Rich Flu (La fiebre de los ricos)

So, overnight, all diseases are eradicated.

No one dies of natural causes anymore.

Within ten years, global population doubles.

Economic collapse, food rationing, rioting on the streets,

and the governments impose these birth control restrictions

and limit healthcare for the over-80s, but

it's nowhere near enough.

So, they decide to identify and execute everyone

that's contributing least to society.

How?

An algorithm.

A complex algorithm that identifies and measures everybody's

social, financial, artistic, and emotional impacts on the

world.

And all of this is wrapped up in

an entertaining, thought-provoking, rollercoaster ride of a

movie.

What do you think?

What's it worth?

Well, with the budget that we sent you,

we can make the best film of next

year.

But even if you were to shave off

a couple of mil, we could still make,

like, a decent movie.

It's brilliant, Justin.

You prophetic prick.

Just let me pitch it to the team.

Oh, man, I'm psyched.

Our investigators realized that the scientist was murdered

by timber lobbyists after they found out that

plants can feel pain.

They suffer as much as humans when physically

harmed, especially after they're cut and shaped and

mutilated into chairs like this.

They're still alive.

Can you imagine how amazing it would be

if you knew that the pencil that you're

using is still screaming in pain?

Wow.

That's exactly the kind of deeply moral head

fuck we've been looking for.

So it starts off as a sickly wealth

satire.

Fucking investors, bigoties, and bourgeoisie, right?

Yachts, cocks, and kidnapped insurance.

Then out of nowhere, we're in the middle

of the complete contentious collapse.

And then it becomes this elemental odyssey.

Wow.

Wow.

God, I would love to just get in

that brain of yours.

I'm only going to say three words.

Just imagine.

Oh, shit.

Love it.

Fantastic.

So fantastic.

It's a really personal story.

It's from their conscience.

Totally visionary.

What kind of money?

Regina, concentrate.

Let them watch.

New ideas, a new voice.

He's one of three fathers.

Grown nooks.

And that's why it's perfect for your stream

platform.

I am going to give you a call.

All right?

It's a love story.

Are you surprised?

Yeah.

Guy and a girl.

He's a screenwriter.

I mean, well, he used to be, but

to be honest, he's been in and out

of quite severe writer's block for quite a

long time and also depression.

You know, I think I've seen this one

before.

I'll carry on anyway.

So he keeps going to these festivals, right?

And he's trying to get ideas away.

He's pitching all the time, but nothing.

When do we find out about his drinking

problem?

Act three?

So she.

A hag, presumably.

Is a superstar in the making.

I mean, everyone wants to work with her,

pitch her ideas.

And she's a million miles away from the

starstruck intern that he took under his wing

20 years before.

Starstruck.

Starstruck.

She was starstruck.

She couldn't move for it.

She wasn't able to complete four sentences in

the face of his opulent glow.

Now, is the glow coming through the sweat

stains or sort of emanating around the sweat

stains?

OK, how does it end?

It's a happy ending.

They both go off into the sunset, holding

hands, drinking like pomegranate juice and stuff.

Having found the true meaning of Christmas.

Mm, none of that bittersweet bullshit.

It's a happy ending.

She moves back to Barcelona.

She stops trying to take their daughter to

London.

And they become a functional fucking family all

over again.

How about that?

Huh?

OK, Don Quixote, this has been cute.

Really cute.

Christian?

Yeah, we should be going.

You know, you can't just keep airdropping yourself

into Anna's peripherals whenever it suits you.

She has a life.

We have a life in Barcelona.

And it's not enough.

Your one bed, ready meal shrug of a

lifestyle isn't enough for her.

I'm sorry, Tony, I don't mean to be

cruel, but I'm trying to give Anna the

kind of opportunities I could never have dreamed

of.

That is what I'm working for.

Oh, is that what you're working for?

To save my only daughter from her father's

merry-go-round of mediocrity?

Yes.

Do you know that I've got a theory

about you?

You know those juice fast things that you

like to do?

Those cleanses?

I think that perhaps one of them was

a little stronger than you'd anticipated and washed

your fucking soul away.

Are you a person or just a sort

of animate haircut?

I really can't tell.

Flora?

Did you get the cake?

What?

For our daughter's birthday, did you get our

daughter a birthday cake?

Of course.

But, you know what?

Fuck you.

Yeah, OK.

Fuck you, too.

And you.

We need a fucking cake.

What kind of cake does she like?

I'm going to check her TikTok or something.

Why am I only getting bottom of the

bag chips here, Christian?

There are good pictures going around.

I'm not in any of them.

You've got time.

Do you know something I don't know?

Oh, God, I would hope so.

What's Daddy Coop's job doing here?

Picking up Baby Coop?

Baby Coop's got his own thing.

What, you think it's the Alaska Jet?

I think he's picked the horse.

It's adorable to me that you think it

actually might be you.

I am widely adored.

I like your dress.

OK, so it looks like as long as

it's not a climate change cake or a

police brutality cake, we should be fine.

Find out about the jet and who it's

here for.

What the fuck?

I need your notes for the war on

windows.

Oh, God, right.

OK, for Isabelle Huppert, flowers.

Yellow ones, obviously.

Obviously.

And the notes, congratulations, bitch.

For Francois Ouzon, flowers, bottle of wine, something

South American.

With a note, congratulations, you fucking prick.

My phone.

This is definitely the right time.