Whatcha got, B.F.?

“Whatcha got, B.F.?”

“This tops everything.”

“Everything?  Are you talking Glee?”

“Okay, everything, except maybe Glee.”

“Well, lay it on me, B.F.”

“A woman travels alone through Europe.  She mumbles incoherently in German cathedrals.”

“Okay, production values.”

“The woman is disheveled.”

“Who plays her?”

“My wife, she works cheap these days.”

“I like what I’m hearing, B.F.  Gwyneth running wild through Germany.”

“Without a passport.  She’s stuck there.”

“Hmm, but we need San Fernando endings, you know.  You are the king of the San Fernando ending — the bow-tied, wrapped, pleasant, no loose-ends, ending.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll be run through focus groups.  Anyhow, here’s San Fernando: Out of the blue, Madonna comes charging up to Gwynster with a notebook.”

“That Madonna?”

That Madonna.  Gwynnie knew her.  It is time for her to crack open her Rolodex and get back in touch with the Queen of Sex.”

“Well, the narrative?  I cannot wait for more, B.F.”

“Madonna hands Gwyneth the notebook.  Gwyneth looks at it quizically.  Then she understands its importance.  Gwyneth is ecstatic.  She jumps up and down with Madonna.

“Wow, WOW!  But what’s in the notebook?!”

“To be determined, okay?  Then, from the wings of the church comes the homos and lesbos from the surviving Glee cast, gyrating to Taylor’s Bring it On!

Shake it Off?”

“Yeah, same song.”

“Geez, this premise is too much!  Then what?”

“I haven’t figured it all out yet, but Netflix is optioning.  I’m exec producer, script consultant, and creator.”

“Creator, yes, you are God, B.F.  You are God.”

“And you’re producing.”

“I have been anointed by God himself!  I cannot wait to see how the loose ends all fit together in your usual, nice, tidy package.”

“Well, at this point, I hand it to an intern, and he gets scale.”

“B.F., you are the God of economical television.  What was your last package deal again?”

High eight figures, my friend, high eight figures...”


[I am afraid to mention his name, not only for legal reasons, but because it is a kind of bad karma.  This is the quality of dialog he writes, here between Ms. Paltrow and a Gleek (and this is what keeps me going as a screenwriter):

Generic Gleek: “What do you know about Cee-lo, you’re like forty.”

Substitute teacher, Holly Holliday: “Top forty, sweet cheeks, hit it!

Authors of B.F.’s Netflix deal must have missed this memo.]


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