THE ART OF THE SPIN
The Night Before
The
theater was empty. The only sound to be
heard was the low hum of a male voice, speaking quickly under his breath. Alex “Killer” McDonald was reciting his
speech for his network Upfront at the podium.
He was intently focused; not only on the words but on the rhythm and musicality
of what he was saying. He had pinpointed
exactly where he would raise his voice: where he would lower it. Every lilt and hold was carefully planned for
maximum efficacy.
Tomorrow wasn’t just important; it
was everything. The True to Life Media
Network had finally developed enough original content so that they could start
phasing out the acquisitions they had been re-running over the years. The Upfront would be the first time
advertisers got a taste of what the new True to Life would be; and it was the
“Killer’s” job to show it to them.
Not that True to Life had anything
to worry about. Alex was the best Head
of Development any network could hope for.
He knew what would sell, but more than that, he knew how to sell it. He could make a turd look like a diamond;
which is why this Upfront was going to be a highlight in his already
accomplished career. Tomorrow, he’d
stand in front of a sea of professional salesmen and fleece them for all they
were worth.
As Alex recited the last line of his
speech (to his immense satisfaction), he exhaled and looked up. On the lip of the stage he saw Deirdre
Sinclaire, the President of True to Life, sitting with her legs hanging over
the apron. She swung them forward and let
them land against the wood with a THUD.
THUD
THUD
She reminded Alex of a child: bored
out of her mind. He smirked behind her
back.
“All done,” Alex said as he walked
over and sat down next to her.
“Sounds great,” Deirdre said
listlessly.
“What are you so down about?” Alex
asked in disbelief. It WAS great. He was about to, single-handedly, turn True
to Life into the best destination for Reality programming.
“I think I’m just tired,” Deirdre
said in a tone that sounded…beaten. “And
stressed. Six weeks, we’ve been prepping
for this.”
“You have nothing to worry about,”
Alex said with a subtle hint of sarcasm.
As if she had ever had anything to worry about. “I’m gonna make you look great tomorrow.”
“You
always do,” Deirdre replied. “Your pitch
is great. You’re gonna kill it. But for the life of me, I don’t know why.”
“What?” Alex asked with a smirk and
a snort. He had never seen Deirdre this
way. Her being stressed out generally
meant she was over-caffeinated. She
would talk a mile a minute and try to consider every angle on a decision over
the course of a half-our conversation.
It was Alex’s job, in those situations, to calm her down: to focus
her. That, he knew how to do. But this mellow, seemingly hollow Deirdre was
throwing him.
“Our programming is shit,” Deirdre
said calmly.
“Deirdre. That’s not true. Think about…”
“Stop,” Deirdre cut him off. “I don’t know what you’re going to say, but I
know that somehow you’ll convince me I’m wrong.
You’ll convince me what we’re doing is worthwhile. And I’ll believe you. It’s bullshit, but I’ll believe you.”
Alex stayed quiet. Watchful.
“We’re about to announce a total
rebrand of True to Life. We’re shifting
our target demo to one that’s forty years younger than our current
audience. Which means the seventies
sitcoms we’ve built True to Life on get scrapped for a new slate of Reality
shows. Sanford & Son, Happy Days, M*A*S*H…pulled from the air in one
fell swoop. Quite possibly never to be
shown on television again,” Deirdre sighed audibly. “Larry Gelbart, forgive me.”
“Deirdre,
no one remembers who Larry Gelbart is,” Alex said matter-of-factly. “You should be thrilled. You’re gonna be able to sell the shit out of
this slate.”
“Oh I know,” Deirdre said looking
out into an empty theater.
That was it. Deirdre didn’t say anything else for a
while. The two of them just sat there in
what felt like the most isolated place in the middle of New York City.
“How do you feel about your pitch?”
Deirdre finally asked.
“I feel great about it. It’s some of the best writing I’ve ever
done. Clear, concise, specific but with
broad appeal; it’s what people who sell things want to hear,” Alex bragged.
“Yeah, I get all that,” Deirdre
said. “But how do you feel about it?”
“I just told you,” Alex was
dumbfounded.
“Do you believe it?” Deirdre turned
to him now, to look him in the eye.
“What?”
“Do you believe what you’re saying
about these shows?” Deirdre clarified.
“Who cares?” Alex dismissed. “I know this slate is what the sellers
want. But I still have to show them why they want it.”
“You call these shows ‘real looks at
the neglected communities of America.’
You say they’re ‘spotlights on diversity.’ But we both know what they really are,”
Deirdre said in a tone that intimated Alex could drop his guard and be sincere
with her for a moment.
“I’m not following you Deirdre,”
Alex said, denying her nonverbal plea for honesty.
“They’re trash Alex,” she said
sincerely. “And trash is trash, no
matter how diverse it is.”
“That’s just your opinion,” Alex
corrected in a haughty, college know-it-all sort of way. “Our shows will matter to a lot of
people. Is that wrong?”
“No,” Deirdre said throwing up her
hands and letting them fall quickly.
“Because I’m the one selling it to them: like the cashier at a candy
store. We offer nothing nutritious,
informative, educational…nothing real.
And I understand people wanting to indulge in that every now and then,
but we’re not targeting those people.
We’re targeting the people who want to drown in garbage. The people who hate their vegetables. The people who scream the loudest on the
forums and social media even though they’re the least informed. Then we’ll package that idiocy up into a new
show that regurgitates it back to them, and they’ll love us for it. Who cares if we’re making fun of them? We’re acknowledging them, and that’s all they
want. And the cycle will go on like
that. Because the people who’ll devour
these shows are stupid…and we’ll have helped make them that way.”
“Jesus Deirdre,” Alex put a hand to
his forehead in mock shock. “Get off
your soap box and join the rest of us in this real world you’re afraid we’ve
lost sight of. Art is subjective. Even the most acclaimed shows on TV have
people who hate them. People who think
they’re…are you ready for this?
Trash. Do you think you can tell
them any different?”
Deirdre turned back to the audience
seats.
“You can’t. Because at the end of the day, all that
matters is what you tell yourself. It’s
how you look at your own circumstances.
There are garbage men who are the happiest guys in the world, and there
are rock stars that shoot themselves before they turn twenty-five. Which one is better off?” Alex took a
deliberate pause. This was his decrescendo
on his way to belting the high C.
“You are the president of a
successful network…so far. I know I can
make you all the money you need to branch out from Reality. I promise you, I will bring you shows you can
be proud of. But I need you get up on
this stage tomorrow, be confident, give a big smile, and bring me on like you’ve
never been more proud of anything in your life; because the people in this room
decide what we get to make. But I swear
to you, I can make these people decide what they want to buy,” Alex delivered,
with all the showmanship of an Anthony Warlow eleven o’clock number.
What
felt like several minutes passed by. Then,
Deirdre let her head fall to her chest.
She exhaled and picked herself back up.
When she turned to look at Alex again, he smiled to see he recognized
this person. The President of True to
Life was back.
“Killer, you’re gonna knock’em dead
tomorrow,” Deirdre said with a big, showy smile.
Comments
Post a Comment