Even if you’re not a fan of the 1974 parody Flesh Gordon (and I’m not), the autobiography of leading man Jason Williams makes for an eye-opening read on the member-raising adult film industry. In I Was Flesh Gordon: Fighting the Sex Ray and Other Adventures of an Accidental Porn Pioneer, the all-American Williams (with an assist from blogger Derek McCaw) shares how he went from near-starving actor to the titular role in an instantly infamous, X-rated mainstream hit … and yet remained just outside Hollywood’s periphery. Just as intriguing as his on-set remembrances are his at-home ones, when he tiptoed around how much he should (or should not) tell his then-girlfriend about his workday — in particular, the scene in which he was mounted by a German stranger who guided him inside her when they could have gotten away with, y’know, acting. Published by McFarland & Company, the slim and breezy volume loses steam toward the end, because Williams’ follow-up film, the 1976 pornographic musical version of Alice in Wonderland, has neither the wealth of juicy stories nor the cultural impact of Flesh. It’s this summer’s bio you didn’t know you wanted to read!

The only thing unsatisfying about People Only Die of Love in Movies: Film Writing by Jim Ridley is that the author isn’t around to see it. A longtime force of nature behind the influential alt-weekly Nashville Scene, Ridley was editor when he passed away unexpectedly in 2016; this Vanderbilt University Press hardback exists as a tribute and wasn’t in the planning stages during his lifetime, but it was bound to happen, posthumously or not, for one reason: The way he put words to page was — and is — the very definition of craft. For this collection, co-worker/close friend Steve Haruch assembled nearly 100 of Ridley’s reviews — a generously representative swath that includes a defense of Jackass, a pan of Schindler’s List and liner notes for the Criterion Collection’s release of The Umbrellas of Cherbourg. My favorite piece, however, isn’t a review at all, but a long-form look back at the making and legacy of Robert Altman’s Nashville on the eve of the divisive classic’s 20th anniversary that makes a revisit immediately tempting, even if you were lukewarm on the picture. That he could do the same for works on as wide a range as Howard Hawks and Rob Zombie is indicative of his immense gift.

Two years after writing the très informative Films of the New French Extremity, Alexandra West looks closer to home with The 1990s Teen Horror Cycle: Final Girls and a New Hollywood Formula. Kicked off by the word-of-mouth phenomenon that was Wes Craven’s Scream, the dead-teenager subgenre that briefly flourished thereafter is a fascinating movement in modern pop culture, and certainly one worth studying. This McFarland release isn’t going to be the definitive word on the trend, but for now, it’s as close as we have. If you were sober through much of the Nineties, you can skip the history refresher of the introduction and somewhat redundant first two chapters, and delve right into the chronological countdown of carnage, from comedic flirtations with the genre (My Boyfriend’s Back) to the all-out spoofs (Scary Movie) and inevitable reboots (Scream 4). West demonstrates a firm grasp of the material and presents it across pages that flow with ease, no matter how many uses of “codified.” I just wish her attention to names were as mighty; in discussing Teaching Mrs. Tingle (likely in more depth than anyone on the planet), she double-mangles Jeffrey Tambor as “Jeffery Tambour,” while 40th POTUS Ronald Reagan is rendered throughout the book as “Regan,” no fewer than thrice. —Rod Lott

Get them at Amazon.

Even if they don’t come along that often, I love a good horror movie set among the stars. I love some bad ones, too. (But not all.) That sent Horror in Space: Critical Essays on a Film Subgenre rocketing toward the top of my reading pile. Edited by Michele Brittany, the McFarland & Company paperback sends 15 think-pieces into orbit, including yet another anatomical reading of Alien. Luckily, other contributors boldly go elsewhere, such as Jason Davis’ rollicking, reverse-order tour through “Aliensploitation” films. Continuing in that vein is Kevin Chabot’s look at slasher sequels that send their killer characters into space, notably Leprechaun 4 and cover boy Jason X. Elsewhere, look for love for John Carpenter, H.P. Lovecraft and the increasingly appreciated Event Horizon.

