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 that'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 impact 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 mill,

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 realise

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 you're using is still screaming in pain?

Wow. That's exactly the kind of deeply moral headfuck we've been looking for.

It starts off

-as a zippy wealth satire. -Great.

Fucking bastards, Bugatti's and Beaujolais, right?

Yachts, cocks and kidnap insurance. Then out of nowhere…

We're in the middle of a complete continental 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 gonna say three words.

-Just imagine… -Shit.

-Love it. Fantastic. So fantastic. -It's a really personal story.

-…from their conscience. -Totally visionary.

-What kind of money are we talking…? -Concentrate.

-Let them wash over you. -New ideas, a new voice…

-Sort of… -And fathers.

-Gloom. -Nukes.

And that's why it's perfect for your small platform.

I am gonna 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, 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?

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 3? -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 full sentences in the face of his opulent glow.

Hmm. Now, is the glow coming through the sweat stains

or sort of emanating around the sweat stains?

Okay. 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.

Hmm. None of that bittersweet bullshit. It's a happy ending.

She moves back to Barcelona.

She stops trying to take their daughter to London.

They become a functional fucking family all over again. How about that?

Huh?

Okay, Don Quixote. This has been cute.

Really cute.

Christian?

Yeah, we should be going.

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. Come on! -Yeah. 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's 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.

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. -Laura.

Mmm-hmm.

-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, okay.

-Jesus. -Fuck you too. And you.

-We need a fucking cake. -What kind does she like?

I dunno, check her TikTok or something.

Why am I only getting bottom-of-the-bag chips here, Christian?

There are good pitches going round, 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 jet doing here?

-Picking up Baby Coop? -Baby Coop's got his own plane.

-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.

-Ha, ha. -Hmm.

I like your dress.

Okay. 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 award winners.

Oh, God. Right. Um…

-Okay, for Isabelle Huppert: flowers. -Uh-huh.

-Yellow ones, obviously. -Obviously.

And the note… "Congratulations, bitch."

For François Ozon: flowers, bottle of wine, something South American.

With a note: "Congratulations, you fucking prick". My phone.

-Is this definitely the right tack? -Yeah. It's familiar,

makes it sounds like we're best buds in the whole wide world.

-Like a fuck-filled friendship bracelet. -What about for Dame Judi Dench?

Call all the women "bitches" and all the men "pricks." Or vice versa.

I'll mix it up.

How do I look?

Find out about the jet.

I've worked my fingers to the bone for this thing.

-Good to see you. -So nice to see you.

Mini Milk Ice Queen!

Hello, Sebastian. Sir. You look amazing.

Oh, wow. Still wearing that thing? We going to a premiere or a disco in 1997?

Care to share what your father's plane is doing here?

Oh, you think that's for you?

I just need to be kept abreast of any developments.

I'm meant to be flying to Barcelona tonight.

Commercial air travel. The mud huts of the sky.

-Wouldn't wanna miss that one. -See you in a sec.

-I hate these fuckers. -He's the man.

Apparently people call my dad "The Chicken Coop" 'cause he's so full of shit.

Speaking of, hear Pearson is dead?

-What, Jeffrey Pearson? -"Jeffrey"? What are you, his nanny?

But yeah, first Puvved and now "Darling Jeffrey."

-That rocks the boat a touch. -Couple of big bricks out the Jenga Tower.

Yeah, it's "Iceberg Ho" for the industry power balance

and my dad's too busy waving his magic dick around

and sending Cinderella to the ball.

Wait, am I…?

Am I…?

You… Oh, you?

Oh, no, pumpkin, you're not Cinderella.

No. In fact I've been on my knees every night,

praying that Daddy-O picks pretty much anyone else but you

to run for whatever it is he's scheming. And, voilà, the Lord did giveth.

Yeah, it's here for Alba.

So, you'll just have to keep sniveling around me for a while.

Oh! Uh… Mind the glass ceiling on the way up.

Hey, it's you again!

Is that all?

-Seb, can we talk just quickly--? -Uh-uh.

-Hi. -Here she is.

Little Miss Right-Place-Right-Time.

I just heard, Sir. How thrilling. Is everyone up to date?

Mr. Snail, I consider you a real hero of mine.

To work alongside you… it's an honor.

-Yeah, yeah, kissy, kissy. -No, I mean it.

All your productions bear your unique producorial stamp,

and this one's no exception.

-It's stunning. -Great.

Well, in that case, if you've seen it… Laura, you can sit this panel out.

Alba makes more sense now that she's… …above you.

We'll make the announcement at the end.

- Here you are! -Ah!

My favourite actor…

- Seb, you look fabulous. -Come here.

-Your skin! -I know.

-You bathed in olive oil! -I'm glowing.

I'm like a slim, toned pregnant lady with a dick.

-Who are the ladies? -This is Alba.

She's our new prize fighter. She loves our movie.

Ooh… Nice to meet you. And of course… Um…

-Laura. -Laura. Laura! Laura Palmer!

"Who killed you?"

Twin Peaks.

-Laura. Laura, ready? -I think it's gonna be Alba, actually.

Okay, let's go.

Alba. Hey. Um…

Look, obviously I'm disappointed.

And I'm smarter and better than you in every way.

If it couldn't be me… You know.

What are you doing?

Congratulating you, I guess. On…

-on being a worthy adversary. -Psst! Psst!

One sec.

You know this company is Pale Stale Male to the core.

Maybe we women need to find the way to support each other.