This Is Why You Suck: The Take That and 'The Morning Show'
The Take That is a literary device that usually doesn’t work, but can sometimes be genius.
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Very early in the first episode of The Morning Show, Apple TV+’s hit streaming series1, scrappy local reporter Bradley Jackson (Reese Witherspoon2) travels to a protest at a coal mine and unleashes an angry diatribe at a man who has bumped into her cameraman, knocking him down (I’ve edited some of the back-and-forth for clarity):
“Oh, yeah? I'm fake news? What's the real news then? You tell me five facts about coal, and I'll let you go. I bet you don't know jack shit about coal. You're just out here trying to raise some hell ... If it's so positive, why do you think all these people are out here protesting? Do you think it's dangerous? Do you even know what's in coal ash? Arsenic, copper, lead, mercury, uranium. That is some toxic shit. And what about jobs? How many jobs have been lost in the last ten years? Thousands! Thousands of fucking families knocked on their asses. And it's just a big wheel that goes around. Liberals add sanctions. Conservatives remove those sanctions. And they just keep fighting 'cause all they wanna do is hear themselves talk. And they all want to be right. And they all wanna win. And that's all they fucking care about. And there's a human cost! And it's exhausting! I'm exhausted!”
I was immediately reminded of another ill-advised speech, this one written by Aaron Sorkin and appearing in the first episode of The Newsroom in 2012, delivered by news anchor Will McAvoy (Jeff Daniels3):
“Just in case you accidentally wander into a voting booth one day, there's some things you should know, and one of them is, there's absolutely no evidence to support the statement that we're the greatest country in the world. We're 7th in literacy, 27th in math, 22nd in science, 49th in life expectancy, 178th in infant mortality, 3rd in median household income, number 4 in labor force, and number 4 in exports. We lead the world in only 3 categories: number of incarcerated citizens per capita, number of adults who believe angels are real, and defense spending, where we spend more than the next 26 countries combined. 25 of whom are allies. Now, none of this is the fault of a 20 year old college student. But you, nonetheless, are without a doubt a member of the worst, period, generation, period, ever, period, so when you ask, "What makes us the greatest country in the world?" I dunno know what the fuck you're talking about! Yosemite? [Pause] It sure used to be. We stood up for what was right. We fought for moral reasons, we passed laws, struck down laws for moral reasons, we waged wars on poverty, not poor people. We sacrificed, we cared about our neighbors. We put our money where our mouths were, and we never beat our chest. We built great big things, made ungodly technological advances, explored the universe, cured diseases, and we cultivated the world's greatest artists and the world's greatest economy. We reached for the stars, acted like men. We aspired to intelligence, we didn't belittle it, it didn't make us feel inferior. We didn't identify ourselves by who we voted for in our last election, and we didn't [sighs] we didn't scare so easy. We were able to be all these things, and to do all these things, because we were informed. By great men, men who were revered. First step in solving any problem is recognizing there is one. America is not the greatest country in the world anymore. [to the moderator] Enough?”
I mean those are both a lot of words, aren’t they4? And they’re packed with details and passion, and basically represent a kind of Platonic ideal of a response we all wish we could manage when we argue with people about, well, anything5. I call these little ditties Take That Speeches. They come in many forms, but a Take That is categorized by a few simple traits: It’s generally delivered in a scathing fashion designed to imply the total defeat and destruction of the other character, it usually contains perfectly-remembered details6, and it’s usually designed to be an attention-getting Moment at the beginning of a story. They are usually a very, very bad idea, because no one actually speaks this way.
They can be fun to write, of course. Writing a character is an opportunity to craft an alternate reality where you, the writer, are cool and dominant7 via the avatar you’re creating, and a Take That is where you can pour all the stuff you wish you’d remembered to shout when you were arguing with your friend about politics at the bar8. But as with a lot of things that are fun, Take That Speeches are often terrible ideas in practice, because they come off as overly writerly and unnatural9.
