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The Shape of Water and America Today: Monsters, Empathy, and Division




promo image for The Shape of Water featuring a woman and a fish-creature.
Promo for The Shape of Water

Guillermo del Toro’s The Shape of Water feels eerily relevant as we brace for a second Trump presidency. Set in a Cold War-era America steeped in paranoia, oppression, and cruelty, the film critiques the illusion of “greatness” that MAGA rhetoric glorifies. Through characters like Elisa, Giles, Zelda, and the Amphibian Man—people existing on society’s margins—it celebrates empathy, connection, and resistance against authoritarianism.


Ghouls break down how The Shape of Water subverts 1950s creature features, calls out toxic masculinity embodied by Strickland, and challenges the oppressive systems that still haunt us today. Join us as we explore themes of loneliness, monstrosity, and the power of love to transcend boundaries in a world that thrives on division.


Sources in this Episode:


Other Reading:

 

Media from this week's episode:

Shape of Water (2017)

At a top secret research facility in the 1960s, a lonely janitor forms a unique relationship with an amphibious creature that is being held in captivity.

 


The Shape of Water: Guillermo del Toro's Love Letter to Monsters

by gabe castro

RED: Quotes, someone else's words.


Synopsis

Guillermo Del Toro’s The Shape of Water is a mesmerizing fairytale that shows us that love can transcend language and species. Set in the Cold War era of the 1960s, the story follows Elisa Esposito a lonely non-verbal woman working as a janitor at a sketchy, top-secret government laboratory. Her routine life, of small moments of bliss bookended by the mundanity of labor, takes an extraordinary turn when she discovers a classified experiment. This secret weapon is actually a mysterious, amphibious, hard-boiled egg loving creature captured from the Amazon. 


Elisa forms a deep and unexpected bond with the creature, communicating through sign language and gestures, finding solace in their shared isolation. She later explains to her good friend Giles that “When he looks at me, the way he looks at me - he does not know what I lack or how I am incomplete. He sees me for what I am, as I am. He’s happy to see me. Every time. Every day.” As she falls harder for this being who sees her, the government, led by the cruel Colonel Strickland plans to dissect the creature in the name of science. Elisa hatches a daring plan to rescue him with the help of her friends, Giles, her queer artist neighbor, and Zelda, her supportive and caring coworker bestie. 


The film focuses on characters who exist on the fringes of society: Elisa, a non-verbal woman; Giles, a closeted gay man; Zelda, a Black woman navigating a racist society; and the amphibian man, a literal outsider. Each of them faces discrimination and marginalization, yet they find strength in their shared humanity. The story critiques how society labels and ostracizes those who are different while celebrating the beauty of individuality and acceptance.


Framed by the themes of acceptance, resistance, and the power of connection in the face of oppression, del Toro offers us a brilliant tale of found family and love. Blending romance, suspense and del Toro’s signature dark whimsy (and beautiful practical makeup), The Shape of Water challenges our perceptions of humanity and monsters, offering a story as enchanting as it is heartbreaking. 


The Subversion of the Submersive Love Interest


del Toro’s tender love story is wrapped in a deliberate act of cinematic reclamation. It takes the foundation of 1950s creature features like Creature from the Black Lagoon and flips their racial and gender anxieties on their heads. This isn’t just a fish-man romance—it’s a complete subversion of the tropes that once painted monsters as symbols of racial fear and cultural "otherness." del Toro turned the "ethnographiable monster" into a figure of empathy and love.


In 1950s America, horror movies were often vessels for the era's social anxieties, including fears around race, gender, and desegregation. The Creature from the Black Lagoon uses its titular monster, the Gill-Man, as a symbol of evolutionary and racial "otherness." He’s a hybrid—half-human, half-fish—stuck in the moment life crawled out of the water. This hybrid identity taps into fears of racial mixing, miscegenation, and the erosion of white purity. The movie frames the Creature as a predator, lurking beneath the surface and threatening white womanhood. 


