have a friend who produces an acclaimed television series—not sci-fi, not that it makes any difference in this case. He has always wanted to break out of the series mill to produce or direct a TV movie or limited series.
So he called the network where he's had a mutually beneficial relationship for several seasons now, hoping to arrange a time to pitch this new project.
To his amazement, he was told, in essence, don't bother.
"We love you, we love you, we love you," the network said, unconsciously echoing the famed I-tell-you-three-times rule of early computer programming—meaning the statement must be true.
"There is no chance, zero, none," the network continued, "that we are going to pursue any stand-alone project that comes without auspices."
The dictionary defines "auspices" as patronage. In Hollywood, especially in that corner of Hollywood known as television, the definition is further refined as patronage by Famous Names from outside the television world. Oprah Winfrey. James Cameron, for sci-fi projects. Jerry Bruckheimer for crime procedurals.
(Let me add—not only for purposes of preserving the shards of my career, but in the interests of accuracy—that I only cite these as frequently mentioned examples.)
Sure enough, according to my friend, the network went on to describe an ongoing project that was sufficiently, er, auspicious. It was a fairly lame TV movie that simply happened to have a major feature film star as its producer. The network acknowledged that this major film star would, in all likelihood, never read the script or take part in any phase of its production.
Can you imagine my friend's frustration at hearing that the door was closed? That the value of his idea—forget his undoubted ability to bring it to life—was worthless?
I've had my professional nose rubbed in this unpleasant pile of truth before, but I am nowhere near as famous as my friend: I had hoped he would qualify as "auspices" for me.
I have gone through the phases of anger and acceptance without ever quite grasping the reason, without hearing an explanation of what seems, to me, a self-defeating policy. (Does a bad project with great auspices do the world any good?)
I never knew why it existed.
Until now.
Television marketing is Lost
The reason is promotion.
It isn't that network executives can't recognize good ideas or don't like good stories—it's that they are faced with the immense challenge of making their audience aware of a new project, of forcing their signal through the chattering noise of a hundred competing channels. As another colleague of mine—similarly auspices-challenged—says, "If they know they're spending $5 million to make a TV movie that will cost them $20 million in promotion, it'll never happen."
Oh, heck, it isn't even channels on cable or broadcast—a sci-fi television project competes for attention from the game business, which has outstripped feature film exhibition in gross dollars.
Double heck. Getting a project noticed in the marketplace isn't the first challenge.
It's got to be sold within the company. It is a rare executive who can green-light a movie or a series "in the room." Even those who can are still limited to the first step of a deal, uttering the magic words "Go write—we'll call your agent."
A pickup for production, a spot on a schedule, all of these elements must be approved by executives at different levels, in different divisions (business affairs to negotiate, advertising and promotion to sell). When you're dealing with corporations the size of Time Warner, Viacom or Universal—and, let's face it, if you're doing television, you're dealing with one of them—the business of pushing a project is akin to executing the invasion of a country.
The ability to say, "Bruce Willis is the producer" gives an executive magical powers.
In the marketplace, being able to present a project as "brought to you by" Tim Burton or Martin Scorsese or George Clooney or Tom Hanks is essential.
If you don't have those auspices, you must plan a marketing campaign that is as complex and time-sensitive as the invasion of a country.
Take the recent rollout of ABC's terrific new series Lost. ABC devoted millions of dollars of its own airtime to promoting it. The network bought billboards. Its public relations team cleverly arranged for all kinds of interviews, photos, Internet fodder, etc., timed to break on the Sunday Lost premiered.
It worked brilliantly, helped by the fact that the TV movie/pilot was terrific. It also helped that it was under the auspices of "the creator of Alias."
Look at Susanna Clarke's new novel, Jonathan Strange & Mr. Morrell. If you haven't heard of it, you have probably been under medical treatment in an undisclosed location. This book exploded into my consciousness in a shower of reviews, interviews and ads, all timed for the same week.
All huddled under the auspices of another famous book: "Jonathan Strange is Harry Potter for adults" is the phrase I kept hearing.
This promotional effort wasn't on the same scale as that of Lost, but it was still impressive.
Welcome to the Wal-Mart universe
Another definition for "auspices," of course, is "omen"—a sign of bad things to come.
While working on a space-related project some years back, I saw a comment from a veteran engineer, who was quite upset about the universal use of computer-aided design and modeling systems. Not that CAD/CAM systems weren't incredibly useful; that was acknowledged.
But in using them, new engineers were always basing designs on previously existing templates. It was easier to call up a classic wing and work modifications on it than to start from scratch. "At this rate," my ancient engineer grumbled, "no one's ever going to draw a wing with a new shape."
The sci-fi writer side of my brain ignites when I hear this. Nothing will ever be new again. We're sliding into the Wal-Mart universe, where the only projects that can be sold are those that have been sold before—or sold by entities that have sold before—where the true power rests with advertising and promotion.
Which sounds like an updated version of the nightmare world in Frederik Pohl and C.M. Kornbluth's The Space Merchants (1953).
Of course, the television side of my brain is already thinking, now that I know the secret, how can I get Mel Gibson interested in this—?
Michael Cassutt's novel, Tango Midnight, will be published under the auspices of Tor Books in January. He is writing scripts for Fox Studios and Promark.
