Titanic as a Rite of Passage: Myth in a Modern Movie

James Cameron's movie Titanic has been viewed as unprecedented in its genius, notorious for its sentimentality, or, in the eyes of the Patriarchy (hereafter referred to as the Fearful Boy) as infamous, especially in what it views as license to defy patriarchal law against unapproved sexuality.

For many years, James Cameron has been directing movies that address mythic constructs of the human society. Some have pointed out that his handling of these ideas is clumsy; this may be a reflection of an unconscious, rather than an intellectual spiritual inspiration.

For example, his Terminator II the message is that a father -- a true father, biological or not -- will die for his children, and that a mother will kill for them. Mr. Cameron's women are as powerful as any women of the movies of the '30's and '40s; at one point in this movie the woman becomes the Terminator, and takes over the role of the father, complete with her own mechanical theme musica.

Cameron reflects an old argument that women should not try to fill the fighting role because when they lose their civilized self-control, they become far more dangerous than any male. This is not the first time this argument has been made; witness Rudyard Kipling's poem, The Female of The Species.

Titanic went beyond any of Mr. Cameron's earlier productions in that it addresses the life of the female in a deeply mythic manner. One wonders if the crew were ever aware that the Goddess was speaking directly through them, to produce what is the truest guide to the female's rite of passage that has ever appeared or been allowed to survive in western literature.

Since Joseph Campbell wrote his series on mythology (a useful introductory layman's treatment of myth, albeit from a western or patriarchal viewpoint), most of us are aware of what has been called "The Hero's Journey" or the rite of passage for young males. We assume that young females have the same need of this identical process.

But young females have their own needs, and for different reasons. While a male may be testing his independence and competence, a female is faced with a sudden and terrible reality that many men (unless the comparative few who go into combat) may not face until they are in their middle years, triggering the male Mid-Life Crisis. The young female, as she steps into adulthood, must face the reality of Death.

No matter how sex education classes may attempt to prepare her for the event, for many girls the first appearance of blood on their underwear is traumatic. Even males realize how frightening this event can be, and attempt to belittle it and make it less terrifying -- as it always remains to them -- by ridiculing the girls. They know that blood signifies death, and try to distance themselves from it. The girl, who is so very close to this death-like moment, often simply gives up. She knows she will die -- why bother? Again and again, girls simply go through the motions of life, perhaps doing no more than have children without concerning themselves with the futures of those children. We will all die -- why bother? We might as well breed and give someone else a chance.

The girl must be guided through this tunnel of terror and defeat. She must be told why her life will be worthwhile, and why Death is not to be feared, but directly addressed and even bonded with, as a powerful ally. She must step onto the Black Path, and embrace the terrors, to discover they will be her friends and allies for life.

For the first time in western literature, Titanic addresses this rite -- and even demonstrates it, powerfully and step-by-step -- to a widespread audience. In Titanic we meet the Death Goddess face-to-face, in all her terror, beauty and with all her demands. While Baba Yaga and Innana and even Kali may be known only to a few, and then vaguely, Titanic demonstrates the rite of the meeting of death as powerfully -- and as importantly -- as the girls' rite of passage did among the Apache. It is a central moment for a whole society. Before any male Savior or Hero, the Goddess as Innana harrowed Hell, descending to death and rising again, showing the girl the way to her own womanhood.

(At this point I ceased to interpret through the intellect. From this place on, to paraphrase many native spiritual traditions, It Was Given To Me. This is the verbatim record of a Vision as The Divine Horseman upon the Horse. These are the Mysteries of Demeter, that can never be lost.)

The rite - and the movie -- begins with vague soft memories, only hinting at a former glory. The music is soft, haunting, evocative of another time, another culture: the Irish culture, which has, of all the remaining native western peoples, remembered its Death Goddess.

The next moment is engulfed by darkness, and a single word -- Titanic -- a good description of what is about to happen in the soul of a young girl. A titanic process indeed

Next into the darkness appear two spirit guides, carrying light, to go down to the Goddess herself. Soon we see her -- rotting, ghastly, shrouded in the decay of her own body. Yet truly majestic, aloof, silent in her acceptance.

We go within her. We must not misjudge this moment. If we belittle or ridicule her, if we say "That's enough of that shit," we shall not find her jewel. She will give nothing to us. She will allow us nothing but an empty rotting piece of herself to take away, and we shall not see her beauty. We shall rise to the brightly-lit surface of life, and all we shall find is a handful of red mud, like a handful of blood; even, then, will we react in disgust and disappointment and turn away from the hiding place of our own image?

