A lush and terrifying spectacle of romantic doom. Writer-director James Cameron has restaged the defining catastrophe of the early 20th century on a human scale of such purified yearning and dread that he touches the deepest levels of popular moviemaking. The love story between Jack (Leonardo DiCaprio), a vagabond artist, and Rose (Kate Winslet), a milky-pale Philadelphia debutante with a snobby-effete fiancé (Billy Zane), is played quite consciously as a young romance, and DiCaprio and Winslet develop a touching, sweet-souled chemistry. The Titanic itself becomes a kind of floating version of the 19th century; once it hits that iceberg, we're suffused with a cathartic tumult of emotion. By the time that Jack and Rose are floating in the icy sea, the film has come face-to- face with annihilation itself. Yet it's at that moment that their love glows brightest. Titanic floods you with elemental passion in a way that invites comparison with the original movie spectacles of D.W. Griffith. A -- Owen Gleiberman

It all started at an advance press screening of the 16-hour (or whatever) film. Upon emerging from the great disaster, I was unashamed of my opinion. "Puh-leeeze!" I declared to anyone willing to listen. "Great special effects in the second half, but you can skip the first completely. I've seen more moving love stories on Jerry Springer!" Then came the awestruck reviews and the staggering ticket sales, due in part to my friends, family members, and colleagues who came out raving with tears in their eyes and who, when I suggested that the $200 million would've been better spent on a Postman sequel, glared as if I had insulted them personally or said something really mean about Mary Tyler Moore.

I guess that for audiences overfed with scrappy independent films and Seinfeldian cynicism, Titanic quenches a deep thirst for old-fashioned spectacle and sentiment. So now when Titanic comes up, instead of contradicting my friends or risking their contempt by saying Leonardo DiCaprio can't be called "sexy" until he goes through puberty, I hold my tongue and change the subject: "Ya know what else is great?" I say desperately. "I think they nailed all those infected Hong Kong chickens."

Still, when word got around the office that I was going public with my, uh, problem in print, I realized that I was not alone. "The ship looked fake!" whispered one colleague. "Thank you!" E-mailed another. Thus empowered, I'm starting an anonymous Titanic support group with our own 12 steps toward more self-esteem. No. 1: We admit we are powerless over our good taste in movies. No. 2: We believe that Matt Damon and Ben Affleck can restore us to sanity. Though if Titanic wins the Best Picture Oscar, I plan to fall off the wagon and land deep in the drink. -- Jess Cagle