Authors: Joe Muto
Tags: #Non-Fiction, #Politics
Unfortunately for the embarrassed Hilton Hotels and some nameless DOJ bureaucrats, the muffin story, false though it may be, perfectly coincided with Bill’s book tour.
10:00
A.M.
The morning conference was when the real work of building the day’s show began. The senior staff connected on a four-way call. From my vantage point outside Stan’s office, I could hear them on speakerphone gearing up for it like troops going into battle. “Are you ready for this?” “Yeah, are you?” “Here goes nothing.”
One of them would dial Bill’s house. He’s all business when he picks up the phone. A curt “good morning,” then Gayle begins reciting what she calls the “comp report.” Right off the bat she tells him how many e-mails came in after the previous night’s show, and what topic elicited the most messages. (“We had thirty-five hundred e-mails last night, most of them in reaction to the immigration segment . . .”)
Bill took the e-mails—sent by our audience to [email protected]—pretty seriously, regarding them (not inaccurately, I’d say) as a direct gauge of viewer interest. Each morning, two unlucky women on the staff had the unenviable job of sorting through the e-mails and printing out a representative sample of fifty to sixty. Bill, to his credit, reads these personally. He selects a handful to be read on the air. If he likes some others but doesn’t consider them air-worthy, he’ll instruct our lucky mail combers to send a signed book or some “kind words”—a response e-mail reading,
Thanks for the kind words. Signed, Bill O’Reilly.
I’d glanced at the show’s in-box from time to time and had been blown away by the sheer incoherence and illiteracy of some of the respondents.
54
This would sometimes present a problem, for Bill liked his e-mails to be short, pithy, and not written by a complete moron.
This was a surprisingly tall order on certain days.
On one occasion, there was an e-mail that Bill really wanted to read on the air. One of the producers noticed that the e-mail was signed with an obvious gag name: Jack MeHoff. Clearly, that’s unreadable on television. But Bill liked the text of the e-mail so much that he couldn’t bear to cut it from the mail segment. After pondering for a bit, he decided on a course of action: “Let’s just change the last name to Mehoffer.”
Despite producers pleading with him that the slight name change was not much, if at all, better than the original, Bill stuck to his guns, reading the letter with the modified name on air. The rest is YouTube history.
Back to the conference call. After the e-mail tally, Gayle would read off the list of guests on the competing shows—whatever guests CNN and MSNBC had the night before, and whatever guests Hannity and Greta were scheduled to have that night.
Next, the call got to the real nitty-gritty: Bill started talking about what he wanted on the show that night.
The Factor
was one hour long, divided by commercial breaks into seven “blocks,” identified by letters
A
through
G
. The first six blocks all needed a topic and a guest, while the last block—the shortest one—usually contained the viewer e-mail segment, plugs for merchandise, and other
Factor
business.
The Factor
differed from a straight news program in that all of the segments are, with a few exceptions, interview segments. The advantage of this is that interview segments are incredibly easy to produce. A single associate producer can put together an entire segment by his- or herself in about an hour, without even getting up from a desk.
The associate producer (also sometimes called a segment producer, for obvious reasons) would call the guest on the phone and get them to agree to come on; conduct a pre-interview; book a car to bring the guest either to the New York studio to sit with Bill or to a remote studio with a satellite connection; do some research on the topic; cut some b-roll; plug in some graphics; and call it a day.
Contrast that with something like the nightly network news, which uses an anchor who tosses to reporters who introduce highly produced taped pieces known in the industry—somewhat suggestively—as “packages.” (As in, “Hey, did you see Jake Tapper’s package last night?” or “The local affiliate has a great package on that.”) A good package will combine b-roll, graphics, interviews, and narration from the reporter.
The advantages of the network news model is that the reporter packages are a lot more slick and tell a better story in a much more concise and visually appealing manner. The downside to the network model is that it’s very time- and labor-intensive, with each package requiring painstaking work from a reporter, producers, a cameraman, a sound technician, an editor, and so on.