When all is darkness and confusion and defeat, we may get a glimpse of our future selves. We may cry out, and offer up that self. The Goddess will hear us, and will call to us in the form of the Crone. The Crone's hands are red with the bloody mud; she has gone down and felt the same heart of the Dead that we have, but for her it is something that can be formed into beauty and use.

This Crone is our future selves. She knows where the Jewel of Life and Death really is, but she's not telling; we have to go through the rite before we can discover the Jewel.

The Crone accompanies us back to the Dead Goddess. If we think we are in control, if we think we know what she will say, she will ask us if we really want to hear her secrets. It is only when we are sitting silently, ready to hear, in the presence of the Dead One, that the Crone will begin to speak. And there, with the memories she retains of the beauties of the Goddess, she opens those memories to us. The Ship Of Dreams -- of invincible future possibility -- rears up before us. The Death Goddess again dons her Terrible Beauty, and becomes, in an instant, the Goddess of Life.

Our name is "Rose," and we are the bloody blossom, that must accept that it will be a bud, a blossom, and a sharp-flavored glowing Hip: Maiden, Matron and Crone.

Perhaps we shall not recognize the Goddess, shall view her as nothing special, as something about which we have already said "why bother?" We see her as just another unreachable aspect of Life. The Fearful Boy thinks he knows her. The Fearful Boy says she is Life, she is power, she is unsinkable. They do not know she has a Twin Sister. We look up, clothed in the empty show that has been given to us, and see nothing but another machine that means nothing to us. Life is nothing we can control ourselves. We know, though we do not recognize her, that the Death Goddess is always there. Because we do not truly know her, to us she is a Slave Ship.
The Fearful Man, The Boy, who can only go on the quest to conquer, and who is always in terror of Death, strives to control everything around him. He looks strong, he seems in control, but when Death comes to him, he is afraid to go down into her waters, even in her very belly.

The Fearful Boy is accompanied by the Guardian who seems to have control over life and death. With us is the only defense we have had, the Kept Woman who is part of the known incomplete life, and who is as much as a Slave to limited possibilities as we are. We are both in all our finery, but it is a false desperate show. The Woman Who has Given Up is locked into the same corset that awaits us, the binding of our hearts and our breasts and our brains, if we allow it to be done. She is not our fleshly mother -- she is the Girl Who Is Afraid To Know. We enter the Slave Ship accompanied by the Dogs of Hell(e), and inside we are screaming. When can we throw off our false show, or look up from under the blinding bonnet, and become ourselves?

We think -- we have been assured -- we are in a safe place, surrounded by what we believe are the glories of life, but even now Death herself is calling to us. We mistake her call; too often we believe she wants us, and go to her. Too many young girls cut and overdose. Clothed in her very vestments -- the red dress, the bared bosom,. the white face and red lips of the White Goddess -- our bodies blooming into womanhood, but even then not realizing our own maturity and beauty, we think to throw ourselves into Death's cold embrace, never realizing that once we have jumped, she will throb on away from us, and we shall never know her, or anything else, ever again. We are running from everything, we sway on the edge of nothingness, leaving both Life and Death behind us.

We are helpless.

Then Death sends her consort -- the young, lovely Lord of Life -- to come to our side, and in the speech of a natural gentleman, he makes us aware of the Coldness of Oblivion. In a struggle with that Oblivion, he saves us -- but not for him. He saves us for something else, for what is to come. But he has spoken to us as one living Human Being to another. He has not come as the God Who Dies For The Goddess, but as nothing more than another Human Being. Is it any wonder that the pretty young Lord of Life, who speaks to women as well as men, and who dies for us, is spoken of as the Son of Man?

We must understand that the Consort is us, our Masculine Side, and while we may not recognize him when he appears, we shall listen to him, because he speaks in our language. It is when we are most serious about Life, that he makes sport of Death; his very lightness of tone draws us back from Oblivion, and into the light of Life, Death's bright sister.

The Fearful Boy may misunderstand who this is, and the Guardian may misunderstand his intent. In all things, and in all places, the Consort remains always noble. He knows who we are: has he not already seen us, in the grips of the World, clothed in gold against the sun, the Slave dripping with the signs of property? Has he not already known we will be His?