In Biology Run Amok! The Life Science Lessons of Science Fiction Cinema, cancer immunologist and Scary Monsters magazine scribe Mark C. Glassy (an appropriate surname for beaker-laden B-pic fare) examines and reviews the science portrayed in the films, rather than the films themselves. For example, this summation of The Bride of Frankenstein: “The supporting glassware and overall layout of the lab are quite fitting for the work at hand, namely making different reagents, philters, and solutions for the creation of his homunculi.” If that’s your thing, then this experiment may yield positive results for you, with chapters on radiation, re-animation, brain surgery, extreme hair growth, etc. Glassy’s admirable goal here is to teach science through a massively popular art form, which he does with obvious intelligence. While similar to his 2001 book, The Biology of Science Fiction Cinema, also from McFarland & Company, Amok is not the same thing. Consider it a companion — or lab partner, as the case may be.

Harris M. Lentz III’s Obituaries in the Performing Arts, 2017 is kind of like having the Academy Awards’ “In Memoriam” segment in book form, but without the varying bursts of applause to let you know that, even in death, it’s all a popularity contest. As if there were any question, the 447-page paperback pays tribute to those actors, actresses, authors, musicians and other artists who left this earth in the last calendar year, from A (Adair, Perry Sheehan) to Z (Zumbrunnen, Eric) — almost 1,300 in all, even including animal stars (orca whale Tilikum) and porn stars (Shyla Stylez). It seems macabre, but such things should be preserved for future generations. That’s what no-frills reference books are for. The nice thing is that, in Lentz’s world, death is an equalizer. By that, I mean that the dearly departed get more or less the same treatment here: a bio and write-up no matter how successful (or un) he or she was. Clifton James, Doris Carey and Frank “The Tank” Miller are as important as Chuck Berry, Mary Tyler Moore and Harry Dean Stanton. Photos are used as often as possible, which is to say for almost every entry. —Rod Lott

Get them at Amazon.

In case Stephen Thrower’s recent two-volume look at the man’s filmography is too pricey for your tastes, Jess Franco: The World’s Most Dangerous Filmmaker may be more your wallet’s speed, particularly for Franco neophytes. The second of crime-fic purveyor Stark House’s titles to be issued under its “Film Classics” label (a 2006 reprint of the late, great Ed Gorman and Kevin McCarthy’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers: A Tribute was the first), Kristofer Todd Upjohn’s paperback examines roughly 45 Franco films, arranged in no order whatsoever. This randomness fits Franco’s anything-goes approach, as the ever-prolific director doused and dabbled in horror, sex, crime, comedy and the occasional Fu Manchu adventure. The Diabolical Dr. Z, Venus in Furs, The Erotic Rites of Frankenstein, Countess Perverse, Bloody Moon, Faceless — all of these and more undergo Upjohn’s critical eye, probing enough to whet the reader’s appetite for first tastes or return visits. The author clearly knows of what he writes, although his constant referencing of “Thanatos and Eros” (death and sex) seems like a needless attempt to add a layer of academic-minded icing to the cake, when such a move is unnecessary — after all, it’s cake: delicious and irresistible as is.

Indeed, Chris Nashawaty’s Caddyshack: The Making of a Hollywood Cinderella Story does tell the tale behind the 1980 crass comedy, but only after doing the same about the founding of National Lampoon magazine and its move into film with Animal House. One can’t fault the author for doing so, because the making of Caddyshack equals the un-making of Kenney. Whereas Nashawaty’s previous book (the 2013 Roger Corman bio, Crab Monsters, Teenage Cavemen, and Candy Stripe Nurses) presented its subject by way of an oral history, this Flatiron Books hardcover is a tightly written narrative of debauchery on Warner Bros.’ dime, and full of what the beloved movie lacks: actual plot. Some of its key storylines are legendary: Kenney’s vacuum-like coke habit, Bill Murray’s mad improv skills and Chevy Chase’s legendary assholiness. Others, however, are comparatively revelatory: Cindy Morgan’s struggle to be treated with a modicum of kindness, Rodney Dangerfield not knowing what to do when director Harold Ramis called “Action!” and Ted Knight’s old-pro frustration with coke habits, improv skills and assholiness. The result? A behind-the-scenes, you-are-there(-and-stoned-as-fuck) account for the record books, if cinema kept such a record. So it’s got that going for it, which is nice.

