The scariest thing in Jaws isn’t the shark—it’s the sound of the shark. Two notes. Half a heartbeat. A musical ellipsis that creeps up from the seabed and drills straight into your spine. John Williams didn’t score a monster—he sculpted a presence. One that lurks just outside the frame, gnashing in silence, until your chest tightens and you start checking the shadows under your seat.

In truth, Bruce the Shark barely works on screen. The rubber betrays the realism. It’s stiff, sluggish, and allergic to saltwater. But Spielberg, handcuffed by malfunctioning mechanics and a limited budget, turned to the invisible: sound. And sound became the soul of the film.

Williams’ score is almost mathematical. Minimalist to the point of menace. That primal, pulsing motif—da-dum… da-dum…—doesn’t just suggest the shark is coming. It makes the water itself seem sentient, malevolent. No visuals necessary. Just rhythm. Just dread. Williams said the theme could be interpreted as “relentless, unstoppable,” like fate itself. And he wasn’t wrong. It’s practically aquatic Morse code for you’re screwed.

But the real genius lies in when the sound disappears. The opening attack? No music. Just ambient waves and ragged breathing. Chrissie’s screams. The sound of helplessness. Spielberg and editor Verna Fields trusted the silence—weaponised it, even. They understood that real horror isn’t the monster leaping out, it’s the waiting. The not-knowing. And they cut this film like a time bomb—tick, tick, breath, splash, gone.

Verna Fields deserves sainthood. She didn’t just edit Jaws, she saved it. She built its rhythm with a razor blade and a stopwatch. The cuts are precise, but never sterile. The pacing lets the tension throb, then twist. Her instincts gave Jaws its pulse, and her ear gave it breath. Fields’ decision to linger—on a bobbing raft, on a shark’s-eye view, on a reaction shot just a beat too long—makes the film feel like it’s constantly holding its breath with you.

Sound designer Robert Hoyt and mixer John R. Carter also understood the assignment. The underwater acoustics are muffled, dreamlike, warped—as if you’re already halfway gone. The difference between wet and dry audio isn’t just technical, it’s thematic. The ocean is a place where rules collapse. Where your screams don’t travel. Where your senses betray you.

And then there’s the famous Ben Gardner jump scare—maybe the purest blend of editing, timing, and sonic sabotage ever captured on celluloid. Spielberg throws the entire audience into the ceiling, not with a shark attack, but with a silent, bloated corpse slipping out of a hole in a boat. Fields cut it in her swimming pool. Spielberg added the shriek later. Together, they created a moment that still makes audiences flinch five decades later.

This is the power of Jaws—not just what’s seen, but what’s felt. And feeling is built from rhythm. From restraint. From silence. From two piano keys, repeating like a death mantra.

Other films used gore. Jaws used suggestion. Other films shouted. Jaws whispered.

And we’re still hearing it.

• Saul Muerte