Honestly, walking into a movie theater in 2017 to watch a mute woman fall in love with a fish-man felt like a gamble. It sounded bizarre. Maybe even a little gross to the uninitiated. But The Shape of Water by Guillermo del Toro isn't just a monster movie; it’s a masterclass in empathy that swept the 90th Academy Awards for a reason. Del Toro didn't just make a sci-fi flick. He built a lush, rain-soaked poem about the people who usually get left out of the story.
Think about the setting. It’s 1962. Cold War paranoia is at a fever pitch. We’ve got Elisa Esposito, played with incredible physical nuance by Sally Hawkins, living above a cinema and working as a janitor in a high-security government lab. She’s invisible. To the men in suits, she’s just part of the furniture. Then comes the Asset. He’s a captured amphibian god from the Amazon, played by Doug Jones, who is essentially the "LeBron James of creature performers."
The film doesn't hide its weirdness. It leans in.
Breaking Down the Magic of the Creature
You’ve probably seen the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Most people assume del Toro was just doing a remake. He wasn't. Growing up in Mexico, Guillermo was obsessed with that 1954 classic, but he was always heartbroken that the Gill-man and Julie Adams didn't end up together. He spent decades—literally—trying to fix that "error."
The design of the creature took nine months of labor. It’s not just a rubber suit. They went through endless iterations because the creature had to be "fuckable." That’s a direct quote from del Toro, by the way. He wanted a romantic lead, not a horror villain. They focused on the butt, the shoulders, and the way the scales catch the light under the water. If you look closely at the eyes, they have a depth that feels human yet ancient.
It’s all about the texture.
The color palette is another thing most folks miss on the first watch. Almost everything in Elisa's world is cyan, teal, or "underwater" green. The only time we see vibrant red is when love or passion enters the frame. It’s visual storytelling at its most aggressive, yet it feels totally natural.
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The Politics of Being an "Other"
While the romance gets the headlines, The Shape of Water by Guillermo del Toro is secretly a movie about the fringes of 1960s America. Look at the core trio: Elisa (disabled), Zelda (Black), and Giles (closeted gay).
Octavia Spencer’s Zelda is the backbone of the film’s grounded reality. She deals with the double weight of racism and a lazy husband at home. Then you have Richard Jenkins as Giles, an aging illustrator who is being pushed out of his profession by photography and pushed out of society because of his sexuality. They are "the others."
The villain, Richard Strickland (Michael Shannon), is the embodiment of the "ideal" American male of that era. He’s got the Cadillac, the family, and the power. But he’s rotting. Literally. His fingers are turning black after being bitten off. He represents a rigid, cruel world that refuses to see anything different as holy. He calls the creature an "it." Elisa calls him "him."
That distinction is the entire movie in a nutshell.
Why the "Fish Sex" Controversy is Actually Boring
People love to joke about the logistics of the romance. Fine. It’s funny. But focusing on the mechanics misses the point of the narrative. In a world where Elisa is defined by what she lacks—her voice—the creature is the first thing that sees her as whole. He doesn't know she's "mute" because he doesn't know what "normal" is.
To him, she’s just the person who brings hard-boiled eggs and plays Benny Goodman records.
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Del Toro uses the water as a metaphor for love. Water has no shape. It’s malleable. It fills whatever container it’s in. It’s also dangerous and life-giving. By the time the bathroom floods and the two finally connect, the film has earned its earnesty. It’s not "weird" anymore; it’s inevitable.
Behind the Scenes: Blood, Sweat, and Low Budgets
Would you believe this movie was made for only $19.5 million? In Hollywood terms, that’s lunch money. Del Toro actually gave up his own salary to ensure the creature suit looked perfect and that they had enough time for the complex "dry for wet" filming techniques.
"Dry for wet" is an old-school trick. To make the actors look like they are underwater without actually drowning them, they use smoke, fans, and slow-motion acting, then add digital particles later. It creates that dreamy, hazy look that real water often lacks. It’s why the opening sequence feels so ethereal.
The production design by Paul D. Austerberry (who won an Oscar for this) is cluttered and tactile. Elisa's apartment feels like it’s been damp for sixty years. You can almost smell the old wood and salt.
What Most People Get Wrong About the Ending
There’s a common debate: Did the creature give Elisa gills, or did she always have them?
If you remember the scars on her neck from her childhood trauma, the movie suggests she was always something else. A changeling. A water creature left on land. This recontextualizes her entire life. She wasn't a "broken" human; she was a displaced being waiting to go home.
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It turns the story from a tragedy into a homecoming.
Actionable Insights for Fans and Filmmakers
If you're looking to dive deeper into the world of The Shape of Water by Guillermo del Toro, don't just stop at the credits. There is a wealth of craft to be learned here.
- Watch the "Dry for Wet" breakdowns: Check out the behind-the-scenes footage of the opening scene. It’s a masterclass in lighting and practical effects that every aspiring filmmaker should study to save money without sacrificing style.
- Analyze the Score: Alexandre Desplat used whistles and accordions to give the film a "French" feel, inspired by movies like Amélie. Listen to how the music mimics the movement of waves.
- Read "The Shape of Water" novel: Del Toro co-wrote it with Daniel Kraus. It’s not just a novelization; it was developed concurrently with the script and offers way more backstory on Strickland and the creature’s origins in the Amazon.
- Visit the "At Home with Monsters" Exhibit: If it’s ever touring near you, go. It shows del Toro's notebooks, which prove that this film was being planned in his head as early as 2011.
The biggest takeaway from this film isn't about monsters or the Cold War. It’s about the "shape" of our own empathy. In a world that constantly asks us to categorize, judge, and exclude, del Toro asks us to just look. To really look at someone and see them for who they are, not what they lack.
Go back and watch the scene where Elisa explains why she won't leave the creature to die. She signs, "When he looks at me, he does not know how I am incomplete. He sees me as I am." That’s the most human thing a "fish movie" has ever said.
To truly appreciate the film's legacy, compare it to del Toro's earlier work like Pan's Labyrinth. You'll see the same DNA—the idea that the "monsters" are often more human than the people in power. Take the time to re-watch with the sound off for ten minutes; the visual language is so strong you won't even need the dialogue to understand the stakes. That is the mark of a true cinematic masterpiece.