Jaws 3


I guess the simplest way of kicking off a review of the third movie of the Jaws Franchice would be to simply state the obvious: Jaws is the greatest film of all time, Jaws 3, putting it lightly, is not.
There, done. That was quick, wasn’t it?
And yet I’ve always felt there’s another world out there for this hapless abomination of a movie. Close your eyes and picture it with me; a vast, endless, deep blue sea where Jaws 3 can swim freely and hold it’s oversized conical snout up high with pride and self worth.
This stretch of ocean is more commonly known as the So Bad It’s Good Sea.
Yes, this movie is bad, but it’s so bad that the unintentional humour flows thick and fast.


The Undersea Kingdom, a brand new state of the art water park, is days away from opening it’s doors and it’s a big fucking deal as Florida is apparently packed with underwater tunnel enthusiasts and watersking fetishists. However, an uninvited guest is crashing the party in the form of a baby great white shark and it’s mother, who by her size and temperament, must be an otherworldly, Lovecraftian God of the sea. After stealthily crunching her way through minimum wage workmen and shell poachers (?) her baby is captured and put on show. 35 feet long and with a set of choppers that look like a ripped out fireplace, the mother shark resembles less natures greatest killing machine and more a meth addicted bus with a gnarly overbite. The aquatic baby mama goes a big chewy rampage and only the son of the guy that stopped some other sharks some other time can save the people trapped during the chaos.


An Impossibly fresh faced Dennis Quaid plays eldest son Mike Brody who, despite being attacked by homicidal fish as a child twice over two consecutive movies, is a technician at a Seaworld knockoff seemingly for crowbarred in sequel reasons. His girlfriend, Bess Armstrong is a dolphin trainer, because back back in the 80’s enslaving animals purely so we could clap at them doing backflips was a socially acceptable thing to do, not to mention that Blackfish hadn’t been made yet. Manimal actor himself, Simon McCorkingdale confuses smarm with charm as a playboy wildlife photographer and Louis Gosset Jr yells a lot (“We talkin’ about some damn shark’s MUTHA!?”) and claims his paycheck as the owner of the park.


As questionable as this whole moronic enterprise is, it’s also unintentionally hilarious (Quaid’s biblical panic attack when attempting to evacuate people is a cinematic freak out of impressive proportions) and surprisingly mean spirited. The shark is less a perfect engine of evolution and more a 6 ton serial killer with a mouth the size of God’s asshole.
Consider the fate of one character’s truly hideous demise near the end of the film.
The poor fucker actually gets nommed WHOLE and proceeds to get simultaneously crushed/drowned/swallowed while rolling around the inside of the shark’s mouth like a Foxes Glacier Mint with a scuba tank. His dead, waterlogged corpse, still stuck in the Great White’s mush, is then paraded around like history’s most ghastly mouth piercing until the predictably explosive climax.
That shit utterly fried my brain when I first saw it as a nipper, and as ludicrous as it is, it still chills me a little now. MOVIE TRAUMA RULES!


Big, bloated and stupid (not unlike the shark) there is not much here to entice the more “intelligent” moviegoer, but watch it drunk?… It’s easily as good as Troll 2.
Dumb-dumb, dumb-dumb dumb-dumb!


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