The Iceberg of Reality

What the movie ‘Titanic’ teaches us about fantasy relationships…

All over the internets, the plot holes in the movie Titanic are a popular read. For me, one of them is an almost perfect analogy for the worst type of relationship, the ‘Fantasy relationship’.

Rose meets Jack whilst flirting with suicide (as one does), falls in love almost instantly. Fucks him in an old car, gets her own personalised ‘fallen Madonna with the big boobies’ painting and generally has an early 20th century upper class version of what most women get on holiday in Marbella, minus thrush and a questionable kebab.

At the end, after dodging bullets, freeing the grockles and surviving the most catastrophic sinking in history, Rose is floating in the freezing Atlantic, on a large piece of wooden debris. Jack, is in the freezing water holding onto the side. “But wait” I hear you cry, “there is enough space for Jack to lay next to her, they could both have survived”.

Yes and no, but here is where the iceberg of truth really sunk much more that the Titanic. Jack knew he was going to die. And Rose did too. They both knew Jack was going to die, and they both let it happen. But why?

Holiday relationships are the worst type of fantasy relationships. Everything you need for an explosive, emotional clusterfuck is right there:

Even before you get on the plane there is a wonderful place in the airport where time has no meaning, and they serve enough booze to make even the least attractive people look fuckable.

Your inhibitions on holiday are already going to be sky high, add in a fake tan, a swimsuit and a bucket of Pina Colada, and you are more vulnerable than china in a bull shop.

But back to the Titanic. What would really have happened if Jack had survived?

Two people of vastly different backgrounds can have a super time on a fucking Ocean Liner, but when they docked and set up a life together, society would never have accepted either of them. If Lady and the Tramp has taught us anything its that you can share a piece of spaghetti, but sooner or later your pedigree will preclude you from drinking from dirty puddles.