If you haven’t read Mark Steyn’s weekend piece on the sinking of the Costa Concordia and the barbarism of (some of) its passengers and crew compared to those of the Titanic, go and do so.   As an incentive, here is a little side dig Steyn gets in about a certain detestable 90’s film on the subject of the latter:

In the centenary year of the most famous of all maritime disasters, we would do well to consider honestly the tale of the Titanic. When James Cameron made his movie, he was interested in everything except what the story was actually about. I confess I have very little memory of the film except for Kate Winslet’s lush full breasts and some tedious sub-Riverdance prancing in the hold, but what I do recall traduced the memory of honorable men: In my book, I cite First Officer William Murdoch. In real life, he threw deckchairs to passengers drowning in the water to give them something to cling to, and then he went down with the ship — the dull, decent thing, all very British, with no fuss. In Cameron’s movie, Murdoch takes a bribe and murders a third-class passenger. The director subsequently apologized to the First Officer’s hometown in Scotland and offered £5,000 toward a memorial, which converted into Hollywood dollars equals rather less than what Cameron and his family paid for dinner after the Oscars.

Now, as they say, go read the rest.

I was noodling on the subject of chivalry yesterday when, as a result of a complicated series of bone-headed maneuvers by my brain-damaged children, I wound up having to give the eldest gel my overcoat and myself freezing on the way to and from Mass.  Mrs. R says that I no longer have to play the gentleman to the gels and that if they don’t have the sense to bundle up, that’s their lookout.  While I agree with the sentiment, I don’t think I could actually put it into practice were the situation to arise again.  Of course it’s a far smaller point than the question of giving up a lifeboat seat, but it’s nonetheless on the same continuum.