The Shape of Water: A Touch of the Unknown

Given del Toro’s values, it’s fitting that the film’s villain is a man who worships the maintenance of order as his righteous, God-mandated mission. Strickland abhors anything that falls outside the norms of the white, male, nationalist establishment. His masculine code is so strict that even admitting that his car is a bright shade of green, instead of a more muted color, makes him uncomfortable—it deviates too much from his rigid, fascist worldview.

Strickland’s arrogance prevents him from acknowledging the existence of enigmas that humans fail to grasp. Committed to a poisonous ideology of control, he is disgusted by the thought of his own weakness. At one point, the Amphibian Man injures Strickland in self-defense, and the latter’s fingers begin to rot—a physical representation of his spiritual decay.

By setting The Shape of Water in the early sixties, del Toro chose a perfect historical period to highlight unseen forces and marginalized segments within American society. At this point during the baby boom and the Cold War—the latter a time of bellicose leaders and political mistrust—American culture centered on an idealized vision of suburbia, one defined by strict gender roles, racial segregation, and untamed capitalism. The bigotry faced by Elisa’s gay friend and neighbor Giles (Richard Jenkins) and her Black coworker Zelda (Octavia Spencer) represents the challenges faced by anyone existing outside the white, heterosexual mainstream.

A yearning for cultural homogeneity continues to fuel the right wing in contemporary U.S. politics. Released in 2017, during the first year of Donald Trump’s presidency, The Shape of Water can be interpreted as an allegorical exploration of the xenophobia that drives virulent anti-immigrant policies. Accepting the Academy Award for Best Director the following year, del Toro said, “I think that the greatest thing our art does, and our industry does, is to erase the lines in the sand. We should continue doing that when the world tells us to make them deeper.” Weeks after del Toro’s Oscar victory, the U.S. government began to implement an inhumane family-separation policy at the southern border. In light of this turn of events, del Toro’s depiction of a foreign being who faces suspicion and abuse registers as timely social commentary.

It isn’t easy to embrace otherness in the face of such oppressive hatred, but the characters in The Shape of Water already hold within them the bravery to do so—their supernatural visitor is just a catalyst that puts their courage to the test. Elisa knows that choosing to do nothing for the Amphibian Man would betray the very essence of her humanity.

Halfway through the film, as Elisa begins to assert herself more, she buys red shoes that come to symbolize her transformation. Recalling the iconic pair worn by Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, Elisa’s new footwear suggests the empowerment of a warrior heading into battle. Elsewhere in the film, del Toro subtly positions his heroine in the company of women from the Bible: the Orpheum Theatre, located below her apartment, is showing The Story of Ruth, and Zelda’s middle name is Delilah. But unlike these figures—women whose stories were written and judged by men—Elisa lives life on her own terms. Though she may seem unlikely to take a stand, her experiences of being underestimated and undervalued have primed her to confront an adversary like Strickland and the regressive politics he embodies.

What distinguishes the Amphibian Man from del Toro’s other darkly fantastical creations (including the amphibious man who appears in the director’s Hellboy and Hellboy II, also played by Doug Jones) is his ability to love and desire a human being. The Shape of Water understands the erotic as a bridge between the everyday and the uncanny. The idea of sex between a woman and a nonhuman creature may seem inherently preposterous, even risible, but in the hands of a director so skilled at finding tenderness within the grotesque, the characters’ love scene registers as endearing rather than sordid. Elisa touches her lover’s body with an effortless intimacy; where others might fear him, she refuses to judge him. All of this comes across through the power of Hawkins’s and Jones’s performances, which showcase the actors’ sublime skill in transmitting emotion through their physicality. When Elisa and the Amphibian Man gaze into each other’s eyes while dancing in a black-and-white fantasia straight out of a classic Hollywood movie, their love finds its ultimate expression in a cinematic style that del Toro so clearly cherishes.

Though the director assembled a formidable cast of award-winning actors, this project still represented a substantial risk, both for him and for his backers. Del Toro himself has admitted to being surprised that the movie’s distributor, Fox Searchlight Pictures, offered strong and unwavering support to a genre movie centered on a romance between such an unusual pair of lovers. That del Toro’s offbeat concept came to fruition, in an industry whose narrow ideas about what stories deserve to be told reflect Strickland’s values more than Elisa’s, is a testament to the director’s conviction in bringing to life previously unimagined worlds.