Free Mad as Hell: The Making of Network and the Fateful Vision of the Angriest Man in Movies by Dave Itzkoff Page A

believe that the correct path to a meaningful message would necessarily lead him back to Howard Beale. But this created further problems: “If we gave Howard a speech at the end of the show,” he asked himself, “what would he say?”
    Acknowledging his self-doubt did nothing to overcome it; the anxiety had not been staved off so much as set down on a page. In the same routine and workmanlike way, Chayefsky typed out a blunt piece of text that, with a bit of revision, would become the opening lines of his screenplay.
    This story is about Howard Beale who was the network news anchorman on UBS-TV. In his time, Howard had been a mandarin of television, the doyen of anchormen, silver-haired, magisterial, dignified to the point of divinity, and with a HUT rating of sixteen and a twenty-eight per cent audience share. In 1969, however, his preeminence was yielded first to Walter Cronkite and then to John Chancellor, and, finally, in 1972, Howard K. Smith and Harry Reasoner took pretty much of what was left of Howard’s audience. In 1973, his wife died, and he was left a childless widower whose ratings were sinking. He began to drink heavily, he became morose and isolated, and, on September 23, 1974, he was fired, effective in two weeks.
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    Dialogue was Chayefsky’s single greatest talent. He was a conduit for spoken words—words as they were authentically spoken and as he wished to hear them spoken—and they emanated from him at variable speeds. Some lines came quickly, and some speeches seemed to pour out of him fully formed, ready for camera on the first draft. Others developed at a more deliberate pace, requiring extensive revisions and evolving over time as his thoughts about his characters changed.
    As during the organizational stage of his scriptwriting, Chayefsky sometimes preferred to write in a straight prose style. These exercises could generate dialogue or stage directions that would carry over into a formal screenplay, or simply reveal the mood of a scene, as in a late exchange between Schumacher and Diana showing that they are drifting apart emotionally.
    She sank into an overstuffed chair, submitted to its comfort, closed her eyes. “I’m dead” she said, “worn out. I’m trying to get some kind of season together for January, and I think I’m going nuts in the process.” She opened her eyes and regarded Max now sitting across from her. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you, Max. I’ve missed you terribly, thought about you. Do you still hate me for taking over your network news show?” “Me,” said Max, “In fact I’ve become quite a fan. I watch Howard every night. In a curious way, he’s become a solace to me. I suppose I’m going through a menopausal panic. All of a sudden, I’ve begun contemplating death and disease. I’ve become conscious of every twitch, stitch, twinge and creak.”
    Or a decisive confrontation between Schumacher and Hackett, the ruthless executive enforcer.
    “I mean, what the hell! What was this, some kind of demented gag!” “Oh, stop screaming, you monkey,” growled Max. “You’ve been after my ass ever since you joined this network, and now you’ve got it. You’ll have my resignation tomorrow and I’ll be out of here by Friday.” “The enormity of it!” screamed Hackett. “I mean, do you have any understanding of the enormity of what you Katzenjammer kids just did!” “I don’t have to take your shit!” roared Max. “Your reorganization plan isn’t effective till January, and I’m not accountable to you! I’m accountable to Mr. Ruddy and Mr. Ruddy only!”
    These words did not all survive to the finished script, but it was in the course of working through this exchange that Chayefsky penciled in, almost as an afterthought, a bit of vulgar marginalia that became one of Hackett’s more lasting utterances: “He was hoping I’d fall on my face with this Beale show, but I didn’t. It’s a big, fat, big-titted hit, and I