The Consort is ourselves when we are most free. He will never betray us; in the wildest revels, when those around us are falling down in Battle, he will show us he is The Lord of The Dance, and we will be safe. We can drink the Black Beer of the Dead, to the bottom of the glass, and it will only refresh us. It may be spilled over us, as in baptism, and it will be as harmless as water -- but how safe is water, in the belly of Tiamat? While we dance and drink, and raise ourselves up to our ultimate limits, daring to brave our pain, Tiamat, all unknown to us, is swimming toward our destiny with the Outer Ice.

The Fearful Boy thinks the Consort is Sex. Instead, the Consort is friendship and support, our internal selves who is be trusted, our masculine side, in its strength and humor and deep admiration. Never once does he treat us with disrespect. He shows us how he views women, speaking of the very crippled prostitutes and mad old women -- "These too are the children of God " -- as worthy of consideration, as his fellow human beings. We may think we are angry with him, we may even put on a show of sending him away, but he never loses his temper with us. He is comical and light of heart; he is the best model for our future mates. He shows us that, yes, we have every right to test our men. No female animal mates without testing her males. The Fearful Boy mistakenly thinks we want only savagery and control, the hard limited qualities of a brute, as the objects he can buy; he does not pass the test of gentleness and good cheer and loyalty and internal strength, those qualities so important for the future children. What is the good of wealth if the Father is a Brute?

The Fearful Boy fears this movie. Patriarchal interpretations of Titanic most damn the movie for the moment when Rose becomes, in their eyes, an Adulteress. To the Fearful Boy, she is already the helpless property of another man; she has already been bought. To them the false and grotesque "Honor" that demands to know what penis might have been in her. For that is what the Honor of the Fearful Boy is about: the place of the penis. Even in this, the character called Cal ("Callous?") has broken his engagement with her. He has been violent to her. He has demanded she allow only his penis within her, and thrown her down at his feet as worthy of being nothing but a vessel for his seed. She owes him nothing. He is a bully and a brute, and to the Brute goes no Honor. He has broken all her obligations in a fit of temper. He has mistaken her for property, and she is no longer his.

While watching this movie on the big screen (for the 5th time, and not by my choice), I was sitting across the aisle from a garland of young girls. At the moment the table went down, one of the girls hissed, "Hi, Dad."

The moment suddenly became chill with horror. As an adult, I may have forgotten what the true horror of this scene was, but the young girls have no such forgetfulness. They know, and their knowledge of what will be done to Prince Callous -- of what will be taken from him, because of his own brutality -- lends this scene a savor of bitter future retribution. He may be urbane and humorous, he may be a perfect generous gentleman at dinner, but they know him for what he is, and he can never put on the mask again.

One of the most glorious moments in the movie is "Take Her To Sea." We are allowed to go down into the workings of the Goddess herself, to see her powerful pumping heart, living on flame and its harsh light, upon the earth -- the coal -- that feeds her. The servants closest to her heart are the color of blood, alive with the pride that they've "Got Full Speed Ahead." Not for them the clogging hesitation, the fear of the future, the fear of Her! They are here to serve her, and give her all their hearts.
The music, soft, deep, seldom and unobtrusive, is the voice of the sea and of the goddess. It is descended from other watery ephemeral voices, such as "The Ruined Cathedral" and "La Mer." The broken temple at the bottom of the waters, the sea herself.

When we learn to trust -- when the young consort has seen us naked, ourselves, treated with respect and humor -- then he shall guide us away from the Guardian who will not let us dance or run, who tattles on us to those who think they control our hearts, who wants to help keep us a child. He shall take us down into the very heart of the Goddess, to her bloody servants, to her flaming, smoking, steaming self, and we shall know no harm. Her servants may warn us "It's dangerous here!" but they shall take our hands and guide us. We shall be dressed as the Bride -- not the Virgin White Bloodless Bride of the Fearful Boy -- but the Spring-Flower-Colored Bride of the Consort, and nothing shall corset our hearts.

When we are free and ourselves, when we kiss the Consort, when we have let the Consort penetrate into our very selves, with our permission, and under our own control, then the Goddess will show herself. Not as her Twin of Life. But Herself: the icy, broken, heart-ripped Goddess of Death, the Dead One, Baba Yaga, Sedna The Skeleton, Tiamat, Erishkagel.

We shall become Innana, the Lesser Child, Kore, the Bride, Sedna The Living, The Girl. The old Goddess will die under our feet. The Consort will strive to save us, but he is himself riding the back of the great Whale Mother herself, and when she is Death she is Death for All. She is perfect, oblivious, magnificent: "A Sight You Don't Get To See Every Day." Or want to.

