THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

MATTHEW LEYLAND Reviews Editor

JAWS (1975)

The date is etched in my mind, especially now I’ve Googled it: 8 October, 1981. The network TV premiere of Jaws. My nerves had already been battle-hardened by Spielberg’s snake pits, melty Nazis and soul-sucking angels of death. So I knew there was little to fear from one big dumb fish with a snout that had nothing on Mr. Noseybonk’s.

Instead, I had a whale of a time with the film: thrilling to all the blood and harpoons; giggling with my parents at the jokes I didn’t understand; and helping them get through the talky bits by tunelessly humming Meco’s ‘Star Wars Theme’ while spinning á la Lynda Carter in front of the TV.

And then, in the dead of night, I became utterly convinced there was a school of Great Whites circling at the foot of my bed. Neither my parents’ attempt to soothe me (“Bloody hell, it’s 2am”) nor my talismanic Six Million Dollar Man pyjamas could save me from a fate worse than Chrissie the skinny-dipper’s. She was the first; Bruce had saved me for last.

Folding cinema seats. Until the age of eight, they were deadly bear traps waiting