Also, a pretaped package lacks some of the urgency, some of the energy and excitement that a spontaneous interview segment contains.
The interview format is one of the reasons for Fox’s financial success. They churn out our product faster, for less money and with fewer staffers. It’s simple economics.
When O’Reilly picked the topics for the show, he’d usually have a specific guest in mind. Sometimes he’d give it to one of our “regulars,” guests who appear every week. (These include, in addition to the aforementioned Messrs. Rove, Morris, and Goldberg, figures like comedian Dennis Miller and Fox daytime anchor Megyn Kelly.) But sometimes he’d want a guest who was not one of the regulars but, rather, someone who would take a certain side on an issue, or an expert with certain biographical details.
Often these requests got hilariously specific: “We’re doing a gay marriage segment—get me a black lesbian civil rights attorney!” or “I want to do a segment on the Super Bowl next week—find me a funny white sports expert under forty! But he can’t be bald.”
One of the most important things the segment producer did was the pre-interview, which was exactly what it sounds like—we’d interview the guest a few hours before Bill interviewed them. We tried to think of the same questions Bill would ask, and would take notes, condensing and bullet-pointing whatever the guest said. Eventually, we’d give this “POV” to Bill, along with research on the topic.
The end result was that, barring the occasional surprise, Bill knew exactly what his guest was going to say in the interview, sometimes down to the last word. In this way, cable news somewhat resembled professional wrestling: The outcomes were predetermined, with the host not only choosing his guests based specifically on the stance he knew they were going to take, but actually getting a preview of their arguments several hours in advance so he could formulate his counterarguments.
Noon
Bill would get into his chauffered town car for the drive from his Long Island home to Fox headquarters in Manhattan. During this drive, he’d call the line producer and dictate the script for that night’s show.
Cursed with speedy typing skills, I would occasionally get roped into taking dictation on these calls. Listening to him write the entire show in his head on the fly, I realized that Bill O’Reilly is much smarter than any of his critics give him credit for. There’s not a ton of writing in a typical episode of
The O’Reilly Factor
—once you get past the Talking Points Memo, it’s only relatively short introductions (“Our next guest is a Fox News analyst coming to us from Washington, DC . . .”) and teases before the commercial break (“Coming up, Karl Rove will weigh in on the GOP primary race . . .”)—but the mere fact that Bill writes the whole thing himself, every word, separates him from almost every anchor in the building. And the fact that he does it all in his head, dictating it on the fly, is nothing short of astounding.
One funny point about this, though—Bill is, unsurprisingly, the ultimate backseat driver, so the dictation calls are constantly punctuated with his yelling at Carl, his poor beleaguered driver. Bill would dictate a couple lines, then scream a bit at Carl, berating him for getting caught in traffic. Then he’d tick off a few more lines, then bark at Carl again, telling him that if he didn’t find a different route, Bill would be forced to take over driving duties.
1:30
P.M.
Bill would usually arrive about this time, traffic permitting, then head into his office and have lunch, which his long-suffering, saintly assistant, Margaret, would bring to him. He wasn’t into fancy lunches—strictly a soup-and-sandwich-at-his-desk kind of guy. But he was still as demanding with his orders as he was with everything else in his life.
A sandwich shop got his order wrong one time, and Bill called Margaret into his office.
“Look,” he said. “I’m not mad at you, Margaret. But they put the wrong cheese on this thing.”
“Do you want me to get you a new one?” Margaret asked, sounding relieved that she wasn’t going to catch the blame for once.
“No,” Bill said. “I want you to take it back to them, tell them they screwed it up, and get the money back.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Are you actually going to say that? Because I definitely want you to say that to them. ‘You screwed it up. Bill O’Reilly wants his money back.’ Are you going to say that to them?”
“Yes, yes, I’ll say that,” Margaret insisted.
