Whoever was behind the genius decision to have "Stayin’ Alive" blaring as the soundtrack to Cory’s frenetic backstage stroll at the UBA Upfronts deserves a standing ovation—or at least a hearty slap on the back. The choice was both beautifully chaotic and painfully on the nose, sending me into a fit of cackles. It encapsulated everything quintessentially *Morning Show*. I won’t belabor the point—if you’re a fan, you already know exactly what I’m getting at.
Cory Ellison knows these Upfronts are a make-or-break moment for both UBA and himself. Without securing enough ad revenue from those smug ad execs, he’s out of luck securing the desperately needed loan to stave off financial ruin. He’s already lost Paul Marks; another collapse is simply not an option.
In his true devil-may-care persona (and I mean that as a compliment), Cory dons his "easy, breezy, everything’s under control" smile while working the room with VIPs. But behind closed doors, you know he’s a nervous wreck. And while Cory fancies himself the savior of the company, isn’t it deliciously ironic that as he throws his lavish Hamptons after-party, it’s two women quietly doing his dirty work? At least he had the foresight to have the caterers move the raw bar out of the sun. He’s not entirely useless, after all.
It’s genuinely baffling how much faith he places in Stella to land the ad execs, given the stakes. She’s been vocal about her disdain for Upfronts, and Cory knows full well this is her first time at the rodeo. “Baby’s First Upfronts,” he quips, as she laments the days of the pandemic when such shenanigans were conducted over Zoom. Alas, she’s cast as his hard-nosed closer. She’ll soon regret not pushing back harder when faced with the task of wooing and wining the ad guys.
This so-called “working” “lunch” was so excruciatingly uncomfortable that I felt the need to scrub myself clean afterward. The two execs Stella is supposed to charm are as sleazy and slimy as they come, content to knock back martinis and lob casual misogynistic remarks for hours in the middle of the day. Stella tries to keep pace, playing along, but when their antics don’t let up, she hatches a plan with their waitress to serve her drinks watered down instead of full gin. Eventually, one of the execs catches on and, now thoroughly inebriated and uninhibited, he lays out his terms: he’ll agree to more than her asking price *if* the waitress licks up the spilled drink. Oh, and there’s a $20,000 tip in it for her, too. You can see the moment Stella fractures inside, torn between the degrading humiliation and the need to close the deal. She sits there, frozen, as the whole grotesque spectacle unfolds. She secures the ad money, and Cory is ecstatic, but Stella is no closer. She weeps silently in the car on the way to the Hamptons, her unwell state written across her face.
And as fate would have it, she can't even muster an attempt to rationalize the events by claiming she's safeguarding thousands of jobs. Just as Cory strikes a deal with the company, providing UBA with the loan they desperately need after securing a bountiful surplus of ad revenue, Cory receives some unsettling news. Fred Micklen—yes, that very Fred Micklen—makes an appearance at his Hamptons soiree. After Cory and Fred exchange some barbed jabs, each wearing a plastic smile (truly, it's a masterful display of passive-aggression), Fred drops a bombshell on Cory: he's actually serving as a consultant for the entity financing UBA's loan. Cory will be compelled to seek Fred's approval for every financial decision. Fred will exert control over Cory, and he will exact his price. And let's not forget, as Cory points out while crushing the remnants of Stella's spirit, the fallout that will ensue when word spreads that the discredited Fred Micklen is "still lurking around UBA." The network will never bounce back. Cory can't accept that loan; everything Stella endured was in vain, and Cory, along with the network, might be facing their ultimate downfall.
But hold on! What celestial being descends from the heavens (or rather, a sleek helicopter landing on the beach)? It's Alex Levy, and trailing right behind her is none other than Mr. Paul "Turns Out I'm a Fan of Wilderness Reform Camps" Marks. How did these two find themselves together, and how did Alex persuade him to grant UBA a second opportunity? Simple. She relentlessly pursued him through the bustling streets of New York City, coerced him into her compact car, and treated him to a few rides at Coney Island. And it works! Listen, I'm no billionaire, so I can't vouch for their negotiation tactics, but perhaps carnival rides are the key. It certainly doesn't hurt that Paul and Alex have been exchanging flirty glances since the moment they met, and she remarked, “he’s tall,” or that they spent the entire day simply hanging out and getting to know each other. Moreover, a Mitch Kessler apologist screaming in Alex’s face, accusing her of being a cock tease and “crying rape,” and Alex rising above the fray, allowing herself to be “the punching bag,” seems to have truly clinched the deal for Paul. Billionaires are certainly an odd breed!
The entire escapade, including Alex's heartfelt speech about her commitment to transforming UBA and her desire to “finish what [she] started,” pays off. Paul's arrival at Cory's party signals that the deal isn't entirely off the table, and Cory recognizes this immediately. “Un-fucking-believable. Alex Levy just sealed the deal,” Cory murmurs to himself upon spotting who steps out of that helicopter. Is he impressed? A tad annoyed? Slightly aroused? Probably a mix of all three. Upfronts, baby, here we go!
Even if Paul Marks swoops in like a financial knight in shining armor to rescue UBA from its fiscal woes, it's not as though the network is suddenly devoid of problems. This place teeters on the brink of self-destruction at least four days out of every week. There's undoubtedly still a mountain of cleanup to tackle in the wake of what Chris, with a touch of irony, dubs “Jemima-gate” and Cybil’s subsequent ouster. Thankfully, Chris is leveraging her newly acquired clout at UBA to perhaps catalyze some much-needed reforms.
At the party, she strikes up a conversation with Leonard, the newly appointed Chairman of the Board. When he starts feeding her the same tired, corporate-speak about how UBA is “committed as an institution” to addressing pay inequity, yet offers no tangible action plan, Chris doesn't hold back. In fact, she doesn't mince words in pointing out that she's amassed a whole new army of social media followers in the aftermath of recent events, and wouldn't they be curious to know what, if anything, is being done to rectify UBA's blunders? Leonard appears sufficiently rattled, at the very least promising to raise the issue at the next board meeting.
You can sense Chris's slight discomfort with her own thinly veiled threat, and she confides as much to Yanko. Oh, Yanko. The man remains an oddly troubling, paranoid enigma. He turns deadly serious as he cautions Chris about the perils of wielding the social media mob — how it can swiftly turn against you. Chris believes she can navigate the waters, but Yanko throws out the ever-foreboding adage “no good deed goes unpunished,” leaving me now worried about what dark clouds might gather over Chris as the season unfolds. After all, Yanko was a weatherman for ages; he knows a thing or two about spotting storm clouds on the horizon, doesn't he?
