Then two faint lights appear, close together... growing brighter. They
resolve into two DEEP SUBMERSIBLES, free-falling toward us like express
One is ahead of the other, and passes close enough to FILL FRAME, looking
like a spacecraft blazing with lights, bristling with insectile
TILTING DOWN to follow it as it descends away into the limitless blackness
below. Soon they are fireflies, then stars. Then gone.
2 EXT./ INT. MIR ONE / NORTH ATLANTIC DEEP
PUSHING IN on one of the falling submersibles, called MIR ONE, right up to
its circular viewport to see the occupants.
INSIDE, it is a cramped seven foot sphere, crammed with equipment. ANATOLY
MIKAILAVICH, the sub's pilot, sits hunched over his controls... singing
softly in Russian.
Next to him on one side is BROCK LOVETT. He's in his late forties, deeply
tanned, and likes to wear his Nomex suit unzipped to show the gold from
famous shipwrecks covering his gray chest hair. He is a wiley, fast-talking
treasure hunter, a salvage superstar who is part historian, part adventurer
and part vacuum cleaner salesman. Right now, he is propped against the CO2
scrubber, fast asleep and snoring.
On the other side, crammed into the remaining space is a bearded wide-body
named LEWIS BODINE, sho is also asleep. Lewis is an R.O.V. (REMOTELY
OPERATED VEHICLE) pilot and is the resident Titanic expert.
Anatoly glances at the bottom sonar and makes a ballast adjustment.
3 EXT. THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA
A pale, dead-flat lunar landscape. It gets brighter, lit from above, as MIR
ONE enters FRAME and drops to the seafloor in a downblast from its
thrusters. It hits bottom after its two hour free-fall with a loud BONK.
4 INT. MIR ONE
Lovett and Bodine jerk awake at the landing.
(heavy Russian accent)
We are here.
EXT. / INT. MIR ONE AND TWO
5 MINUTES LATER:
THE TWO SUBS skim over the seafloor to the sound of
sidescan sonar and the THRUM of big thrusters.
6 The featureless gray clay of the bottom unrols in the lights of the subs.
Bodine is watching the sidescan sonar display, where the outline of a huge
pointed object is visible. Anatoly lies prone, driving the sub, his face
pressed to the center port.
Come left a little. She's right in front of us, eighteen meters. Fifteen.
Thirteen... you should see it.
Do you see it? I don't see it... there!
Out of the darkness, like a ghostly apparition, the bow of the ship
appears. Its knife-edge prow is coming straight at us, seeming to plow the
bottom sediment like ocean waves. It towers above the seafloor, standing
just as it landed 84 years ago.
THE TITANIC. Or what is left of her. Mir One goes up and over the bow
railing, intact except for an overgrowth of "rusticles" draping it like
mutated Spanish moss.
TIGHT ON THE EYEPIECE MONITOR of a video camcorder. Brock Lovett's face
fills the BLACK AND WHITE FRAME.
It still gets me every time.
The image pans to the front viewport, looking over Anatoly's shoulder, to
the bow railing visible in the lights beyond. Anatoly turns.
Is just your guilt because of estealing from the dead.
CUT WIDER, to show that Brock is operating the camera himself, turning it
in his hand so it points at his own face.