Skip to main content

Kate Winslet: "Titanic"

 The movie "Titanic" is 25 years old, and the bad parts are just as bad as you may recall. Yes, Rose says, "Put your hands on me, Jack!" And: "Draw me like one of your French girls." And, yes, Rose confronts her fiance and screams: "I'd rather be Jack's whore than YOUR WIFE!!!!"


But, at the same time, how do you resist a movie like this? A young woman (Rose) feels she must follow a certain script to save her family from financial ruin. She is pissed. The only real option she spots is suicide (just fling yourself from a ship). But a guy intervenes. He tells her that the water is brutally cold. ("Have you ever been ice-fishing in Wisconsin?") This young man, Jack, indicates that he will dive in after Rose jumps--so, regardless, Rose is going to have company.

At this point, the movie briefly becomes a rom-com. Rose is drawn to Jack, and can't accept this, so she becomes snide. But Jack gets the girl because he is (apparently) a terrific artist--and, as we've learned, Rose is a revolutionary thinker with one eye on the early efforts of Pablo Picasso.

The story then pivots and becomes a horror film. After we meet the iceberg, All-Knowing Victor Garber quickly grasps that many, many people will die--we see the realization in Garber's eyes--and the entire cast fights (and fights) to be among the lucky survivors.

I tried to talk about this movie at a dinner party the other day, and my associate actually laughed at me. I was hoping to find a fellow fan of the costumes, the Kathy Bates moments, the astounding set. This is a movie that won the Best Picture Oscar, scored four stars from Ebert, and earned the admiration of Lorrie Moore. (Moore admits the writing is bad, and she regrets that James Cameron devoted the first twenty minutes of storytelling to "a minor actress he was having an affair with." But Moore acknowledges the power of Leo DiCaprio, "with the face of Mariel Hemingway," and Moore clearly has warm feelings for Kate Winslet.)

I guess there are people in the world who pretend to dislike "Titanic"--but I'll proudly say, I have trouble looking away. And I cry every time. When I say "every time," I'm referring to at least four viewings.

Happy anniversary to Jack and Rose.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more