e have spoken here, from time to time, about the shorthand of pitching, the way a sci-fi concept is broken down into a binary formula sufficient to give even the most intransigent studio or network head the idea: "Cheers meets Twilight Zone," for example, is a binary that could apply to a promising series of yore (Nightmare Café), or one that should have been done long ago, but hasn't (Spider Robinson's Callahan's series of novels and stories).
Unfortunately, even when done to perfection, the binary pitch is not the ultimate sales or marketing tool for a sci-fi project: That is the title itself. It is the short phrase—two to five words—that sells a project not only to executives, but to the public at large. It is what will, in success, be shaped into a distinctive logo that permeates movie one-sheets, DVD boxes, book covers, toys and eventually Underoos.
You'd be surprised at how many worthwhile sci-fi projects have died for the lack of a good title.
A working title is hard to find
Exhibit #1, a long sci-fi novel by F.M. Busby about the adventures of a young woman named Rissa Kerguellen. Born into a repressive future society on Earth, Rissa uses her wit and some good luck to escape to space, where she turns herself into a warlord of sorts—then takes vengeance on the whole society that mistreated her.
(The binary pitch? "La Femme Nikita meets Star Wars.")
The novel was originally published in 1976 in two hardcover volumes, one titled Rissa Kerguellen, the other The Long View. Then it was reprinted in three paperbacks, Young Rissa, followed by Rissa and Tregare, then by The Long View. Finally it appeared in an "omnibus" volume (the whole book in one) as Saga of Rissa, which has since been retitled (again), Rissa Kerguellen.
And, I'm sorry to say, not one of these titles work. The use of the lead character's name is an honored tradition in fiction, from, well, Don Quixote in the 1600s to Huckleberry Finn to The Great Gatsby and beyond. But how many sci-fi projects have character names as titles? They often have functions or roles as titles: Stranger in a Strange Land. Lord of Light. Neuromancer. But names? There was Phillip K. Dick's The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch. (But you'll note that Dick still paired the name with an unexpected word.)
I glanced through the listings in science fiction, the 100 Best Novels, a survey by David Pringle from 1985, and found perhaps five books that had a character name as a title. A survey of the novels that won the Hugo and Nebula awards confirms this.
Sidebar: There is, of course, the case of Harry Potter. But that's more traditional fantasy, and I will not be convinced that the words "harry" and "potter" would have meant much in a pitch before 1995.
Busby wrote additional novels in the Rissa cycle, which was given the name The Hulzein Chronicle, after one of the powerful entities in the series. Better, but still not especially marketable. Who, or given that this is sci-fi, what is a Hulzein?
More stars than there are in heaven
Case #2, Phillip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? Great title ... for a novel. You've got androids, which says sci-fi, and electric sheep, which also says sci-fi.
But it wasn't short or punchy enough for a movie poster. So Do Androids Dream became Blade Runner—a title borrowed or purchased from another sci-fi novel, this one by Alan E. Nourse, and dealing with the horrors of future medical malpractice. ...
Then there's the case of Tom Godwin's classic 1958 novel, The Survivors, later reprinted in paperback as Space Prison. The Survivors is actually a perfectly fine title, faithful to the theme of the novel—but hardly unique or catchy in the sci-fi sense. Space Prison conjures up images of an orbiting penal asteroid—and as such is a terrific sci-fi movie title.
But it has nothing to do with the book, and only hurts it as a sales tool.
The most time-tested way to brand your sci-fi project is to pair the word "star" with some other noun. I can still remember the first time I saw the name Star Trek, in the television listings of a newspaper. I was young at the time, and only vaguely aware of what a "trek" was. But I was intrigued, I made sure I watched, and apparently I wasn't alone, because here we are, 37 years later, with Star Trek so thoroughly established that UPN's Enterprise, having voyaged for two seasons without the Star Trek label, finally gave in and accepted it.
Star Wars is another simple combination of words that, once used, becomes lodged in your mind.
The problem with using "star" is that there is a limit to the possible useful combinations. And 30 years after Trek/Wars, with video games and comic books mining the same territory, there just aren't many to be discovered. Some years back a friend of mine was searching for a "star" title for a TV movie, and couldn't find one that hadn't been used—or worse yet, trademarked. He couldn't even find a "space" title.
What happens then is that you try to force a memorable title. There is an excellent sci-fi novel by Allen Steele about the founding of an extraterrestrial colony by a group of humans who have hijacked the first starship. The title? Coyote. Which happens to be the name of the planet that the fugitives reach.
Coyote is a fine title for a novel. As a sci-fi film or television project, however, it sounds like a western. The best binary pitch in the world ("Star Trek meets Exodus"?) won't sell it beyond the first meeting.
Not that I've managed to avoid this trap: my first novel was titled The Star Country. You see, it was about an alien that crash-landed in an Amish-like rural enclave area some years in the future. As a television project, it sounds like a pseudo-reality series.
Unless, of course, I emphasize a character who works with clay, and rename it Star Potter. Hmmm ...
Michael Cassutt is currently executive consultant on USA Network's The Dead Zone. He is also a novelist whose new techno-thriller, Tango Midnight (Forge), is titled after a major character. You'll have to read it to find out.
