I finally saw Jaws. I didn’t intend to see Jaws. In fact, I had no desire to see Jaws, ever. But the boys were interested. And they have an ace up their sleeve—grandparents. The boys and my dad made some kind of deal, and my dad ordered it from Netflix.
When I heard the plan, Cal assured me that it wasn’t about bimbos-in-bikinis-being-bitten. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist the alliteration.) So we watched it last night after my dad and Cal’s birthday party. I’m not sure what my 92 year old grandmother thought of the shark flick, but she probably fell asleep during the movie.
Of course, the shark left something to be desired for people jaded by amazing CGI. But back in the day, I’m sure viewers screamed instead of thinking, “They just need to biff that shark on his rubber nose.”
I have to say I enjoyed it, although maybe not for the reasons that director/writer/producer intended. I loved the leisure suits, the poufy hairdos, the over the top emotional outbursts of the crazed shark hunter. And who doesn’t love Richard Dreyfus’s sarcastic commentary, “I’m not going to talk to this guy ‘cause he’s getting in line to be a hot lunch.”
Speaking of Richard Dreyfus, if you haven’t seen What About Bob?, see it. I can describe it in two words: Death Therapy.
