A white title appears on a black screen.
"One doesn't discover new lands
without consenting to lose sight
of the shore for a very long time."
The title fades off, replaced by a second title.
"We're all in this alone."
INT. A WOMB. DAY.
A fiber optic camera observes a five-month-old MALE FETUS as he
gently floats, weightless, suspended in the amniotic fluid of
his mother's womb. We focus on the unborn's hand, already a
tiny, exquisite work of art, moving towards his newly formed
lips. He sucks his thumb.
INT. HOSPITAL - DELIVERY ROOM. DAY.
A seconds old BABY BOY - umbilical cord still attached,
smeared with blood and protective skin grease - is held up
by an anonymous pair of latex gloves to the camera. Shocked by
the unaccustomed light and cool of the delivery room, the
newborn fights for his first, arduous breath. Following almost
immediately, a cry.
From another angle we see the crying infant on a television
screen, the individual lines of the screen clearly visible.
MATCH DISSOLVE TO
INT. CAR - UTOPIA, QUEENS. MORNING.
The face of the baby thirty-four years later, still crying.
TRUMAN BURBANK, thinning hair, a body going soft around the
edges, appearing older than his thirty-four years sits at the
wheel of his eight-year-old Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. He
cries without shame, making no attempt to wipe away the tears.
Pausing at an intersection in a quiet, working-class suburban
street, a spherical glass object suddenly falls from the sky and
lands with a deafening crash on the roadway, several yards in
front of his idling car.
Truman exits the Oldsmobile to investigate. Amidst a sea of
shattered glass are the remains of a light mechanism.
He looks around him but the street is deserted. He checks that
all the surrounding streetlights are accounted for, even though
the fallen fixture is far larger. He looks up into the sky but
there is no plane in sight. With some effort, Truman picks up
what's left of the crumpled light, loads it into the trunk of
his car and drives away.
INT. CAR - TRAIN STATION PARKING LOT. MORNING.
TRUMAN sits behind the wheel of his car, unscrews the cap of
a miniature bottle of Jack Daniels and empties the contents into
his Styrofoam cup of coffee. Stirring it in with his finger, he
As Truman drinks, he becomes aware of the delighted squeals of
children coming from the gymnasium of Utopia Elementary School,
adjacent to the parking lot. The sound of the children triggers
a memory in his head.
EXT. LONG, WIDE BEACH. DAY, TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS EARLIER.
Unlike a conventional flashback, the scene in his memory appears
to be playing on a television screen.
A sandy-haired, SEVEN-YEAR-OLD TRUMAN, runs towards a bluff on
The boy's father, KIRK, late-thirties, beer bottle in hand,
flirts with two TEENAGE GIRLS at the shoreline. Suddenly, the
father remembers his son. He looks anxiously around. The sight
of the boy at the far end of the beach causes him to drop his
bottle in the sand and run to him.