'Gattaca' Paints Sobering, Visually Stylish Picture of Brave New World

The opening of Gattaca, like the rest of the movie, is an eye-teaser: against a backdrop of cool blue-gray, misshapen bits of matter drift like feathers, only to collect in an unidentifiable heap. Meanwhile, the credits appear in fragments: first the letters that make up the movie title--A, T, C and, more rarely, G--followed by the rest of the name. It's then that the significance of those four letters finally dawns upon you: Adenine, Thymine, Cytosine, and Guanine, the four bases that make up our genetic code. A zoom-out to a view of Ethan Hawke industriously scrubbing his naked body provides the clue to the mystery of the falling matter. It's body matter--hair and dead skin cells.

This lays the groundwork for a futuristic, Brave New World setting in which one's DNA establishes one's lot in life. Births now happen two ways: by natural conception with parents playing the game of random chance, or by predetermining the child's genetic makeup--in effect, creating the perfect child. Hawke plays Vincent Freeman (the name's assuredly not the result of random chance), a "natural" (or an "In-Valid," as they're called, to distinguish from the "Valid" genetic elite) confronting a society where his kind are relegated to grunt work.

Afflicted with nearsightedness and a weak heart, Vincent nonetheless cherishes the impossible dream of becoming an astronaut at Gattaca Corporation, where he works as a janitor. To this higher end, he buys the assistance of a Valid, Jerome Morrow (Jude Law), who, though crippled by an accident, possesses a spectacular set of genes. Jerome supplies him with blood, urine and other samples of relevant body matter to pass the genetic tests, and Vincent "becomes" Jerome Morrow, admitted to the ranks of the Gattaca elite. Jerome's brilliant record qualifies him to lead a mission to one of Jupiter's moons, attracting the amorous interest of a fellow Gattacan, Irene (Uma Thurman). But the scheme hits some very rough waters when a mission director is murdered and an eyelash found near the crime scene is traced to the In-Valid Vincent Freeman.

It's an intriguing premise that goes a long way toward making an impressive though uneven feature film debut for writer-director Andrew Niccol. Gattaca, unfortunately, fails to explore the subtler ramifications and genuinely disturbing socio-economic implications of the situation it introduces. This lack is less than satisfactorily replaced by the individual drama it centers on instead--it's the old, old story of the lone hero who refuses to play the hand that's dealt him.

The film also suffers from clunky dialogue and clumsy structuring: nearly the entire first half is occupied by the cheap and easy device of an extended flashback of Vincent's childhood, complete with voice-over by Hawke. A clever O. Henry plot twist near the end is spoiled by the stupidly predictable confrontation that follows; the love story feels grafted onto this loveless world for Hollywood purposes; and the ending, perhaps inevitably, is a let-down, its tone of solemn optimism recalling the blandly humanistic "this is only the first step" resolution of Contact.

But Gattaca sucks you in visually, drawing attention away from the dramatic flaws. There's a cool, postmodern bleakness to Niccol's vision, and a deftly understated mingling of present-day genetic and computer/technological paranoia, which proves more effective than a flashier sci-fi approach would have been. Niccol also has a way with suspended images, and his most inspired moments, in fact, are purely visual: a pool of blood, spreading from an unseen source, blots the frigidly hygienic, monochromatic polish of Gattaca; a conventionally romantic evening at a piano recital turns suddenly surreal with the appearance of an immaculate six-fingered glove, followed by a swift, eerie close-up of a black-and-white poster of the pianist's hands. Not long afterwards there's a moment of dizzying tension in which Vincent/Jerome, bereft of his contact lenses, halts before crossing a manically busy street, and we suddenly see the blurred, flashing lights through his myopic eyes.

The atmosphere, in fact, threatens to dwarf the human players in the fore-ground--which may not be a bad thing. The actors, in keeping with their genetically programmed characters, tend to the robotic and expressionless. Hawke's efforts at making a ripple in this monolith are muted and only half-successful: he conveys something of Vincent's conscious vulnerability, but not his dogged resolution. Thurman, though a more emotive actor than her co-star, serves principally as a decorative addition, albeit a stunningly beautiful one.

The most interesting figure in this disjointed, unconnected ensemble actually turns out to be that of the "real" Jerome, Vincent's sullen, wheelchair-bound double, who drops hints of injuries beneath the surface that existed even before his actual accident. In fact, the most gripping sequence in the movie involves a painfully drawn out demonstration of Jerome's, not Vincent's, force of will. It is also Jerome's final act, in a ghostly mirroring of Vincent's, that saves the ending from outright banality; the image he leaves--of a silver medal flushed to gold--is arresting, if not terribly subtle. However, Jerome remains a shadowy figure, more a conceptual foil than a full-bodied character.

Nonetheless, Gattaca, despite a certain emotional shallowness, does hit a nerve with its glass-and-chrome model of a society obsessed with the potential for human perfection. Perhaps its best spokesperson is the courteous, kindly-looking genetic "consultant" who, early on, advises Vincent's parents on the birth of their second child. After sketching some of the wonderful and more reasonable tweaking possibilities that lie before them--prevention of genetic defects, diseases, bad eyesight, predisposition to obesity--he finally concludes, in the most quietly persuasive tones in the world, "[The child] is still you...It's just the best of you." It's a chilling moment that taps into the indefinable malaise which keeps us watching: the uneasy consciousness that we're approaching a boundary we can't quite see.