THE REALTOR
A 22- EPISODE THRILLER WITH AN ARC
“All anyone wants is something better than what their parents had. That’s what they got, and you deserve that, too. This is Canada.” – Jennica Koltblut, Re/ Max
The Realtor follows the endless days and sleepless nights of Jennica Koltblut, a mercurial girl born and raised in Bridgeland who’s entering the real- estate game straight out of REAP ( Real Estate Associates’ Program), which she paid for her effing self. She hasn’t seen her folks since Easter Friday 2012 when she trumpeted the news of her acceptance to the renowned
Copenhagen Business School ( the only one she applied to) just as her folks broke the news that they were financially ruined and she was on her own. A period of white rage swallowed the next 18 months, from which Jennica emerged with a Realtor’s licence tucked into her tall riding boot, and a vaguely Copenhagenian accent. In the first episode, Jennica sets forth into the hostile Calgary market she plans to dominate, one way or another.
Quite Danish in look and feel, this murky drama zooms in— way in— on the private and professional life of this sullen, ambitious Re/ Max rep. There are gloomy, rainy driving scenes that track in on Jennica’s fathomless expression. There are intimate scenes with handsome boyfriends who come and go at the drop of her Urban Outfitters tuque. There are meetings over crunchy croissants and steamy espressos, courtesy of Phil & Sebastian in Marda Loop, Mission, and everywhere else they happen to pop up as Jennica cuts a sold- sign swath across town.
Jennica’s hunger for sex and sonically pleasing pastries—“Dey compfort me…”— is matched only by her lust for success. But as with any good Danish episodic, things are not as simple as spinning a MLS listing and reeling in the catch.
In the second episode, her broken past begins to disfigure her present. In the middle of an open house, she is beset with blurry visions of her entitled childhood: a golden retriever, an Easy- Bake Oven, a little cabin in the mountains and her parents in skisuit onesies…. Beset by an overwhelming metaphysical hunger, Jennica starts popping crunchy pills— downed with Fisk vodka— and finds herself fielding phone calls and unsettling visits from a Mission cop who whispers “condo or bungalooow?” and jingles his keys every time she runs into him at the cafe. It may not actually mean anything, but rather than try to understand her place in history or to attend the greater good, Jennica compulsively pursues her drug of choice: the sale… no matter where the bodies are buried. And we mean bodies. Times are tough everywhere and many in this town need to get out. So if a client, say, kills her spouse and hasn’t done so well at burying her tracks, Jennica knows where to find the young wind- power couple “from away” who will bite at anything with a fresh mound of desert- grass landscaping.
If an inspector doesn’t like what he sees and also happens to fall into the emptied pool with a cocktail of Kicking Horse and rat poison in his gut, well, Jennica won’t mention it to the nice solar- energy lady who’s just come here looking for a fresh start. “Betterrr what she don’ know,” she’ll murmur, as she seals the quick- dry cement bag, watches the pool fill and sees the crimson swirls of blood fade to turquoise just in time for possession.
Every week, somebody dies, but Jennica’s no murderer. Sure, she’s not; not at first, anyway. She’s all about “moving forrrward” as she always says in pressed speech, with that weird “rrr” sound. According to her, the future’s so bright it’s blinding. But when the market heats up again and an ambitious young couple comes calling about a precious little cabin they’re flipping
in the hills, Jennica gets a gun. And, as it turns out, switching sides from fluffer to killer isn’t such a biggie: fatal latent defects behave pretty much the same whether they’re in a support beam or a jugular.
Who knows what happened to the parents she wished she’d had. Or, why hers were so totally stupid about their RRSPs. Or, like, why she didn’t get the parents she wished she had that one of her friends got— the friend who went to effing Queens … Or something more Oedipal and freaky … We don’t know …
The Realtor understands this and this alone: Jennica Koltblut will stop at nothing to get you what you deserve.