"BoJack, honey," Princess Carolyn sighs, her eyes darting between her ringing phones. "The network doesn't want high art. They want the horse who says 'Whaaaat?' and slips on a banana peel. We need to find a middle ground before they pull the plug."
The year is 2007, and BoJack Horseman is standing in a room full of people who are paid to tell him he’s a genius. This is the birth of The BoJack Horseman Show .
Princess Carolyn checks her Blackberry. "The reviews are in, BoJack. One critic called it 'the end of television.' Another just posted a picture of a dumpster fire."
Fresh off the legacy of Horsin' Around , BoJack is desperate to be seen as a "serious artist." He has teamed up with Cuddlywhiskers, a Harvard-educated neurotic, to create something edgy, avant-garde, and profoundly depressing. The original pilot is a black-and-white existential nightmare where BoJack stares into a mirror for twenty minutes.
BoJack tries to fight it, but the lure of a "hit" is too strong. He lets them add a wacky neighbor. He lets them add a laugh track. By the time they reach tape night, the show is a bloated, nonsensical mess of toilet humor and forced cynicism.
The screen shows BoJack urinating on a copy of the Horsin' Around DVD. The audience in the living room goes silent. On screen, the horse version of BoJack screams at a mailman for no reason. It isn't edgy; it’s just mean. It isn't high art; it’s a car crash in slow motion.
Enter the network executives. They hate the mirror. They hate the silence. They want "attitude." They want "edge" that appeals to teenagers who buy sugar-frosted cereal. Under pressure, the show begins a slow, agonizing transformation. The black-and-white film is replaced with neon lights. The existential dread is swapped for a catchphrase: "Wassup, bitches!"