One of my formative movie memories is of being in a theater in 1975, packed with excited kids and teenagers in Newcastle, Australia, to see Jaws for the first time. It’s not surprising that an audience in a city with miles of golden beaches might be especially primed to react to Steven Spielberg’s ageless shark shocker. Even so, the screams were deafening, the nervous laughter that followed each jolt of terror was contagious and the physical sensation of entire rows of seats shaking as people reflexively lifted their feet up off the floor — and “out of the water” — during each attack was unforgettable. This was long before massive Imax screens, earth-rumbling sound systems and haptic motion seating made the visceral moviegoing experience a regular thing. It felt like the modern-day equivalent of French audiences ducking or even fleeing the theater as cinema pioneers the Lumière brothers sent a train hurtling toward them in 1896, urban legend or not. Spielberg’s first major hit single-handedly changed the business model for Hollywood, giving birth to the blockbuster summer event movie. I’ve been a sucker for shark thrillers ever since, and even after way too many viewings to count, Jaws still scares
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