100 Years and a Godawful Movie Later, The Story Still Lives

OK, let's get it out of the way: with Cameron's Titanic being released with the excuse of being redone in 3D (for what, the sketching scene?) to glom a bit more money off the long-dead, the box office total has now exceeded $2 billion. I'll say that again. Titanic, the wretched movie, has sold more than $2 BILLION in tickets. Combine that with all the news coverage accompanying the 100th anniversary of the sinking, and the announcement that the last of the ship's dinner menus held by the salvage company sold at auction for $125,000, and the message seems to be that we still love us some Titanic.
Well, why not? The story-the real story, not the one that made James Cameron "King of the World"-has it all.
It starts with bigness. Human beings are fascinated with little else like we are "Big" and Titanic is all about big. From the very name to all the publicity back in the day involving now-ridiculous words like "Unsinkable," "Fastest," "Most Elegant" and so forth. The message was clear: the thing is too damned good-and big-to fail. Who doesn't dream somewhere along the line of gliding down the grand staircase, elegantly dressed, to dine with the finest society had to offer?
Then, if there's anything better than big, it's big getting knocked off its high horse. And they screwed the pooch about as big as is humanly possible. Cheap rivets, goofy design, arrogance regarding speed and ice warnings, and lack of training on the latest communications equipment? Well, you cut the corners, you find the bottom of the ocean! Dumbasses!
Victorian society holds our attention. Many of the men-and a significant percentage of them rich and/or famous choosing death instead of dropping a "Do you know who I am?" to force their way into a lifeboat? Hmmm. Somehow I just can't see Trump changing into tie and tails to enjoy one last cigar stoically. No, The Donald would be screaming at some immigrant with her children that she would never match his value to the economy, while he shoved the littlest ones into the sea. The musicians played. The crew largely maintained their positions and helped all the passengers they could.
The other side of the coin was the villain: Bruce Ismay owned the thing, and he lived to tell the tale. One of his biographies explains his fate: The Most Hated Man on Earth. Seems to rank up there with the Italian captain who tripped and fell into a lifeboat, damn the luck, when his cruise ship went belly up a few months ago. The stories that emerged from the investigations were numerous: Ismay ordered Captain Smith full speed ahead in spite of ice warnings, he ordered full steam ahead after striking the iceberg which speeded the sinking, etc.
Prefer poignancy? How about Mr. And Mrs. Strauss, part owners of Macy's, dying together, as she wouldn't leave her husband. Or, of course, the steerage passengers. I'm fortunate that my poor Irish forebears came to escape the Famine, some 60 years before. We are told that more first-class men survived than steerage children. That's the other side of that Victorian morality garbage.
Perhaps, instead of suffering again through the no-talent Vegas headliner barfing up one more rendition of the worst song ever written by someone not named "Gaga," we should honor the Titanic dead with a little meditation on hubris, frailty and how we're just never quite as smart as we think we are.