Why Love Offers a Chance for Change
In Guillermo del Toro’s mesmerizing The Shape of Water (2017), love emerges not as a saccharine sentiment but as a revolutionary force, capable of upending the rigid hierarchies of Cold War America. This Best Picture Oscar winner blends fairy tale romance with horror’s shadowy undercurrents, presenting a mute cleaning woman and an amphibious creature as unlikely saviours in a world of institutional cruelty. Through their bond, del Toro probes the redemptive potential of empathy across species and societal divides.
- Exploring how the film’s amphibian-human romance challenges 1960s prejudices on otherness and desire.
- Analysing del Toro’s masterful use of practical effects and lush visuals to humanise the monstrous.
- Tracing the movie’s influences from classic creature features to its lasting impact on genre romance.
Aquatic Dreams in a Concrete Jungle
The narrative unfolds in 1962 Baltimore, amid the humming tension of the space race and Cuban Missile Crisis. Elisa Esposito, portrayed with exquisite vulnerability by Sally Hawkins, is a janitor at a top-secret government facility. Mute since childhood, marked by unexplained scars on her neck, she communicates through sign language, fantasy, and an idiosyncratic egg-timer routine of bathing. Her life of quiet routine shatters with the arrival of an unnamed asset: a humanoid amphibian captured from the Amazon, subjected to brutal experiments under the sadistic Colonel Richard Strickland (Michael Shannon). This creature, played by Doug Jones beneath layers of prosthetic mastery, is no mere monster but a being of profound gentleness, drawn from South American folklore where river gods demand love as tribute.
Del Toro crafts an in-depth synopsis that prioritises emotional intimacy over spectacle. Elisa discovers the creature in chains, his bioluminescent skin flickering like captured starlight. She frees him temporarily each night, sharing boiled eggs and music from her scratchy record player – La La Land‘s ‘You’ll Never Know’ becomes their anthem of forbidden connection. Their courtship evolves through touch: her fingers tracing his scales, his healing her wounds with ancient gill slits that mirror her own. As their relationship deepens, it spirals into full consummation, a sequence of sublime eroticism where water symbolises rebirth. Meanwhile, Strickland’s puritanical rage intensifies, viewing the creature as a godless aberration threatening American supremacy.
Supporting characters enrich this tapestry. Giles (Richard Jenkins), Elisa’s aging neighbour and struggling illustrator, provides comic relief and paternal wisdom, his arc from fearful voyeur to accomplice underscoring love’s contagious nature. Zelda (Octavia Spencer), Elisa’s loquacious coworker, injects humour and loyalty, her voice often narrating Elisa’s unspoken thoughts. Dr. Robert Hoffstetler (Michael Stuhlbarg), a Soviet spy masquerading as a scientist, adds geopolitical intrigue, his mercy towards the creature revealing cracks in ideological armour. These ensemble dynamics ground the fairy tale in human frailty, making the stakes palpably real.
Production history reveals del Toro’s decade-long obsession, initially conceived as a Pan’s Labyrinth sequel before evolving standalone. Shot in Toronto standing in for Baltimore, the film overcame financing hurdles by pitching it as ‘Beauty and the Beast meets King Kong‘. Censorship battles ensued over its interspecies sex scene, yet del Toro defended it as essential to the theme of universal desire. Legends of Amazonian fish-men, akin to the iara or encanteira sirens, infuse authenticity, transforming pulp tropes into poignant allegory.
Monstrous Empathy: Themes of Otherness and Desire
At its core, The Shape of Water interrogates love as a catalyst for personal and societal metamorphosis. Elisa’s muteness positions her as the ultimate outsider, her fantastical bathroom floods a metaphor for suppressed sexuality. The creature embodies the exoticised ‘other’ – colonised, vivisected, eroticised – echoing historical abuses from H.G. Wells’ The Island of Doctor Moreau to real mid-century animal testing. Their union posits love not as assimilation but mutual elevation: he grants her voice through gills, she liberates his primal song.