Guillermo del Toro first encountered Creature from the Black Lagoon as a child. While others saw horror, del Toro saw heartbreak. He describes being mesmerized by the underwater scenes of the Creature swimming beneath Julie Adams. “The creature was the most beautiful design I’d ever seen,” he said. “I loved that the creature was in love with her, and I felt an almost existential desire for them to end up together. Of course, it didn’t happen.”


Del Toro wasn’t content to leave it there. As a kid, he began sketching stories of the Gill-Man finding love, vowing to one day "correct" the narrative. Fast forward to The Shape of Water, and that childhood dream becomes reality—a love story where the monster gets the girl.


In The Shape of Water, del Toro reclaims the Creature archetype and washes away its racialized fear-mongering. The amphibian man is no longer a figure of terror or racial othering. Instead, he’s a misunderstood being who forms a mutual, loving connection with Elisa, a non-verbal and marginalized human woman. This is radical storytelling—one that swaps fear for empathy and alienation for intimacy.

Elisa doesn’t see the amphibian man as a threat. She sees him as someone like herself—isolated, misunderstood, and mistreated by a society obsessed with power and control. By making the government agents the true villains, del Toro critiques the colonial, dehumanizing gaze that sought to capture and categorize the Creature in the 1950s.


The term “ethnographiable monster,” as used in an article by the University of Colorado Boulder, Race, Gender and Terror: The Primitive in 1950s Horror Films | Genders, captures the colonialist gaze in 1950s horror. Like King Kong before him, the Creature in Black Lagoon was portrayed as an exotic "other" to be studied, dominated, and ultimately destroyed. The scientific expedition to capture the Creature mirrored real-world colonial practices of ethnography, where non-Western peoples were displayed as relics of a “primitive” past.


In The Shape of Water, del Toro turns this narrative inside out. The amphibian man isn’t something to be studied or feared; he’s someone to be loved. His difference isn’t a threat—it’s a source of beauty and connection. And unlike the 1950s films that positioned the monster’s desire as predatory, The Shape of Water emphasizes consent, mutual respect, and tenderness.


This becomes more than a love story. It’s a cultural correction. By allowing the amphibian man and Elisa to find love, del Toro challenges the historical use of monsters to encode racial and cultural anxieties. He turns a figure once used to reinforce fear of the “other” into a symbol of liberation.


The amphibian man isn’t a threat to white purity or a symbol of miscegenation. He’s a metaphor for the beauty of hybridity—of crossing boundaries, breaking down barriers, and finding humanity in what society deems monstrous. Through this reimagining, del Toro offers us a vision of love and difference as sources of strength and beauty, not tragedy or fear.


And in the end, young del Toro finally got his wish: the monster got the girl.


A Delicate Tango with Trauma


Seasoned Ghouls fans know that I am a huge fan of del Toro’s work. In fact, one of my Black Tribbles (geek-talk radio show) names is Fauna Tribble, referencing del Toro’s Pan’s Labyrinth which lovingly haunted much of my youth. I am in constant awe of not only del Toro’s art, his ability to turn monsters into sympathetic creatures and humans into viscous monsters, but also his delicate and honest approach to covering trauma in film. del Toro masterfully weaves trauma into his films, and his approach is as heart-wrenching as it is cathartic.


del Toro doesn’t just tell personal stories of pain; he roots them in the soil of history. His films are set against backdrops of societal upheaval, where trauma is both individual and collective. Take Pan’s Labyrinth: Ofelia’s journey happens during the chaos of post-Civil War Spain, where fascism tears families apart. Her magical labyrinth is more than an escape—it’s her way of processing the violence and terror of her reality. Similarly, The Devil’s Backbone places orphaned children in the crumbling ruins of a war-torn institution, their personal grief mirroring the scars of the Spanish Civil War.


