This one will be short. My ire raises every time I even think about this film, and I don’t want to get my blood pressure up.
I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate this film.
I’m obviously so pissed that I’ve lost the part of my brain that makes me a walking thesaurus. That’s what this film does to me. Not only does it suck, but it also has generations of salivating fans who somehow think that this is a great love story and a good film.
Loathe. Detest. Despise. Abhor.
Oh, it’s working again. Whew.
The film is long and boring. Rose and Jack’s love story is paper-thin and shallow. Sure, her fiance whatshisnameBillyZane might be a dick, but are we really to believe some guttersnipe she just met who drew her boobies would be any better for her? And, now let’s top it off with a horrible tragedy that we all knew was going to happen anyhow.
Also, Jack totally could have fit on that plank.
Cap it with a painfully saccharine love theme by a singer so pretentious she makes Don Henley look humble, one that played on every damn radio station at a time when we had no satellite radio or streaming services to offer us respite, dogs for blocks howling as Dion’s wailing punctured their sensitive eardrums, and–come on–you have to admit your patience was wearing thin too.
But I could forgive the film if that was all there was to it.
Plenty of movies have been over-hyped, overrated, popular. Hell, plenty of them also have horrific songs attached to them that get played in every grocery store in America.
But, no, the greatest travesty, the one that continually taints the film, the one sleight that still rankles me after two decades of stewing in my own vitriol occurred in February of 1998.
Back then, I had yet to realize the Oscars were bullshit. I followed them religiously. I made sure to watch every contender, which being from a small town meant a lot of driving 1 1/2 to 2 hours to find a theatre showing Life Is Beautiful or The Sweet Hereafter.
My friends–we were all nerds in the English department anyway–would ask me as February rolled around, “Who are you rooting for for Best Picture?”
I had a simple response: “Anything but Titanic.”
To put this in perspective, the other nominees were: The Full Monty, As Good As It Gets, Goodwill Hunting, and L. A. Confidential. To this day, all four of these films are deserving of little gold naked dude.
And what went and won?
I mean, I hate it for Full Monty, which was a cute flick. I hate it for As Good As It Gets, which was such a delight, but Jack Nicholson won for Best Actor, Helen Hunt for best Actress. Even Greg Kinnear got a nod. Robin Williams won Best Supporting Actor and Matt Damon and Ben Affleck (who was the bomb in Phantoms, yo!) got a Best Screenplay award.
Don’t @ me about the remaining entry. I know Kim Bassinger won Best Supporting Actress. But, out of all the fine films on display that year–97/98 was truly a remarkable moment for cinema–L.A. Confidential was the creme de la creme of the batch.
And it got robbed.
I know, I know. I need to “let it go.” Alas, I suppose “my heart will go on.”