In her death she is known, is recognizable. No one has time now to walk upon her without knowing her. No one has time for their own little lives. Death rears up, black, dying, with no knowledge of us, who must have complete knowledge of her. She sounds into the black cold of her own Death, and drags us down with her, and we are helpless to resist. Those who think they control her say "I'm sorry I didn't build you a stronger ship." Those who think they know her whimper, "There shall be no more Death." But who of us can measure the strength of Tiamat? She is strong, she is irresistible, and nothing can stop her return to her homeland, to the dark coldness of the Dead.

We can strive to save the Consort, to keep him separate from us, diving into the cold watery blood of the Whale Mother, bringing weapons we've never handled before to the rescue of our own beauty. When we have become the Flower Bride, when we are Kore, daughter of Demeter, we don't stand and wring our hands. We run through the Waters and come back with an Axe. The Axe: the red-painted crescent-bitted harvesting-weapon of the Priestess. The Priestess wields her weapon -- even in ignorance, with her eyes shut, she strikes with liberating accuracy -- and the Consort is free to come with us.

To come where with us? Into the coldest blood of Tiamat ("Oh Shit That's Cold!") Our other side still isn't ready to run with us, but now it has no choice. There are cages and stairways, the underworld of dreams, to break through, as we struggle with others like ourselves, with bleeding messengers and crying childhood and angels confused in white. We find ourselves under the stars, under the Crown of the Bride, her grail and yoni, and Hercules, the Consort As Hero. Hercules was put into the sky because he was a Husband. He died because he was loved. He was the first man and god-child to bear the name "Savior."

We return to the jumping-off place we came to before, but now we are equipped for the jump. The Consort, our inner self, knows just what to do ("We're gonna make it!") and we go face-first into the bubbling spewing Death, with our lungs full of Life.

The Consort may remain only long enough to let us live, to take from us the promise of His Honor, the Honor of Ourselves, of our Future Lives. "Don't you say your goodbyes!" he commands. He knows the Goodbye will come, the last great Goodbye, when the Goddess will return, and return She will, never fear! But now is not the time. Once he has taken our promise never to quit, never to dishonor him ever again by saying "Why Bother?" he dies, he becomes one with us, he submerges into our own dark places, where the Goddess will wait for us.

Now is not the time to give up. Now is not the time to feel alone. Now is not to fear the blackness of Death, or the cold of her dead heart. Now is the time to leap right back into the cold dark self ("I'll never let go!") and take the very music from the mouth of the Dead, and demand that Life come back and take us to herself. Our life is ours; what we make of it is up to us. When we go to the Goddess again, she will demand of us that we show her what we have done. She shall want our time on horseback, our day as screen-stars, our piloting of planes, in the silver frames of our memory, to show her that we are worthy of her.

Only when we have swum in the heart of the Goddess, and been cold-proofed forever, when we have let the Fearful Boy look for us, and refused to go back to it, only then are we allowed to realize that we have taken the Jewel, even from the grasping hands of the Fearful Boy, who wouldn't follow us through the cold waters of Death. The jewel is ours, to do with as we will. We can keep it by us for all our lives, we never have to give it away again. When the Goddess comes again, when we are the Crone, and telling the story ourselves, we can give the Jewel back to the Goddess. We can display the Silver Frames, then leave them behind, because we need them no more; "Chuplik" say the Mojave, or Thrown Away. We shall have beside us our two golden Guides, the fishes, and we shall know no fear.

It is time to follow the Jewel, back down, through the blackness and the cold, to the very heart of the Dead One herself. We must come to her, swimming into her very heart, and only then, through her, will we see our life again, and forever.

At this point, the Vision ended, but only for this writer, only beginning to touch upon the interpretation of this movie. The production is awash with accurate symbolism, that the readers can interpret for their own needs. I am convinced that the contrast between the Fearful Boy and the Consort can help our young men as well, young men who have been so misguided by the Fearful Boy, now more than ever.

I can't believe that the writers of this movie knew this much universal mythology, from so many different cultures, and knew it so accurately. The movie is mythically correct, in every detail. This is the Voice Of The Goddess.

Now go see the movie again, and this time, recognize the Goddess. Better yet, take the young girl who knows the rite for what it is, and take the journey as she does. Perhaps it is the Rite you yourself have never been allowed to take. Know the Goddess, and go down to her again.

The Jewel is Waiting.