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In truth, NBC had abandoned the field a year before, when, in another declaration of paradigm upheaval, it had pronounced the upfront era dead, with much the same revolutionary zeal it had when it introduced an even earlier paradigm-buster called TV 2.0, which posited that the eight p.m. hour was no longer a place for high-priced scripted comedies and dramas but should ideally be filled only with low-cost reality fare. As had been the case with the TV 2.0 plan—which had faded quickly into television press-release history—the decision to kill off the upfronts was less a matter of paradigms than piles of dimes. Jeff Zucker, NBC’s chief executive, who announced each successive paradigm shift with the same resolute fervor, had targeted the upfront as a financially extravagant relic of a past era when broadcasters were flush with cash, and no longer relevant at a time when networks were squeezing program budgets for pennies and slashing staffs with broadswords. (NBC was only six months removed from an announcement of five hundred layoffs.)

It was in December 2007, in the midst of a disruptive writers’ strike, that Zucker had pulled the plug on the traditional upfront, “in light of the current business environment,” as he put it. He dismissed the elaborate presentations—which usually featured stars walking out onstage and making inane scripted comments about shows they knew little about because they had only acted in a pilot by that point—as a chore and a bore that induced people to show up only because of the lavish parties that followed them. “It’s a show that everyone wants over as soon as possible,” Zucker proclaimed. “People always say: Can’t we get to the party sooner?”

NBC, a network that had once taken in as much as $800 million a year in profits, was now exsanguinating red ink after years of disastrous prime-time ratings. Under the increasingly green eye-shaded vision of its corporate managers at General Electric, it had done away with both the presentation and the profligate party in 2008, initiating instead something it cutely labeled the “infront.” This consisted of a scaled-down series of presentations to ad buyers—with no fancy after-party. Advertisers would get a chance to offer their own input after an earlier-than-usual look at NBC’s proposed shows, though many would be based only on scripts or sketchy outlines, because NBC also wanted to cut out expensive pilots.

In 2008 NBC staged the infront more than a month before its competitors’ week of upfronts. But in 2009, after another year of dismal results with new programs, the network decided to schedule the process closer to upfront week, holding it in New York on May 4, only two weeks prior. Zucker had added the Comedy Showcase event (again, minus the party) after deciding NBC needed to be a presence during the upfront, what with all those buyers, affiliate managers, and studio heads in town. “It’s another way to reinforce our brand,” NBC’s entertainment division chief Ben Silverman said.

Zucker turned to a man he trusted—and loved like a brother—to put together his comedy night, or as several NBC executives had taken to calling it, the “chuckle-front.” Michael Bass had opened doors for Zucker when both men were at Harvard, and later at NBC; the two had been roommates for a time in New York; both had been producers at NBC’s Today show. (Zucker, as all of television knew, ignited his career there as executive producer during the strongest era in Today’s history.) After a stint running the CBS morning show Bass had returned to the NBC fold, at Zucker’s invitation, to take charge of special events—like hastily arranged comedy nights.

Bass assembled the Town Hall event from familiar NBC parts: He called on Rainn Wilson from The Office, Tracy Morgan from 30 Rock, and Seth Meyers and Amy Poehler from Saturday Night Live, all for brief appearances. Bass had prevailed on one of the network’s greatest stars, Jerry Seinfeld, to drop by as an unannounced guest to toss five minutes of surefire stand-up into the mix.

But the headliners were not in doubt.