Real Sharks, Real Fear

Open Water (2003) is terrifying at a very basic and primal level, presenting viewers with a scenario as universally feared as being buried alive. Susan (Blanchard Ryan) and Daniel (Daniel Travis) are a young couple lost at sea, and the actors commit as much to the portrayals as Chris Kentis does to the writing of this precautionary tale. Though, to be fair, there are several moments of startling and admirable mediocrity in the pair's performances. Bad acting aside, I have always been fascinated by Open Water, particularly due to its simplicity. Even though I know exactly what is coming, I still cringe at the first overhead shot showing massive sharks circling just beneath the surface of the water.

But why is this film so unsettling? It does not align with Noël Carroll's definition of horror. He argues that horror films depict a process of “proving, disclosing, discovering, and confirming the existence of something that is impossible” (171), also noting that the viewer cannot delight in the experience of horror “unless the monster defies our conception of nature” (175). This puts Open Water in an interesting position, for it fits precisely within our conception of nature. In many ways, the plot is driven by that very conception, with humans at the mercy of the natural world – governed by facts that scientists empirically know to be true. From the very start, the direction of the narrative is clear: couple goes diving, couple gets left behind, couple is attacked by various species within the ocean, and couple ultimately perishes. But this does not answer my question. If the plot is predictable and the “monsters” realistic (that is, actually real), why does it still make my skin crawl when I watch it? There is no abundance of gore, no excess of suspense, and no chilling soundtrack. Why is it scary?

I am by no means the only one to be frightened by the premise of the film. The (carefully selected) critical praises in the trailer leave little doubt that it is, indeed, a horror film. There is “primal terror,” it is “intensely frightening” and “harrowing,” etc. The couple's fear becomes our fear, but unlike the characters in Open Water, we get to walk away at the end. We have the option of returning to, as Philip J. Nickel would call it, our “everyday life.”

The couple's inability to return to their usual routine does not go unnoticed by them. During the best written and performed argument in the history of cinematic endeavors (which I have included for your viewing pleasure), Daniel bemoans the choices they made that led them to their current state: “We would be at home in the middle of our hectic lives, which right now sounds like heaven to me.”

(It's a shame they spent so much time with “that goddamn eel”)

The viewers are able to derive pleasure from the horror of the situation because their hectic lives await them beyond the walls of the theater; Susan and Daniel are not so lucky. Yet Open Water does not completely align with Nickel's essay. Its paranoid scenario would be as follows: Consistent with what I can verify in my experience, it could be the case that I will go scuba diving, be left behind by the tour boat, and ultimately be devoured by sharks. It is a scenario that is not as probable or as widely applicable as those found in Psycho (1960) and The Birds (1963). Nickel states that horror is horrifying because it “expos[es] our vulnerabilities in relying on the world and on other people” (28). The Birds illustrates the former and Psycho, the latter.

Open Water seems to interact with both domains: the couple relies on (and is let down by) other people when the boat leaves them behind, and then they are forced to rely on (and are literally torn apart by) elements of the natural world. “Rely” might not be a good term for the second portion, however, as the couple does not ever really trust the natural world to keep them safe. Yet they desire, against their better judgement, that nature will be good to them. Using Nickel's terms once again, their social environment does not behave in “regular ways” (29) when the boat abandons them, but their natural environment does. Afterwards, there is that hope that since the social environment was irregular and violated notions of the everyday, perhaps the natural environment would be irregular as well.

If the primary philosophical value of horror films to force viewers to interrogate their notion of/reliance on the surrounding world, Open Water certainly accomplishes that. Lesson learned: never, ever, ever go scuba diving with an organization that relies on tally marks. Or: spend less time with that eel.