo from his former ship the USS Indianapolis. The mood in the room changes instantly. It’s obvious that Hooper is aware of the legend of the Indianapolis. His smile quickly fades, he falls silent and his frame becomes small and still.
Hooper: “You were on the Indianapolis?
Brody: “What happened?”
In this moment, Spielberg allows us to watch the story play out through the eyes of Chief Martin Brody. Quint lived it. Hooper knows it. We, along with Brody, are clueless. As the details of that gruesome experience are laid bare in Quint’s tale, we are give flashes of reactions from Brody and Hooper. At one point, they even make eye contact to emphasize a particularly harrowing moment. Other than those few cutaways, the entire scene is fixed upon Robert Shaw’s brilliant performance.
These are simple concepts of storytelling and filmmaking done at the very highest level. There are no intricate set pieces, no elegant costuming, no CGI, no showy acting, or special effects. While few of us have hunted a shark, we have all been in some version of that room.
The fact that Quint’s monologue arises out of a moment of hilarity and zest for life makes the scene a terrific way to describe how quickly depression, anxiety or other mental illness can swoop in for some of us.
In this case, it takes nothing more than a scar from a tattoo removal in the right moment to change the direction of the emotional river. The simple mention of that mark on Quint’s arm sends us from laughing at Hooper’s broken heart immediately into a life jacket in the Pacific trying to keep the sharks at bay.
When I watch that scene now, I view it as a metaphor for my mental illness. I am Quint, describing what my sharks are, when they come, and how I try to fight them off.
In my cabin of the Orca, I have a whole bunch of Matt Hoopers that are aware of the story to varying degrees. Perhaps they have been in those same waters. Maybe they have just listened, and are working hard to understand what I’m suffering through, and how they might be able to help.
There are also a number of people in my life who take on the role of Chief Brodys. They’re well meaning people who have largely had the incredible good fortune to to never experience any of these mental health challenges. Most of them, like Brody are interested and curious to hear the story, but they don’t have any clue what’s really going on.
These are folks who have never heard the story about these sharks, never had to swim in those waters. It’s a difficult story tell. I’m still learning many of the plot lines and character motivations myself. All I ask from the folks in that camp, is that they just sit and listen to Quint tell the story, and I will explain things the best way that I know how.
“Vessel went down in 12 minutes.”
Until that Japanese submarine fired a torpedo through the hull of the USS Indianapolis, it was full speed ahead and all systems go for the sailors acord. Once the explosion occurred, the nature of the mission changed completely. It was no longer about returning to base in secret to celebrate the delivery of the bomb, and the possible ending of the war. It became nothing more than basic human survival.
Depression and anxiety creep up at a moment’s notice. Sometimes I can sense their presence in the area for hours, days or weeks before they attempt to launch their torpedos. Other times they arise from the depths in deadly silence, to strike without warning.
Whether I know it is coming or not, if the targeting is accurate and the course correct, those torpedos will explode into the side of my hull and as the vessel shakes, I begin to look for life rafts, life jackets, and the exit. It is hard to find my balance. Within minutes, or sometimes even seconds, I am in the water with Quint, floating and paralyzed.
“What we didn't know, was that our bomb mission was so secret, no distress signal had been sent. They didn't even list us overdue for a week.”
Because no one was aware that the Indianapolis had been torpedoed, there was no one coming to the rescue. The crew were left to fend for themselves in the cruel arms of the Pacific Ocean, unaware that no help was on the way.
Even the people in my life that love me, those that understand and support me fully are often surprised when I share stories of my struggles with mental health. I’m an outgoing, talkative person with a lot of energy, and a pretty great sense of humor. In my healthy moments, I have the assets to be a great deal of fun to hang out with. In fact, I am a blast when I feel good. People see that side of me, and sometimes only that side of me, and they find it surprising when I tell them about my challenges.
A friend or a relative might say, “But you were so great yesterday. You were laughing and having a good time. I didn't think you seemed down at all.”
The truth is I was well enough in that moment to be what you think of as the real Matty. I love that Matty. He’s my favorite. I want to be like him more often. That’s the Matty I want to share with people. But, he is not the only member of our crew.
Sometimes, that Matty is nothing more than a mask that I wear to make it through that day, that hour, or even just that interaction. Wearing that mask can often lift me out of a funk. If I feel a a bit crappy and can muster the energy to get out of the house to spend time with people I care about, or engage in an activity that makes me feel good, I find my spirits lifted and I can pretend less within that version of myself.
Other times, I cannot muster the energy to make that effort. Even worse, there are moments when I do summon the courage and ambition to go out and try to recorrect the course, and I feel no improvement. Worse yet, I make that effort and slide backwards. And once again, here come the sharks.
“The idea was the shark come to the nearest man, that man he starts poundin' and hollerin' and sometimes that shark he go away... but sometimes he wouldn't go away.”
My version of poundin’ and hollerin’ is a combination of regular talk therapy, meds, daily practices, and regular engagement with art and creativity. Much of the time those things can help me holler and pound enough to convince that shark to go away. Sometimes, they’re just not enough.
“And the thing about a shark is he's got lifeless eyes. Black eyes. Like a doll's eyes. When he comes at ya, he doesn't even seem to be livin'... 'til he bites ya.”
Even when I know that depression or anxiety are lurking near me I am not always able to discern if they are poised to strike with immediacy, or if they are churning the waters to look for the weakest spot to establish the best point of attack. The threat around me feels hazy and undefined, but its presence is palpable.
When the bite comes there is often a searing clarity to both the size, and the variety of the shark that has placed its razor like jaws into my being on this voyage of the USS Indianapolis.
