The year 1962 remains an indelible scar on the American psyche, a period defined by the claustrophobia of the Cold War, the paranoia of the Red Scare, and the rigid social hierarchies of a pre-Civil Rights era. It is within this hyper-masculine, steel-and-concrete world that Guillermo del Toro set his 2017 masterpiece, The Shape of Water. Far from being a simple monster movie or a derivative romance, the film serves as a profound meditation on loneliness, the fluidity of love, and the radical act of empathy. By reimagining the "creature feature" through the lens of a fairy tale, Del Toro created a narrative that challenges the very definition of what it means to be human.

The Narrative Foundation of a Silent Connection

At the heart of the story is Elisa Esposito, a woman whose existence is characterized by silence and routine. Living in a small apartment above an old movie palace, Elisa works as a night-shift janitor at the Occam Aerospace Research Center. Her inability to speak is not presented as a tragic deficiency but as a unique mode of being. She communicates through sign language, shared meals, and the rhythmic tapping of her shoes—a sensory existence that places her on the fringes of a society obsessed with loud, ideological proclamations.

Her world shifts when a mysterious "asset" is brought to the facility. This humanoid amphibian, captured from the Amazon where he was worshipped as a god, becomes the subject of brutal experimentation led by Colonel Richard Strickland. While the military sees a biological weapon or a tool for the Space Race, Elisa sees a reflection of her own isolation. Their bond begins with hard-boiled eggs and Benny Goodman records. In these moments, the film establishes its core premise: love is not about shared language, but about the absence of judgment. The creature does not see Elisa as "broken" because she is mute; he sees her exactly as she is.

The Archetype of the Other and Social Marginalization

The brilliance of the screenplay lies in how it surrounds the central romance with a choir of marginalized voices. The Shape of Water is not just about a woman and a fish-man; it is a collective story of "The Others" who were pushed to the shadows of the 1960s American Dream.

Giles and the Invisible Minority

Giles, Elisa’s neighbor and closest friend, represents the struggle of the LGBTQ+ community in a decade where "coming out" was not an option. As a closeted commercial artist whose career is being rendered obsolete by photography, Giles embodies a dual obsolescence. His failed attempt to connect with the waiter at the local pie shop—a man who is both homophobic and racist—serves as a grounding reminder of the cruelty of the era. Giles’ arc from a fearful recluse to a co-conspirator in the creature’s rescue highlights the necessity of solidarity among those who are excluded from the "normal" world.

Zelda and the Black Experience

Zelda Fuller, Elisa’s coworker, provides the film’s moral and practical anchor. Through Zelda, the film touches on the systemic racism and domestic fatigue of Black women in the early 60s. Her constant chatter serves as a protective barrier, a way to navigate a world that would otherwise ignore her. Her involvement in the rescue is an act of defiance against a power structure (represented by Strickland) that views her only as a tool for labor.

The Creature as a Mirror

The Amphibian Man is the ultimate outsider. He is a displacement of nature in a world of machines. By making him a god in his own land and a prisoner in Baltimore, Del Toro critiques the Western impulse to conquer and dissect what it cannot understand. The creature is not a "monster" in the traditional sense; he is a force of nature that responds to the energy given to him. With Strickland, he is violent; with Elisa, he is tender.

Visual Storytelling and the Green Aesthetic

One cannot discuss The Shape of Water without addressing its suffocatingly beautiful visual design. The film is drenched in a specific palette of "bruised" greens, teals, and muddy browns. This is not accidental. The color green permeates the film as a symbol of the "future" envisioned by the 1960s—the color of Jell-O, Cadillacs, and laboratory equipment. It is a sterile, sickly version of progress.

In contrast, the color red is used sparingly to signify genuine emotion and life. We see it in Elisa’s headband, her shoes, and eventually her coat as her relationship with the creature deepens. Red represents the "human" heart breaking through the green mold of the Cold War.

The cinematography by Dan Laustsen uses light to mimic the feeling of being underwater even when the characters are on dry land. The fluid camera movements and the use of heavy shadows create a dreamlike atmosphere that bridges the gap between the harsh reality of the research lab and the magical realism of the love story. The sequence in which Elisa floods her bathroom to embrace the creature is perhaps one of the most technically accomplished scenes in modern cinema, transforming a mundane space into a celestial, aquatic sanctuary.

The Villainy of Rigid Order

Richard Strickland, played with terrifying precision by Michael Shannon, is the antithesis of the film’s fluid morality. He is a man obsessed with hierarchy, cleanliness, and the "American Way." Strickland is the embodiment of toxic masculinity and the arrogance of the era. He buys a teal Cadillac because it is the "car of the future," yet he is morally stagnant.

His fingers, which are bitten off by the creature and later reattached, serve as a grotesque metaphor for his decaying soul. As the fingers turn black and rot, so too does Strickland’s sanity. He views his life through a biblical lens, seeing himself as a conqueror in the image of God. To him, the creature is an affront to the natural order because it cannot be categorized. Strickland’s inability to perceive "the shape of water"—the ability to adapt, to love without boundaries, and to exist outside of a hierarchy—ultimately leads to his destruction.

Water as a Metaphor for Love and Adaptability

The title itself, The Shape of Water, refers to the nature of love. Water has no shape; it takes the shape of whatever container it occupies. It is soft, yet it can wear down the hardest rock. It is essential for life, yet it can be a force of destruction.

