I have a love/hate relationship with the 1975 classic, Jaws. The “hate” is the teenage girl in the beginning of the movie who naively squeals, “I’m Chrissy . . . let’s go swimming!”. Well, that’s my name. So when I was a little girl, all I could think about was that one day I would be attacked by a shark while skinny dipping with some drunk preppy boy passed out on the dock unable to hear my cries of terror. Not super realistic, no, but childhood fears are never based on reality. The “love” is the cinematography, lines like “honey one more drink, then we’re going down to cut open that shark” and the classic styles of 70′s New England. The men with their facial scruff, stained light-wash jeans, and their sweaters, chambray shirts and heathered henleys. Sleeves rolled up, ready to get elbow deep in some shark’s jaw or corpse. Now that’s a look to hold on to.