By tying individual trauma to historical atrocities, we see how systems like war, fascism, and colonialism leave lasting scars—not just on societies but on the individuals caught in their wake. His work is a reminder that trauma doesn’t happen in isolation.


He also has a knack for focusing on trauma through the eyes of children and marginalized characters. The juxtaposition of their innocence against the brutality of the world makes their pain hit harder.

Think of Ofelia (Pan’s Labyrinth), Carlos (The Devil’s Backbone), and Elisa (The Shape of Water). These characters endure incredible suffering, yet their stories are marked by resilience. Elisa, for example, doesn’t let her non-verbal communication define or limit her. Instead, she transforms her trauma into a source of strength, finding love and connection in a world that tries to silence her.


Del Toro emphasizes that these characters aren’t victims; they’re survivors who reclaim their agency, even when everything around them feels insurmountable. In del Toro’s hands, monsters are never just monsters. They’re metaphors—complex reflections of trauma, fear, and humanity’s darker impulses. His monsters are often misunderstood or sympathetic, while the humans are the ones committing the real atrocities.


The Faun in Pan’s Labyrinth and the Pale Man are manifestations of Ofelia’s internal and external struggles. The amphibian man in The Shape of Water is a figure of otherness, a being dismissed and dehumanized by society, much like Elisa herself. In Crimson Peak, the ghosts haunting the story aren’t evil—they’re embodiments of grief, lingering memories of past violence.


del Toro flips the script on traditional horror by using monsters not as antagonists but as vessels for exploring the misunderstood pain that his human characters experience. And while monsters get our sympathy, it’s the humans who become the true villains, embodying cruelty, greed, and oppression.

He believes in the power of imagination and fantasy to cope with trauma. His characters often enter fantastical worlds or relationships to process their pain, reclaiming agency over their lives. Ofelia’s labyrinth is both her escape and her resistance against her stepfather’s violence. Elisa’s love for the amphibian man allows her to transcend the oppressive boundaries of her life. Even Edith in Crimson Peak transforms a story of betrayal and horror into one of personal strength and survival. Storytelling and imagination aren’t just escapism. They’re tools for survival, for finding beauty and purpose in even the darkest times.

For del Toro, trauma doesn’t have to be the end of the story. While his characters carry the weight of their pain, they also find paths to healing through connection and empathy. In The Shape of Water, Elisa and the amphibian man heal each other through their love and acceptance. In The Devil’s Backbone, the children find strength in solidarity, banding together to face their fears. Even Crimson Peak, a tale of betrayal and gothic horror, gives us Edith, who rises above her trauma with strength and determination. del Toro emphasizes that while trauma leaves scars, those scars can be softened through human connection, love, and acts of resistance.


I love Guillermo del Toro’s work because he doesn’t depict trauma as suffering; he shows it as a transformative force. His characters are shaped by their pain, but they’re not defined by it. Instead, they find ways to rise above, to resist, and to heal. Through his monsters, his historical allegories, and his boundless empathy, del Toro reminds us that even in our darkest moments, there is light. There is beauty in the broken. There is hope in the monstrous.


So if you’re like me, and you’ve ever felt haunted by del Toro’s work in the best way possible, take a moment to appreciate how his films not only explore the depths of pain but celebrate the strength it takes to overcome it.

 

The Shape of Water: Revisiting Empathy, Oppression, and Resistance in 2025

by Kat Kushin


RED: Quotes, someone else's words.


The Shape of Water in a Second Trump Presidency


As much as we wish it wasn’t, The Shape of Water is just as relevant today as we brace ourselves for the potential events and consequences of another Trump presidency. The film flips the Trumpian promise of “Make America Great Again” on it’s head by showing the real people who are harmed by that declaration. Even those benefiting most from the culture of this supposed great America are miserable in this film. The depiction of paranoia in a 1960’s eerie cold dystopia, spearheaded by a Trump-esque character like Strickland is based on the same paranoia we saw during the real 1960s when Satanic Panic was rampant othering people, toxic masculinity and homophobia were even more socially accepted, and American colonialism was doing a ton of damage. If you wanna hear about some of the terrible things the US government did during the 1960s, we recommend checking out our They Cloned Tyrone Episode. 


