Career Suicide (part II)

“A Very Brady Suicide”

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What if Greg and Marcia, the two oldest members of the Brady Bunch, made a suicide pact?



How would this transpire?
More importantly, how could you make this funny?



You laugh, now.

Funny?

What’s not funny about the Brady Bunch addressing the topic of suicide.
Besides, you told yourself, the best form of deterrence is ridicule.

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“I theenk…, you ees seek.”

Her brown-leather boots had rounded toes. The scuff marks on each boot were the lines of sneering mouths.

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In your concept, the father, aka Mike Brady, venerable architect, with the unwavering support of Mrs. Brady, would eventually demonstrate that suicide can be reduced to just another potential pitfall of puberty.



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Suicide? Sheet. Nothin’ the Brady Bunch recipe for successful parentin’ cain’t lick. Heck, here’s a secret, right here. Alls ya need for some good ole’ fashion strong parentin’ is a dash a yellin’, mix in a good talkin’-to, add a healthy dose of paternal-eesm- that one importint, a solid glossin’ over a surius ish- yous, and if no-ones lookin,’ you kin use a strong han or a steek. It shood come out aw-right.



Sheet. My kids call me ever Sunday from the pen n don say thas not good parentinin.

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The idea crept in, found a warm spot, and deposited her cottony snatch of eggs.



One of the little hatchlings, then, fired your agent.

The others set to breeding and carving out havens for eggs of their own.



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Career suicide.

You decided on career suicide.


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In your now infamous spec script, you opened with Greg and Marcia slipping quietly into the bathroom.
Greg is carrying a faded-navy duffle bag.
The audience doesn’t yet know what’s going on,
but it is pretty apparent that these two are into something illicit.



After this clandestine bathroom rendezvous,
the camera moves to show Mrs. Brady,
in a bovine-like plod to the bathroom for a shower and
a much-needed loofah session.
She wears only a towel.



In a stunning bit of arrogance, you didn’t bother to review any of the Brady Bunch shows or learn the actual name of the Mrs. Brady character. Instead, you tried to simply instill the family with varying degrees of the sort of wholesome naiveté you imagined were common to the era. Nobody who read the script took any issue with your failure to reference Mrs. Brady’s first name.



Mrs. Brady is moving melodramatically towards whatever is taking place in the family bathroom.
With her wooden-handled back-scrubber, she waves off the frantic maid, (Alice?) who is pleading for a raise.
The camera holds on the maid’s face; the audience hears canned-laughter while observing the disfiguring facial tics of the desperate maid.



“Oh, go join the LPGA already.”



With a dismissive wave of the back-scrubber, Mrs. Brady enters the bathroom.



She lets out a gasp, and fumbles to clutch at her towel.



Marcia and Greg are hunched, back to back, bent-knees in the air. The bathtub is slowly overflowing.

The water is on hot, and flows steadily in a thin, barely audible stream. The room is thick and hazy with steam.



Greg methodically empties aspirin directly from the pill-bottle into his mouth.

He chases the pills with a swig of vermouth.

He passes the aspirin to Marcia, silently lifting, then passing the pill-bottle over his shoulder.

He passes the vermouth like this too.

Now Marcia pours aspirin from the bottle into her mouth, follows the pills with vermouth, and swallows.



You thought this part was great fun, because Mrs. Brady is frozen watching this and the suicide-bent kids are in turn, oblivious to her.


TV gold. You smile now, remembering laughing, and saying this aloud as you wrote.



TV gold.



The audience hears only strained, swallowing sounds, and water erupting gently from the bathtub.

Each pass of the bottle sends more water over the edge and onto the linoleum.

 
(part III on the way)