Producer’s Blog: What is a Summer Blockbuster?

Before museums, theaters and galleries shaped my understanding of art and culture, there were the cineplexes — and for a kid growing up in the 1970s, there was nothing more magical than the movies. Summer wasn’t about distant vacations or an endless scroll of entertainment options. It was about escaping the heat in a dark, air-conditioned movie theater, where stories lit up the screen and carried us far from our routines.

Now let me set the scene: we had maybe six TV channels — on a good day. There were no VHS tapes, no DVDs, no cable. Streaming? That was science fiction. If you wanted to be transported to another world, you had one glorious option: the movie theater. And for those of us in Dayton, Ohio, that meant the legendary Kon-Tiki Cinema on Salem Avenue.

For many, the Kon-Tiki might sound like the stuff of myth, but I assure you—it was real, and it was glorious. A Polynesian-themed marvel with three screens (a rarity back then), it felt more like a theme park than a cinema, so kitschy. First-run films, tiki torches, bamboo décor — it had it all. It was where dreams flickered to life. Getting there meant cramming into the car with my mother while my brother and I tested every ounce of her patience, as only children can.

One summer stands out above all: 1975, the summer Jaws hit theaters and forever changed how I saw the ocean — and the summer itself. I was ten. My brother, fifteen, had begged to see the movie. With the confidence only a teenager could muster, he assured my mom that it was a “family-friendly thriller.” And like many overworked moms in the 70s, she trusted his judgment. So off we went — three tickets to a monster hit that no one saw coming.

It was a blisteringly hot afternoon in June, and the parking lot of the Kon-Tiki was buzzing. A line of moviegoers snaked out of the building, wrapping around the lot like a human tide. People laughed, talked and fanned themselves. There was a sense of anticipation — a shared thrill that something big was about to happen.

And then, the lights dimmed.

Within ten minutes — ominous cello, underwater chaos — it became painfully obvious this was not a family film. My mom stiffened in her seat. I froze, popcorn forgotten. My brother? Grinning ear to ear. That ride home was one for the books — tense silence punctuated by a well-deserved scolding. To this day, I’ve only dipped my toes in the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. That’s my enduring trauma from one blockbuster movie in 1975.

Rewatching Jaws over this year’s Fourth of July weekend, I was struck by how it holds up today. The pacing, the tension, the psychological slow-burn — it still grips you. On a modest budget, a then-unknown Steven Spielberg created a cultural milestone that redefined the movie industry. Jaws wasn’t just a hit. It was a phenomenon. It was the film that invented the “summer blockbuster” as we know it.

This got me thinking: is there an arts or cultural equivalent to the blockbuster? A singular, electrifying event that captures mass imagination, crosses generations and lingers for decades?

One contender for my books is the King Tut exhibition of the late 1970s. That museum show was marketed with the same energy as a movie premiere and it drew crowds in the millions. It was spectacle, diplomacy and cultural curiosity rolled into one — and it reshaped how museums presented art to the public. But just like Jaws, it triggered a frenzy: a rush to create “blockbuster exhibitions” that could replicate its success. Some hit the mark. Many didn’t.

That chase of lightning in a bottle raises a deeper question: Is there a formula for cultural resonance?

In a recent conversation with one of my fellow producers, we mused on how few things today seem to rise to that once-in-a-generation level. One compelling theory we circled around is the flattening of culture through technology. As our lives become more algorithmically curated, our experiences become siloed. Culture isn’t shared in the same way — it’s fractured, filtered and fed back to us based on what we already like. Everything becomes hyper-personalized, but rarely communal.

As Kyle Chayka explores in his book Filterworld (which I highly recommended), algorithms now drive how we engage with content. They push trendiness over originality, virality over artistry. In this landscape, it’s harder than ever for a singular voice — a film, an exhibition or a performance — to rise above the noise and speak to everyone at once.

Yet here’s the paradox: technology has also democratized access. Today, if I want to revisit the films of Paul Schrader (one of my favorites), it’s only a search away. I can watch interviews, read critical essays and explore his influences all from my couch. For artists, thinkers and creators, it’s a golden age of possibility. The internet has become a great library and laboratory rolled into one. We may be on the edge of a new creative renaissance. Technology is both the destroyer and the deliverer—a tool that can harm or elevate, depending on how we use it, Mary Shelly was on to something with Frankenstein, real food for thought.

So maybe Jaws still looms large because it reminds us of a moment before all that — before the scrolling, before the feeds, before the filters. It came from a time when culture was experienced together: in a darkened theater, in long lines, elbow to elbow with strangers, collectively gasping, laughing, screaming. It wasn’t just about the shark or the soundtrack — it was about the shared awe. That communal spark. And maybe that’s what we’re still chasing.

Rodney Veal
CET and ThinkTV Producer and Community Arts Liaison