I actually found an article on the Conversation that goes over the connections between the Shape of Water and Trump’s first presidency, titled: The Shape of Water: An allegorical critique of Trump | The Conversation. They describe the film’s main characters as “These are the Americans who live lives of quiet oppression in the past-tense America that shimmers, mythical and revered, at the heart of the Trump campaign promise. The film both upholds and undermines the old mythologies that can provide comfort and reassurance to people whose lives have been disrupted by global trade, population movements and the emergence of AI in the workplace.” The character of Colonel Richard Strickland embodies the abuse of power and authoritarian tendencies. Strickland's cruel and domineering behavior towards the Amphibian Man and other characters reflects the authoritarian style of leadership often associated with Trump. Strickland's belief in his superiority and his willingness to use violence and intimidation to maintain control serve as a critique of the authoritarian and often oppressive tactics used by Trump's administration. The Conversation article continues: “The Cold War is in full swing in the film, and the dichotomy between the United States and Russia, between “good” and “evil,” is both referenced and undermined. Americans and Russians are in conflict, but it’s a Russian agent who acts ethically. There is a traditional Main Street dessert shop, but the affable server turns out to be a vile racist and homophobe who adopts a southern accent for marketing purposes and is actually from Ottawa. The pies look appealing, but they are mass-produced and the store is part of a new phenomena, the franchise. The film is poised at the moment when authenticity is being lost to illusion.” Showcasing the past in this way also says the quiet part out loud for Make America Great Again. The past is shown for what it really was, deeply isolating, cruel, and unsafe for anyone who did not fit the status quo. Even those who were benefiting from their oppression were miserable, and rotting from the inside like Strickland’s fingers. 


The reason The Shape of Water is very much calling out Trump and those who believe in “Make America Great Again” is because the time period selected to showcase in this film is very intentional. The 1940’s and 1950’s were not great, and if they were, then why were the characters we’re following in the film struggling and fearful. Why did Strickland have a wife who had to put up with his disgusting behavior? Why was he so miserable? If you already know your history this won’t be that interesting for you, but our characters are dealing with a lot of subtext that some people don’t have, that is intentionally being erased and watered down into an illusion of something good. When what was really happening was a ton of paranoia, oppression, and misery. Our characters are dealing with Cold War paranoia and satanic panic paranoia, and post-red scare paranoia, on top of not having rights or choice during this time period. To be alive in the 1950s, was to not be safe to be yourself, to be viewed with the same cruelty as the amphibian man by an oppressive country. With that, it’s important to know what else is influencing our character’s fear to disobey the powers that be, and why they have to fight anyway. (found on Civil Rights Movement Timeline and Timeline: The Women's Rights Movement in the U.S.). 


  • 1954: Brown v. Board of Education, a consolidation of five cases into one, is decided by the Supreme Court, effectively ending racial segregation in public schools. Many schools, however, remained segregated.

  • 1957: Eisenhower signs the Civil Rights Act of 1957 into law to help protect voter rights. The law allows federal prosecution of those who suppress another’s right to vote.

  • 1963 – The Equal Pay Act is passed by Congress, promising equitable wages for the same work, regardless of the race, color, religion, national origin or sex of the worker.

  • 1964 – Title VII of the Civil Rights Act passes, preventing employment discrimination due to race, color, sex, religion or national origin. Title VII of the Act establishes the U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC) to help prevent workplace discrimination.

  • 1965 – The Supreme Court establishes the right of married couples to use contraception. (So Strickland and his wife didn’t have a choice but to have those kids he doesn’t like)

  • President Johnson signs the Voting Rights Act of 1965 to prevent the use of literacy tests as a voting requirement. It also allowed federal examiners to review voter qualifications and federal observers to monitor polling places.

