Not to be too on-the-nose, but as long as we're talking about Network, how about the monologue by Arthur Jensen? He literally tells Beale, "I'd like to sell something to you." https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NKkRDMil0bw 1. Problem: Beale has screwed up the balance of the world by meddling with forces he doesn't understand. 2. Remedy: The natural order of the world is to run like a business. In this model, society will evolve into a utopia where everyone "will hold a share." 3. Solution: Beale will use his influence to preach this message to the people.

Boom! That's a GREAT example, N D. Slots right into the sales pitch template. Thanks!

In watching the scene again, I neglected to mention how well staged this pitch is. Problem: Beale slumps in his chair in the darkened conference room. Jensen stands at the far end of a long table, spotlight on him, like an angry god berating Beale from the top of Mount Sinai. Remedy: Jensen tones it down. Calmly, slowly steps out of the light to approach Beale on his level. Solution: Jensen stands directly over Beale, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder as Beale proclaims, "I have seen the face of God!" This guy knows how to close a deal!

N D, actually a much smoother, polished set of movements as what Beale does in his Mad As Hell rant, literally starting in one place, then moving forward. Underscores the 'forward' momentum of the sales pitch. Makes me want to watch the great speech in Patton, see how that plays per this idea.

Reading this it reminded me of Shakespeare's St' Crispin's Day speech in Henry VII. 1. Problem: They're weary, outnumbered and likely to die. 2. Remedy: They're all in it together, and will fight side by side. 3. Solution: At the end of the day, whoever stands will tell of this day and will stand a great man.

Well, now we're REALLY getting somewhere. Shakespeare! What's he that wishes so? My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin; If we are mark'd to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England. God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more methinks would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his purse; We would not die in that man's company That fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is call'd the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.' Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.' Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he'll remember, with advantages, What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words- Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester- Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

YES! This thread makes so much sense. And while I love the St. Crispin's Day speech, my favorite monologue from all of Shakespeare -- "Upon the King" -- comes just before it in the play. Here, King Harry is "selling" to himself, and by proxy, to the ultimate source of his power, God. This is the quintessential "dark night of the soul" moment and is beautiful in every respect. Here's the link to Kenneth B's marvelous take: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pbqF_QcOIxY PROBLEM: The fate of his army, their lives, rests upon the King. But Harry knows he's powerless. Just a man enfolded in the robes and responsibilities of the King, with only "ceremony" separating him from the lackey slave. He can't even command himself to sleep! REMEDY: He bargains with the source of his power, God Almighty. Imploring his help, offering penitence and proof of his charity, and promises to do more. SOLUTION: Steeled by this prayer, he accepts the heavy responsibility...delivers the St. Crispin Day's speech...and wins the day. It's all part of a larger 3-part sequence showing the growth of Harry as a character and as a monarch and leader. Here's the text: EXT. ENGLISH ENCAMPMENT - AGINCOURT, FRANCE - NIGHT Deepest night. King Henry V sits beside a dead campfire, the encampment shrouded in fog tinged with silver-blue moonlight. He's the only soul still awake. KING HENRY V: Upon the king... Let us our lives, our souls, Our debts, our careful wives, Our children and our sins lay on the king. Who must bear all. O, hard condition! Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath of every fool, What infinite heart's ease must kings neglect that private men enjoy? And what have kings that privates have not too, Save ceremony? And what art thou, thou idle ceremony? What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet but poison'd flattery? O, be sick, great, greatness, and bid thy ceremony give thee cure! Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee command the health of it? King Henry V stands, walks alone through the fog of the sleeping camp. He stops by a commoner, asleep on the bed of a wagon. KING HENRY V: No, thou proud dream, that play'st So subtly with a king's repose; I am a king that find thee, and I know: 'Tis not the balm, the sceptre and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, The intertissued robe of gold and pearl, The farced title running 'fore the king, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world. No, not all these thrice-gorgeous ceremony, Tot all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, Who with a body fill'd and vacant mind Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread; Never sees horrid night, the child of hell But, like a lackey from the rise to the set Sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and all night Sleeps in Elysium; Next day after dawn Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse, And follows so the ever running year, With profitable labor to, his grave: And, but for ceremony, such a wretch, Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep, Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king. An old, silver-haired knight approaches. It's Erpingham. ERPINGHAM: My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence, seek through your camp to find you. KING HENRY V: Good old knight, Collect them all together at my tent: I'll be before thee. The old knight moves off. King Henry V falls to his knees: KING HENRY V: O' God of battles! Steel my soldiers' hearts; Possess them not with fear; take from them now their sense of reckoning, if the opposing numbers pluck their hearts from them. Not today, O' God, not today think not upon the fault my father made in compassing the crown! I Richard's body have interred anew; and on it have bestow'd more contrite tears than from it issued forced drops of blood: Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay, who twice a day their wither'd hands hold up toward Heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests sings still for Richard's soul. More will I do; Though all that I can do is nothing worth, since that my penitence comes, after all, imploring pardon. GLOUCESTER'S VOICE (FROM AFAR): My liege! KING HENRY V: My brother Gloucester's voice. I know thy errand. I will go with thee: The day, my friends, and all things stay for me.