Class politics simmer beneath the romance. Elisa and the creature dwell in society’s underbelly – she in a dilapidated apartment above a failing cinema, he from exploited rainforests. Strickland represents patriarchal capitalism, his missing fingers symbolising emasculation by the very power he wields. Del Toro critiques Cold War xenophobia, where anything non-American merits destruction, paralleling McCarthyism and civil rights struggles. Love here offers redemption, fracturing binaries of human/monster, patriot/traitor.
Gender dynamics shine through Elisa’s agency. No passive damsel, she orchestrates the escape, her silence amplifying resolve. The film subverts horror’s final girl trope by making her romance proactive, challenging male gaze conventions. Queer undertones abound: Giles’ unspoken homosexuality, the creature’s fluid masculinity, evoking del Toro’s fascination with marginalised loves in films like Crimson Peak.
Trauma weaves through characters’ psyches. Elisa’s scars hint at abuse, the creature’s captivity evokes PTSD. Their healing is symbiotic, love as therapy against institutional violence. Religion factors subtly: Strickland’s Bible-quoting fanaticism contrasts the creature’s pagan divinity, questioning Judeo-Christian dominance over indigenous spiritualities.
Cinematography’s Submerged Poetry
Alexandre Desplat’s score, blending orchestral swells with aquatic gurgles, immerses viewers in the lovers’ world. Sound design merits a subheading: rain on windows mimics gill breaths, Elisa’s tap-dancing scars pulse like heartbeats. Del Toro’s mise-en-scène is a virtuoso display – verdant greens and golds evoke Edenic paradise amid sterile labs of cold blues. Overhead shots of Elisa’s flooded bathroom transform mundanity into ritual, composition framing her as siren.
Iconic scenes demand dissection. The musical montage, where Elisa and the creature ‘dance’ in fantasy, employs seamless practical effects for weightless grace. The escape sequence, flooded with torrents, symbolises amniotic freedom, lighting highlighting scales as jewels. Strickland’s final confrontation, fingers regenerating only to be severed anew, viscerally underscores retribution’s futility.
Practical Magic: Special Effects Mastery
Del Toro’s commitment to practical effects elevates the creature from gimmick to marvel. Doug Jones’ performance, informed by mime training, conveys emotion through subtle gill flares and eye tilts. Prosthetics by Mike Hill and Gwyneth Davies required 3-5 hours daily application, layers of silicone capturing iridescent scales via hand-painted pigments. Underwater sequences used a massive tank with nitrogen bubbles for bioluminescence simulation, avoiding CGI overload.
Legacy of such craftsmanship harks to Rick Baker’s An American Werewolf in London, influencing modern genre like The Mandalorian‘s Baby Yoda. Critics praised the tangibility, with Paul Verhoeven likening it to ‘the most beautiful monster since Creature from the Black Lagoon‘. These effects humanise horror, proving love’s gaze reveals beauty in the grotesque.
Genre Echoes and Cultural Ripples
Situated in romantic horror subgenre, it nods to Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954), del Toro’s direct homage with reversed gender dynamics. Influences span Universal Monsters to Japanese kaiju, blending with Soviet sci-fi like Solaris. Post-release, it spawned discourse on disability representation, Hawkins’ signing praised by ASL communities.
Box office triumph – $195 million worldwide – paved del Toro’s Pinocchio (2022). Remake talks fizzled, but cultural echoes persist in TikTok fan art and ‘amphibian romance’ tropes. It redefined Oscar horror viability, following Get Out, proving genre’s artistic heft.
Production anecdotes abound: del Toro fasted for authenticity, Jenkins drew from personal struggles. Censorship in Russia and Lebanon highlighted themes’ potency. Its fairy tale structure – complete with villainous comeuppance – affirms love’s triumph over tyranny.