  • 1968 – President Lyndon B. Johnson signs an executive order prohibiting sex discrimination by government contractors and requiring affirmative action plans for hiring women. (Why there aren’t any women working in this government office outside of Janitors and Secretaries, with no real power). President Johnson signs the Civil Rights Act of 1968, also known as the Fair Housing Act, providing equal housing opportunity regardless of race, religion or national origin.

  • 1969 – California adopts the nation's first "no fault" divorce law, allowing divorce by mutual consent. (So Strickland’s wife literally HAD to put up with that man putting his rotting fingers in her face during sex)

The film takes place in the 1960s, so none of what else I’ll mention is legal yet. I mention purely because many people do not realize how RECENT this was, and how easily these things could be taken away. These things are not set in stone, and we’re only introduced into law recently. 

  • 1972 – Title IX of the Education Amendments prohibits sex discrimination in all aspects of education programs that receive federal support.

  • The Supreme Court upholds the right to use birth control by unmarried couples.

  • Juanita Kreps becomes the first woman director of the New York Stock Exchange.

  • 1973 – Landmark Supreme Court ruling Roe v. Wade makes abortion legal. The Supreme Court in a separate ruling bans sex-segregated "help wanted" advertising. (Already overturned)

  • 1974 – Housing discrimination on the basis of sex and credit discrimination against women are outlawed by Congress. The Supreme Court rules it is illegal to force pregnant women to take maternity leave on the assumption they are incapable of working in their physical condition.

  • 1975 – The Supreme Court denies states the right to exclude women from juries.

  • 1978 – The Pregnancy Discrimination Act bans employment discrimination against pregnant women.


The Shape of Water also blurs the lines between humanity and monstrosity which gabe spoke on in their section. While the Amphibian Man is initially perceived as a monster, it is the human characters, particularly Strickland, who exhibit truly monstrous behavior. The film challenges viewers to reconsider their definitions of what it means to be human and what constitutes a monster, suggesting that true monstrosity lies in cruelty and lack of empathy. It also asks us to consider if what is not allowed is actually just, because laws have been used to oppress more than protect in this country.


The story of Elisa and the Amphibian Man underscores the importance of empathy in the face of societal cruelty and discrimination. The film reminds us that, like Elisa, we must respond with empathy, compassion, and love to our fellow humans, regardless of their differences. This message is crucial as we navigate the challenges of a second Trump presidency, emphasizing the need for solidarity and resistance against oppression.


The film uses its narrative and characters to offer a poetic critique of Trump's presidency. It addresses issues like racism, sexism, and xenophobia, promoting themes of empathy, acceptance, and humanism. The portrayal of Strickland as a symbol of Trump's worst qualities—such as toxic masculinity, racism, and abuse of power—serves as a powerful allegory for the societal impact of Trump's leadership. The film's depiction of the struggles faced by marginalized individuals and their capacity for compassion and resistance provides a hopeful vision for a more inclusive and empathetic future.


At its core, "The Shape of Water" is a story about empathy and humanism. Elisa's compassionate relationship with the other characters in the film and the Amphibian man stands in stark contrast to Strickland's dehumanizing treatment of the creature. This dichotomy serves as an allegory for the broader societal divide between those who advocate for empathy, inclusion, and human rights, and those who promote division, exclusion, and dehumanization. The film's emphasis on the importance of empathy and understanding critiques the lack of these qualities in Trump's leadership.


Loneliness


Elisa despite being very lonely and isolated was able to establish real and meaningful connections because of her capacity for empathy. Her relationships with Giles and Zelda showcase this, that despite having less wealth, and status her life was with much more connection because of her empathy. Stickland, conversely, was lonely but in a vastly different way because of his lack of empathy. He was not shunned by society, in fact he was widely accepted, but his life and world were entirely devoid of empathy. Very, in a crowded room but feeling alone energy.

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