I don’t know if she did end up doing it or not. She’s one of the nicest, most soft-spoken people in the world, so it’s hard for me to picture her throwing a sandwich back in the Quiznos guy’s face. But on the other hand, she’s worked for O’Reilly for more than two decades, so who the hell knows what she’s capable of?
2:00
P.M.
–4:00
P.M.
On Mondays and Thursdays, we had pitch meetings during this block of time. On Tuesdays, O’Reilly had his weekly powwow with the company VP, Bill Shine. And it seemed as if the other two days of the week there were always other things clawing for his attention. But every once in a while, he got this time to himself, and we’d find him lounging on the couch in his office, shoes off, his six-foot-four frame spilling over both sides, just reading the paper. It was kind of endearing, actually.
4:30
P.M.
Bill would get anxious around this time every day, like a kid on Christmas Eve—because it was ratings time! The number crunchers e-mailed out spreadsheets at the same time every afternoon, with data about the previous day’s shows. We’d get ratings for not only all the Fox News shows but also all the shows on CNN, MSNBC, and Headline News, broken down into fifteen-minute increments and separated into total viewers as well as the coveted age twenty-five to fifty-four demographic.
As much as I’d thought my colleagues on
The Lineup
were obsessed with the ratings data, O’Reilly made them look like absolute amateurs. First, if the number crunchers were even one minute late with the data, Bill would get agitated, calling Manskoff every few minutes to impatiently ask him if the e-mail with the spreadsheets had come in yet.
When he finally did get the sheets, about fifteen pages in all, with tiny print and column after column of numbers, he’d pore over the digits as if they held the secret to finding the Holy Grail. If the number for
The Factor
was good, he’d crow about it for the rest of the day. If the number was bad, he’d panic, making phone calls until he determined what had gone wrong: “Eugene, we dropped thirty-three thousand in the demo last night in the final quarter. Remind me what we had in the back of the show last night?”
Eugene would tell him the name of the guest, or the topic, and Bill would decide that the show would no longer be covering that topic, or would cease inviting that guest.
Most of my fellow producers took the boss’s cue and obsessed over the numbers as much as he did, but it always felt like chicanery to me. To make changes in programming, important decisions about what stories to cover and which guests to use, based on minute changes in a system as imprecise and imperfect as the Nielsen ratings seemed irresponsible, barely better than reading chicken entrails. But Bill had lived and died by those ratings for so long that he didn’t know another way. (And to be fair, his method seemed to be working, because he’s enjoyed more than a decade at number one. So maybe I’m the one who doesn’t know what he’s talking about.)
4:45
P.M.
Bill heads down to a private room in the basement to get his hair and makeup done. A device that Ailes had installed in every green room in the building methodically sucks the life force out of five adorable baby puppies and deposits it into Bill’s face, keeping him fresh and youthful-looking for one more day.
5:00
P.M.
Showtime!
6:00
P.M.
Show’s over. A quick wipe-down with a hot towel in the green room to get rid of the makeup and puppy tears.
6:05
P.M.
Back to the O’Reilly pod for the show’s postmortem meeting, where we’d discuss what went right and wrong that night. These were short and uneventful normally, consisting of nothing more than Bill looking at the big bulletin board, sighing, and saying, “That was okay tonight. I think we might get away with that.”
6:10
P.M.
O’Reilly gets into the town car to head home, warming up his vocal cords in case Carl the driver takes yet another wrong turn.
April 11, 2012—6:18
P.M.
They didn’t have me dead to rights, but they were close enough.
In the end, what did me in wasn’t my writing or an intercepted e-mail between me and my handlers at
Gawker
. It was the video clips.
In mid-2008, the network had finally transitioned from the antiquated physical videotape system it had been using. The tapes, which were recycled and reused over and over, were literally falling apart, disintegrating before our very eyes. The technology—which had been state-of-the-art when the network was founded in 1996—was so obsolete by 2008 that the manufacturer had stopped making both the tapes and the machines that played them.