For all its obvious, lunkheaded faults, I still unapologetically love Titanic, for reasons similar to why those teenage girls loved it: It is profoundly, almost embarrassingly sincere. There is no winking in Titanic, no postmodern touches, no self-referential asides. It is the opposite of cynical; it is a big sprawling epic about the timelessness of adolescent love, a plain, open-faced black-and-white story where you cheer the good guys and hiss at the bad guys and grab your date’s arm and ultimately just give yourself over to the whole thing. (I didn’t cry at the end the first time I saw it. But I’m not gonna lie and say I wasn’t close.) The movie has a big, babbling, stupid, awesome heart, and its hokiness and dopiness is central to its charm.