In the film, water represents the dissolving of barriers. It dissolves the barrier between species, between the silent and the heard, and between the magical and the mundane. The ending of the film—where Elisa’s neck scars are revealed to be gills—suggests that she was always "of the water." Her muteness was not a disability but a preparation for a life where words were unnecessary.

The poetry recited by Giles at the conclusion encapsulates this perfectly: "Unable to perceive the shape of you, I find you all around me. Your presence fills my eyes with your love, it humbles my heart, for you are everywhere." This suggests that love, like water, is an omnipresent force that connects all things, regardless of their form.

The Performance of Silence

The success of the film rests heavily on the shoulders of Sally Hawkins and Doug Jones. Acting without dialogue is a challenge that many contemporary actors struggle with, yet Hawkins manages to convey a vast internal world through her eyes and the tilt of her head. There is a specific scene in which she tries to explain her feelings for the creature to Giles, signing with an urgency that borders on desperation. She isn't just "falling in love"; she is finding her voice for the first time.

Doug Jones, a veteran of creature performance, brings a feline grace to the Amphibian Man. He does not play the character as an animal, but as a sentient being with its own dignity. The chemistry between the two is palpable, grounded in a tactile reality that makes the fantastical elements of the plot believable. The decision to use a practical suit rather than a CGI character was crucial; it allowed the actors to physically interact, creating a sense of intimacy that digital effects often lack.

Political Subtext and the Cold War Setting

While the film is a romance, it is also a sharp critique of the Cold War era's paranoia. The character of Dr. Robert Hoffstetler (Dimitri Mosenkov) adds a layer of complexity to the narrative. As a Soviet spy who is also a genuine scientist, he is caught between two empires that value power over discovery. His decision to help Elisa save the creature is an act of scientific and moral integrity that transcends national loyalty.

By setting the film in 1962, Del Toro highlights the irony of a society that was looking toward the stars while refusing to look at the suffering of its own citizens. The "Space Race" is portrayed as a vanity project, a way for men like Strickland and General Hoyt to prove their dominance, while the true "miracle"—the creature—is treated as trash to be discarded.

How The Shape of Water Resonates Today

Though it is a period piece, The Shape of Water feels remarkably contemporary. We live in an era of renewed tribalism and the "othering" of those who are different. The film’s message—that empathy is a revolutionary act—is more relevant than ever. It asks the audience to look past the "scales" and the "silence" to find the shared vulnerability underneath.

The film's win for Best Picture at the 90th Academy Awards was a significant moment for the genre. It was only the second fantasy film to ever win the top prize, following The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. This recognition validated Del Toro’s vision: that "monsters" can be the heroes of our stories, and that fairy tales are not just for children, but are essential tools for understanding the complexities of the human condition.

Summary of Key Insights

  • The Power of Empathy: The film emphasizes that true connection occurs when we stop trying to "fix" or "categorize" others.
  • Visual Color Coded Storytelling: Green represents the sterile, oppressive future, while red and deep blue represent life, passion, and the unknown.
  • Marginalization: The supporting characters (Giles and Zelda) mirror the creature's status as "The Other" in 1960s America.
  • A New Kind of Hero: Elisa Esposito redefines the cinematic hero—one who wins through compassion and quiet determination rather than violence.
  • The Fluidity of Love: Like water, love is adaptable and takes the shape of the souls it inhabits.

Frequently Asked Questions

What happens to Elisa at the end of The Shape of Water?

In the final scene, after being shot by Strickland, the creature takes Elisa into the water. Using his healing powers, he revives her. The scars on her neck, which she had since she was a baby, open up to reveal gills. This implies that Elisa may have always been an amphibious being or that the creature transformed her biology to allow her to live with him in his world.

Is The Shape of Water a remake of Creature from the Black Lagoon?

No, but it is heavily inspired by it. Guillermo del Toro grew up watching the 1954 classic and was always disappointed that the Gill-man and the female lead didn't end up together. The Shape of Water is his way of giving that creature a "happy ending" and exploring the romance that the original film could only hint at.

Why is the movie set in 1962?

The early 1960s was a time of immense transition and tension. The Cold War, the Civil Rights Movement, and the Space Race provide a backdrop of "rigid order" that contrasts with the fluid, law-breaking nature of Elisa and the creature's love. It allows the film to comment on historical prejudices that still echo in modern society.

Why does the creature eat the cat?

The creature is an apex predator from the Amazon. His consumption of Giles's cat is a reminder that he is not a domesticated pet or a human in a suit—he is a wild, powerful entity with his own instincts. It adds a layer of realism to his character, showing that love requires accepting the "wild" parts of the other person.

What is the significance of the "Green" theme?

In the 1960s, green was marketed as the color of progress and the future. By saturating the laboratory and the villain's life in green, Del Toro suggests that this version of the "future" is sickly and decaying. The real life and warmth in the film are found in the shadows and the deep blues of the water.

Conclusion

The Shape of Water remains a landmark in modern cinema because it dares to be sincere in an age of irony. It is a film that celebrates the broken, the silent, and the strange. Through the masterful direction of Guillermo del Toro and the haunting performance of Sally Hawkins, it reminds us that love has no fixed form. It is as vast and as deep as the ocean, and like water, it will always find a way to flow through the cracks of even the most hardened hearts. By embracing the "monster," Elisa doesn't just save a creature; she saves herself from a world that refused to see her. In the end, the film teaches us that the most beautiful things in life are often the ones we cannot put into words.