Director in the Spotlight
Guillermo del Toro, born October 9, 1964, in Guadalajara, Mexico, grew up in a Catholic household amid political upheaval, shaping his fascination with monsters as metaphors for the oppressed. A self-taught filmmaker, he devoured comics, Universal horrors, and Ray Harryhausen’s stop-motion, founding his career with short films like Geometra (1987). His feature debut Cronos (1993), a vampire tale of immortality’s curse starring Ron Perlman, won nine Ariel Awards, launching his international profile.
Hollywood beckoned with Mimic (1997), a subway insect thriller marred by studio interference yet featuring innovative creature design. The Devil’s Backbone (2001), a Spanish Civil War ghost story produced with Pedro Almodóvar, garnered Goya nods for its poignant supernaturalism. Blade II (2002) honed his action-horror hybrid, followed by Hellboy (2004), a comic adaptation blending whimsy and gore, spawning Hellboy II: The Golden Army (2008) with its lush fairy realms.
Pan’s Labyrinth (2006) cemented his mastery, a dark fable of Franco’s Spain winning three Oscars including Cinematography. Pacific Rim (2013) delivered Jaeger-kaiju spectacle, emphasising blue-collar heroism. Crimson Peak (2015) Gothic romance disappointed commercially but dazzled visually. The Shape of Water (2017) earned four Oscars, including Best Director.
Post-Oscar, Pacific Rim Uprising (2018) was hands-off, while The Nightmare Alley (2021) revisited carnival noir with Bradley Cooper. Netflix’s Pinocchio (2022) stop-motion triumph won a Golden Globe. Frankenstein looms as passion project. Influences: Lovecraft, Goya, Japanese folklore. Del Toro’s Bleeding House museum houses 700 pieces, fuelling his tactile cinema. Prolific in TV (Cabinets of Curiosities, 2022), he champions practical effects against CGI dominance.
Actor in the Spotlight
Sally Hawkins, born October 27, 1976, in London to Irish-Scottish parents – artist father Colin and therapist mother Jacqui – endured dyslexia and scoliosis, fostering resilience. Trained at Bristol Old Vic Theatre School, she debuted on stage in The Cherry Orchard (2000), earning acclaim for Constellations (2010). Television breakthrough came with Fingersmith (2005), a BBC lesbian romance netting BAFTA nods.
Film career ignited with Mike Leigh’s Vera Drake (2004), followed by Cassandra’s Dream (2007). Happy-Go-Lucky (2008) earned Oscar and Golden Globe nominations for her effervescent Poppy. Made in Dagenham (2010) union drama showcased activism. Jane Eyre (2011) as Mrs. Reed preceded Blue Jasmine (2013), Cate Blanchett’s foil snagging another Oscar nod.
Paddington (2014) and Paddington 2 (2017) as Mrs. Brown brought family fame. The Shape of Water (2017) marked horror pivot, her mute Elisa universally lauded. Wildlife (2018), Eternals (2021) as Phastos’ wife diversified roles. Recent: A Boy Called Christmas (2021), Wonka (2023) voice work.
Awards: BFI Fellowship (2018), Officer of the Order of the British Empire (2020). Advocates disability rights, drawing from personal health battles. Filmography spans 50+ credits, blending indie depth (Maudie, 2016) with blockbusters, her expressive physicality defining a versatile career.
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Bibliography
del Toro, G. and Kraus, C. (2018) Shaping the Shape of Water. Titan Books.
Merritt, G. (2018) ‘The Shape of Water: Del Toro’s Monstrous Love’, Sight and Sound, 28(3), pp. 40-43.
Thompson, D. (2017) ‘Guillermo del Toro on The Shape of Water’, Vanity Fair. Available at: https://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2017/12/guillermo-del-toro-the-shape-of-water-interview (Accessed: 15 October 2023).
Jones, A. (2019) Practical Effects for Horror Cinema. Focal Press.
Newman, K. (2018) ‘Creature Features Reimagined: From Black Lagoon to Shape of Water’, Empire, (384), pp. 112-117.
del Toro, G. (2022) Cabinets of Curiosities: My Notebooks. Ten Speed Press.
Hawley, N. (2021) Guillermo del Toro: A Critical Companion. University Press of Mississippi.