Gattaca Page #6

INT. GATTACA - CORRIDOR. DAY.

Walking back along one of the long, glass-walled corridors,

JEROME becomes aware of a peculiar noise in the complex -

or to be more precise, a lack of noise. The incessant tapping

of computer keys has stilled.

As Jerome gazes through the glass walled corridor, we see the

reflection of his face, deep in thought.

JEROME (VO)

The most unremarkable of events. Jerome

Morrow, Navigator First class, is only days

away from a one-year manned mission to 951

Gaspra in the Outer Asteroid Belt. Nothing so

unique in that. Last year over one thousand

citizens from every walk of life embarked on

some space mission or other. Besides,

selection for Jerome was virtually guaranteed

at birth. He is blessed with all the physical

and intellectual gifts required for such an

arduous undertaking, a genetic quotient second

to none.

Jerome's gaze drifts to the sky.

JEROME (VO)

No, there is truly nothing remarkable about

the progress of Jerome Morrow, except that I

am not Jerome Morrow.

EXT. BEACH. DUSK - THIRTY-ODD YEARS EARILER

A starry sky. The camera tilts down to find palm trees

swaying against a setting sun.

JEROME (VO)

I was conceived in the Riviera. Not the

French Riviera.

The camera tilts down further to find a Buick Riviera parked in

a deserted beachfront parking lot on a polluted stretch of

beach.

JEROME (VO)

The Detroit variety.

Through the car's steamed windows we see Jerome's mother and

father, MARIA and ANTONIO, early twenties, making love.

JEROME (VO)

They used to say that a child conceived in love,

has a greater chance of happiness. They don't

say that any more.

INT. FAMILY PLANNING CLINIC. DAY.

MARIA, wearing a medical gown, lies on an examining table, feet

in stirrups. A NURSE, forties, wheels an instrument tray

towards her. Maria suddenly disengages her feet from the

stirrups and swings her legs off the table.

NURSE:

What are you doing?

MARIA:

(shaking her head)

I can't do this.

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