The shape of water

Pansexualism

“The Shape of Water” is a code-scrambled fairy tale, a genetically mutated monster movie, and all-around fantastic. Guillermo del Toro, the film's writer and director, is a huge fan of the genre. His enthusiasm can often get the better of him, resulting in deformed (though never entirely dull) films like "Pacific Rim" and "Crimson Peak." He blends a fan's ardor with a romantic sensibility that is astonishing in its authenticity when he's at his finest — in "The Devil's Backbone," "Pan's Labyrinth," and now, at long last, again — in "The Devil's Backbone," "Pan's Labyrinth," and now, at long last, again. He creates films that appear to have been snatched from the cultural ether and given color, voice, and form by drawing on classic movies, comic books, legendary motifs, and his own restless visual imagination. “Creature From the Black Lagoon,” a Cold War-era camp-horror classic about a weird beast, quasi-fish and sort-of human, discovered in the Amazon rain forests, is the most obvious reference point for “The Shape of Water.”  In Mr. del Toro's adaptation, a monster like this is taken to Baltimore in the early 1960s and confined in a tank in a government research lab, where he is tortured in the name of science and national security. His handlers refer to him as "The Asset," and he presents no threat to anyone. He is an innocent at the mercy of a savagely predatory species, which is to say humans, as wild creatures tend to be in movies nowadays. Richard Strickland, a government-issued square-jawed square played with dependable menace by Michael Shannon, is his special adversary. Strickland, who lives in a suburban split-level with his wife and two children, drives a Cadillac, reads "The Power of Positive Thinking," and is into mechanical missionary sex, drives a Cadillac and reads "The Power of Positive Thinking" (and workplace sexual harassment). An electric cattle prod is his favorite accessory, a detail that connects him to the Southern sheriffs who are periodically seen scaring civil rights marchers on television. Is it a caricature? Perhaps. But he's also a very credible villain, and his evil all-American normalcy serves as a crucial foil for the film's loose rebel alliance, a motley crew of misfits who come to the Asset's aid. The most notable of these is Elisa (Sally Hawkins), a nocturnal cleaning staff member who plays jazz records for the caged fish, feeds him hard-boiled eggs, and eventually falls in love with him. You'll be amazed at how far Mr. del Toro goes this interspecies relationship — basically all the way — as well as how natural, un-creepy, and pure and proper he makes it appear. After all, why not? Frog princes, beauty, and creatures abound throughout folklore. Satyrs and centaurs, shape-shifting gods and metamorphosing nymphs, all feature in classical mythology, and their mixing and canoodling is a part of the human inheritance. Elisa's interest is piqued more by recognition than by inquiry. Because of her silence, she is perceived as "incomplete" by others — and occasionally by herself — as someone who isn't entirely human. Zelda (Octavia Spencer), an African-American lady who works with her, and Giles (Richard Jenkins), a gay man who lives next door, are her two dearest friends. This narrative has political heft due to the quiet, natural affection among these misfits.
Like an underground torrent, bigotry and cruelty flow through every instant, but love and beauty are always possible. The picture "The Shape of Water" is full of vibrant colors and dark shadows; it's as flashy as a musical (and briefly becomes one), bright as a cartoon, and gloomy as a film noir. (Dan Laustsen is the cinematographer.) Alexandre Desplat composed the score.) Except when Mr. del Toro lingers over a beautiful moment, a nuanced comedy, or an eruption of grace, the film's bustling storyline goes quickly — the presence of Russian spies never hurts, especially when one is played by Michael Stuhlbarg.