With the re-release of James Cameron’s “Titanic,” and the upcoming 100th anniversary of the sinking that inspired it, I’ve been seeing a lot of news stories about the movie lately.
It’s become kind of trendy to trash the movie. And no, I can’t say it’s one of my favorites. I’m more partial to movies with lots of car chases and shit blowing up, like … well … pretty much every other James Cameron movie.
But hey, give credit where it’s due. “Titanic” was an extremely well-made movie. The actual sinking sequences had some jaw-dropping moments. And even the romantic stuff was well-done, if you’re into that kinda thing.
But see, here’s what I found irritating about the movie. The element that had all the 15-year-old girls weeping hysterically into their popcorn.
It was the ultimate impractical female romantic fantasy. It’s about this young woman who meets a long-haired, footloose, artistic free spirit. Dreamy, huh?
They have great sex. And then what happens? He dies almost immediately afterward. It’s perfect! The memory’s preserved intact! It’s unsullied by the scene that typically takes unfolds a year or so down the line after a young woman hooks up with a long-haired, footloose, artistic free spirit.
You know — where she comes home from a 12-hour shift waiting tables at the International House of Pancakes. And there he is, lying on the couch, already pretty buzzed.
He looks up at her and says: “Hey baby! Could you lend me another hundred bucks? Y’know … just as a loan until I become a famous artist?”
And she says: “You know what? Just pack your shit and get your deadbeat ass out of my apartment!”
Doesn’t have quite the same romantic oomph as “I’ll never let go!”