“The ocean turns red, and despite all your poundin' and your hollerin' those sharks come in and... they rip you to pieces . . . Thursday mornin', Chief, I bumped into a friend of mine, Herbie Robinson from Cleveland. Baseball player. Boson's mate. I thought he was asleep. I reached over to wake him up. He bobbed up, down in the water, he was like a kinda top. Upended. Well, he'd been bitten in half below the waist.”
Sometimes it takes hours or even days for my ocean to turn red. In other moments, there is a crimson hue to the water that seems to coincide almost exactly with the first sensation of the jaws tearing into my psyche.
Depending on the variety of shark, or the length from the tail to the dorsal, I may bleed for days or weeks before being aware it. It often ends when I finally awake to the fact that I, like poor Herbie Robinson have been bitten in half below the waist.
Sometimes, I am awakened by a loved one, and when they see me bobbing up and down like a top in the water, offer perspective, and some support. Then, I can begin to reemerge and transform back into that calmer, more assured version of Matty C that we talked about earlier. Increasingly more, I am learning to do this for myself. It is difficult, worthwhile work, but it is far less than 100% effective.
”A few hours later a big ol' fat PBY come down and started to pick us up. You know that was the time I was most frightened. Waitin' for my turn.”
There is a certain form of terror that arrives for me every time I start to feel myself getting better after a difficult period of mental health. Some cynical sector of my brain is always dubious when I begin to feel good, and start to engage with life more fully. Much like Quint, that is the time at which I feel the most frightened.
That section of my psyche is certain that I will begin the climb back up into full life only to realize that I hadn’t yet made it to the rope ladder for my turn just yet. And there they are. The sharks are back, and they have brought friends. There is chum in the water in the form of the overwhelming shame that I feel for thinking I might be healthy again. I was not healthy. A feeding frenzy is likely to commence again at any moment.
I may have been floating in this ocean for days, weeks, or even months by this point of a depressive episode, or serious stretch of chronic anxiety flare-ups and panic attacks; no matter. Now that I can see the PBY, I am absolutely terrified that he won’t wait for me. If he flies away, I’ll never make it.
“I'll never put on a lifejacket again.”
I am pretty sure what Quint means is that given the choice, he’d rather drown. That’s certainly never been my preference. I like breathing. I like the dry land. I am working so very hard so that I can live my days without needing to always be looking for the sharks.
Until that moments arrives, if it ever does, I’m finding new ways to holler and scream and pound my way out of the waters when I am tossed into them. Moreover, I’m doing my damndest to stay on dry land, or at the very least lash myself to the railings to stay upright, and in the vessel.
After Quint’s monologue, the quiet feels deafening and heavy. So, Hooper begins to quietly sing “Show Me The Way To Go Home”. I love Shaw’s wry smile as he recognizes the tune. It’s a moment of joy. For a moment, hope and happiness start to fill the room.
Then - BOOM! BOOM! And just like that, the shark has returned. He’s banging upon the door, demanding your attention. The fun stops. The singing ends. The ringing in the ears, the tightness in the chest, and the tingling in the extremities returns. The battle of wills commences.
The whole scene is a brilliant moment from top to bottom. It sits as a central moment in a film that rightly deserves to be called an American classic. Part of the reason the movie is so very terrifying and effective is because the shark didn’t work.
Most of us have heard the story by now, but during filming for Jaws, the mechanical shark regularly malfunctioned, or failed to work altogether. As such, the actual shark is seen much less in the finished film than originally intended. This mechanical obstacle led to a much better film than the one he might have made with a fully functioning shark, as Spielberg was able to lend a true terror to the shark sequences because the threat remained unseen but felt throughout so much of the picture.
Critics and film scholars will often rightly point out that Spielberg took many of the techniques he’d seen and learned by watching Hitchcock films to craft a film around this story and some flakey mechanical great white. Like Hitch, Spielberg gave us the darkness, the bangs, the beeping light on the barrel as the shark swims closer to the Orca. Instead of jump scares and loud shocks, we are allowed to see the threat encroaching ever closer to us in the quiet darkness. That beeping light is the only tangible sign of danger lurking just outside the window.
That invisible shark in the waters out there banging against the sides of my vessel is a melange of depression, anxiety, self-doubt, and rampant ADHD.
I have a lifejacket on. I have strengthened my muscles to pound and holler better than most. And, while I am not immune to all of the other trials and tribulations that come just from navigating a life on this planet, I do have a series of PBYs in my life that will fly in upon request to pull from the shark infested waters.
Even if you cannot hear the poundin’ and hollerin’, I still have to do it much of the time. You may never see me treading water furiously to help keep myself afloat, but many days I have to paddle with all of my might to stay afloat. Maybe your lifejacket works better than mine. For lots of folks it holds them up just fine without having to paddle much at all. My jacket must have a leak. So pretty regularly I have tread water to get where others might simply feel at rest as they float along in their day.
Here I am. Treading water, paddling, climbing, hoping, and singing “Show Me the Way To Go Home” seeking happiness and peace while adrift on the sea of life.
I just can’t quit thinking about how much easier this would all be if the damned shark would just stopped working altogether.
Cheers,
Matty C
Great scene. Although as a little girl seeing it in the theater, the opening scene of a frantic naked woman getting jerked down into the dark ocean abyss scared the bejesus out of me.
The mechanical shark failures forced Spielberg to concentrate much more on putting human drama at the center of the film. This is what makes it different from so many other films of this kind that only use wooden characters to engage in cheap thrills.