Broadcast News Page #17

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WOMAN:

And it's not like he just didn't

hire a twenty-six-year-old producer

himself.

MAN:

No kidding, twenty-six.

Jane moves to the steps and starts up, greeting several

people nervously. More bits of DIALOGUE, leaking from

conversations of both substance and expedience.

ANONYMOUS OLDER MAN

Remember Brinkley's great line

-- "It's as irrevocable as a

haircut."

Now, on the second level, she scans the crowd.

JANE'S P.O.V.

The floor below. Tom in the world's best-fitting tux... Clusters

of people from around him but he works his way easily through them

as he looks for Jane and grins his greetings, men are buoyed,

women's pulses throb.

ON JANE:

As she silently mouths the words -- "smile and move and smile

and move." Which is exactly what he's doing. Then a contract

with the gods.

JANE:

(to herself)

If he doesn't see me soon, we're not

supposed to be together.

ON TOM:

Seeing her. -- He does a tap step -- a brief giddy burst, the

meaning of which is not lost on Jane. He is acting like her

boyfriend.

ON JANE:

Anxiety stripped away revealing a first glimpse of Jane as a

joyous pretty young woman.

ON TOM:

Moving quickly up the stairs -- as she walks toward him.

TOM:

(excitedly)

It's incredible who's here.

JANE:

Who?

TOM:

Me!

She laughs. Almost completes an affectionate gesture -- takes

his arm instead.

INT. NEWSROOM - NIGHT

Aaron seated in the main newsroom in shirt-sleeves, writing. He

takes the just-completed page out of the typewriter and walks over

to the weekend news PRODUCER. (W.N.P.)

AARON:

Want to look at this?

W.N.P.

Sure.

George Weln appears...

GEORGE:

(to Aaron)

What are you doing here?

AARON:

(feigning casualness)

The weekend news...anchoring...

anchoring the weekend news.

GEORGE:

Way to go.

Aaron nods, as the Producer finishes the copy.

W.N.P.

This is terrific news, Aaron. It's

a pleasure to read.

AARON:

Thanks. Oh, there's water on the set,

isn't there, in case I get an attack

of cotton mouth.

W.N.P.

Sure. You'll be fine.

AARON:

(feeling patronized

and repelling)

I'll be fine! Yes!! I know!!!

INT. BALLROOM - NIGHT

Bomb sniffing dogs, SECRET SERVICE MEN and D.C. POLICE monitoring

the members of Washington's most trustworthy elite as they pass

through the metal detector. The line moves slowly -- Jane and

Tom several couples back.

OFF-CAMERA VOICE

(o.s.)

Can I have your autograph for my wife?

Tom and Jane turn to see a grinning Paul.

TOM:

How you doing, Paul?

PAUL:

So this is why you wouldn't do the

Weekend New, you can't turn down

a free meal.

TOM:

Yes, born to party.

Paul enjoys the riposte, looks at Jane who is shrinking within

herself.

PAUL:

I'll see you two inside -- I think

we're all at the same table.

(sotto to Jane)

You're finally learning to be flexible.

Glad you changed your mind about Tom.

He passes through the detector... Tom starts to step through it --

she pulls him back.

JANE:

I'm sorry. I don't want to go in

there and sit with everybody.

(imagining it)

I can't...why don't you go?

He considers this option as she waits.

TOM:

Suppose I go in for a little while and

you wait in the lobby-bar. How's that?

JANE:

Good. That's it...See you.

She walks off. He runs a few steps to stop her.

TOM:

Jane.

She turns.

TOM:

You're not going to take off on

me, are you?

JANE:

Uh-uh.

She steps on the escalator... Riding upwards, concern deepens,

anxiety flows.

ON TOM:

Watching her to up the escalator, he finds himself doing

simplest thing, stepping onto a moving step.

FULL SHOT:

Jane four steps ahead of him -- not yet aware of him. He moves

past one other man until he is standing directly behind her.

TOM:

I just want you to know that my

giving up the Correspondents' Dinner

puts tremendous pressure on you.

Jane turns and is a bit blown away by his gesture -- life

threatens to be good. And now Jane bumps a bit at the top of

the escalator, regaining her balance by grabbing Tom's offered

hand. As they walk they continue to deliberately hold hands.

INT. NEWS STUDIO - NIGHT

WE are on the studio floor, FOCUSING on the activity around

the Anchor Desk and three cameras... The FLOOR MANAGER stands

ready to cue Aaron, the script is ready to roll on the prompter

machine.

FLOOR MANAGER:

Twenty seconds.

ON AARON:

Making sure he is seated on his jacket -- taking one last look

at the hand mirror being held by the MAKEUP WOMAN. She starts

off -- but Aaron regrabs the mirror almost making her lose her

footing -- a check -- then another check -- he points to a spot

on his forehead which she dabs with the makeup sponge... Both of

them fuss enormously with his hair -- four busy hands.

FLOOR MANAGER:

Ten seconds.

AARON:

How many?

FLOOR MANAGER:

Ten.

AARON:

Okay.

He watches the Makeup Woman scurry underneath a camera lens,

resits on his jacket and finally has the moment the system has

been denying him for years. We can HEAR the END OF HIS CUE

in a barely AUDIBLE CRACKLE from the Floor Manager's earphones...

"...with Aaron Altman."

AARON:

(on TV)

Good Evening...In mood and language

better suited to an espionage novel

than the delicate world of the Western

Alliance, the British Foreign Secretary

today pounced on what he termed, 'The

nest of profession spies and amateur

traitors who were turning NATO

Headquarters into an instrument whose

only true function is folly.' We begin

our coverage with Edward Towne in London.

Aaron looks up -- takes a breath. He's done well -- he's

punched his words and his one thought for the story. His gaze

has been steady, his voice firm but he has begun to perspire.

He dabs with his finger at the first trickles from his brow --

brushes some more prominent sweat from his upper lip... He

beckons nervously to the Makeup Woman -- who comes in and dabs --

then dabs again as Aaron feels himself under his arms...

MAKEUP WOMAN:

Gee whiz.

FLOOR MANAGER:

Five seconds.

She scurries away, Aaron reaching for another Kleenex from her

box and missing it... A graphic illustrating his next scripted

section appears behind him.

AARON:

...the sub-bases referred to are

located in five countries...

And now the moisture on his face is clearly discernible -- the

Floor Manager and Makeup Woman grimacing at the growing specter

as they look at a large monitor.

AARON:

France, Belgium, the Netherlands,

Spain as...

And now so much moisture sprouts from his upper lip that he

pushes his lower lip out to slurp away the sweat... The Makeup

Woman laughs briefly out loud before catching herself...

Aaron's eyes dart angrily in her direction.

AARON:

We well as Great Britain...Our own

State Department was rocked not only

by the revelation but from the highly

unusual persistence from the State

Press Corps. Martin Klein reports on

the ruckus at Foggy Bottom.

Half-beat until he's sure that he's off -- his shirt now

showing distinct sweat stains...

AARON:

Help me.

The Makeup Woman picks up her Kleenex box -- then thinks

better of it...

MAKEUP WOMAN:

Someone finds me some big towels.

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