To get a better feel for why this is, let’s look at a very good Take That Speech—also written by Aaron Sorkin10!
It’ll be Because You’re an Asshole
To be fair, the “Because You’re an Asshole” scene at the beginning of The Social Network isn’t a classic, traditional Take That—but this is also why it works so much more effectively despite serving much the same purpose.
Bad Take Thats like the first two examples suffer from two deficiencies: One, a lack of context about the character being yelled at, and two, an overly data-packed nature that results in people having perfect recall about minor details that simply feels false in the moment. Consider The Newsroom’s Take That—we know absolutely nothing about the young woman who asked the question Will McAvoy is responding to, so his devastating speech exists in a vacuum, divorced from stakes or emotional impact. It’s also packed with wonky bullshit that no one hearing it could possibly fact-check in real time11. The purpose of the speech is simply to make Will McAvoy look super smart, but instead it feels mean and hollow.
In The Social Network the speech works better because Mark Zuckerberg (Jesse Eisenberg) is there (and actually gets to talk) to provide some context. We see how he behaves, how dismissive and sarcastic he is. So when Erica (Rooney Mara) lays into him, it lands better because we have some minimal information about his character and their relationship, which makes her complaints sticky. The Take That in The Morning Show feels like Bradley Jackson is shouting at a rando, because she is, and thus it just comes across as bullying12.
I’m Sorry You’re Such an Asshole
Take Thats are difficult to do effectively because they’re essentially stagey: The character delivering one isn’t really addressing other characters, they’re addressing the reader or viewer. It’s a performance designed to demonstrate something about them to us, usually that they’re smart and/or passionate and possibly an exciting! character! to watch! But that inherent stageyness is impossible to smooth out and remove entirely, leaving us with just a flat theatricality.
As a writer, I can attest to the lure of the Take That. It feels propulsive, it feels exciting, and it’s fun to write13. There’s every reason to believe it will put a jolt of energy into your story and attract the reader’s attention. Except it usually does the opposite: It distracts, and it undermines, because it’s like peeling back the curtain in The Wizard of Oz: Your reader can suddenly see all the sweaty effort you’re putting into writing this damn story14. The only way to make a Take That work is to pull back, tone down, and make sure both sides of the speech are fleshed out enough to make the reader care.
When I include a Take That in my writing it’s generally flawless, because I’ve been workshopping these speeches in the bathroom mirror my entire life <bursts into tears>.
NEXT WEEK: Colin from Accounts biffs the cringe.
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Just to be clear: The Morning Show is not good, but somehow it is not good in a way that keeps you watching. Science cannot explain this.
It must be exhausting when your public persona is “she’s a firecracker!”
It must also be exhausting when your public persona is “weary know-it-all".”
Pro writing tip: If you’re on deadline and have a minimum word count, quotes are your best friend.
As opposed to my usual tactic of shouting “I don’t know nothing ‘bout that” and throwing a smoke bomb, then attempting to crawl away unnoticed. This also does not work in courts of law, I have found. And yet I keep doing it.
Maybe Normal People do remember this level of detail? I’ve spent my whole life unable to remember my own name, so I may be prejudiced.
This is, of course, why all writers begin writing, whether they’ll admit it or not.
Obligatory Jerk Store reference.
Much like us writers. Have you seen us? We’re basically ghouls.
And cocaine. Always with the cocaine, that guy.
This is why the Internet had ruined everything: We used to be able to shout out random, made-up facts in an argument and no one would ever be able to prove us wrong. We used to be a real society.
Is Shouting at Randos the title of my memoir? Shut up, random Internet person!
I once wrote a novella that ended with a lengthy This-Is-John-Galt-Speaking kind of diatribe from Kincaid, the main character, and when my brother Yan read it he called it “Lord Kincaid’s Farewell Address” and I was so salty about the critique I retitled the chapter exactly that. Thank goodness I had the good sense to never show it to anyone else, ever.
And writing is sweaty work. Right? Please god tell me everyone sweats like this when writing.