Readers are more apt to enjoy Indie Science Fiction Cinema Today: Conversations with 21st Century Filmmakers when they have seen the movies in question. Luckily for co-authors Kathleen Fernandez-Vander Kaay and Chris Vander Kaay, the films covered — from aliens and superheroes to alternate histories and other dimensions — are more commercial and readily available than that “indie” tag might suggest. For example, the Julie Benz vehicle Circle is a Netflix fave; the Tim Burton-produced 9 played theaters nationwide; and so many others already have earned cult followings, including Iron Sky, Turbo Kid and Pontypool. Directorial duo Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead are represented by, appropriately enough, two separate interviews: one for Resolution, one for Spring. While the Vander Kaays’ Q-and-As about the creative process and budgetary constraints mean that much of the McFarland & Company release may be more transcribed than written, that lends the book the feel of overhearing casual conversations, many of them worth the eavesdropping. —Rod Lott

Get them at Amazon.

Damn, who knew there were so many Z-budget found-footage films and direct-to-sewage shark movies? Kim Newman, obvs. Culled from the pages of his long-running column in Empire, the UK movie magazine, Kim Newman’s Video Dungeon: The Collected Reviews gives the what’s-what on 500-plus what-the-fuck flicks you’re better off not watching (at least those from The Asylum, the quality-deprived suppliers of Sharknado and other shit shows). Ever the professional, Newman calls ’em like he sees ’em — and he has seen a lot of ’em. Although the real pleasure of time spent in the Dungeon is witnessing the author’s wit of evisceration, that’s not to say good films are not to be found. Thanks to sections on dangerous games, serial killers and spies, I emerged with a healthy to-see list I’ll likely never complete, making this 2-pound guide essential. Note that the subtitle’s operative word of “collected,” not “complete”; here’s hoping Titan Books issues an equally meaty sequel posthaste!

From Radley Metzger to Russ Meyer, Elena Gorfinkel recounts how economic and legal shifts (among others) permitted the emergence of Lewd Looks: American Sexploitation Cinema in the 1960s. Initially, the book is an interesting recounting of court cases involving such now-quaint films as The Garden of Eden; Not Tonite, Henry!; Barry Mahon’s faux compilation doc, Censored; and Meyer’s own Vixen, which attracted the hypocritical wrath of future federal fraudster Charles Keating. Ironically, these legal victories eventually snowballed into an avalanche that allowed for the hardcore likes of Deep Throat to put the soft stuff out of business. Dry in parts (no pun intended), the University of Minnesota Press release nonetheless proves to be a crucial sexploitation study for what no longer is a short shelf.

Following other recent radiated-and-related McFarland & Company texts as Giant Creatures in Our World and The Kaiju Film to shelves is Apocalypse Then: American and Japanese Atomic Cinema, 1951-1967. Penned by Mike Bogue, the paperback is a fond critical review of genre pics that exploited Cold War fears, directly or otherwise, from AIP to Zero (as in Panic in Year). Separated into alliterative-friendly sections on mutants, monsters and mushroom clouds, the films are covered chronologically and dived into with a surprising amount of depth. Just as you don’t have to be a member of the “Duck and Cover” crowd to appreciate those films, same goes for Bogue’s judiciously illustrated book. (But it sure as hell won’t hurt!) —Rod Lott

Get them at Amazon.

In 2013, Dave Jay, Torsten Dewi and Nathan Shumate chronicled the long, strange trip of schlock-movie purveyor Charles Band in Empire of the ‘B’s. The only thing “wrong” with that book is that it ended with the collapse of Band’s Empire International Pictures studio, thus denying us the rest of the story: the indie legend’s pivot to the home-video biz under his Full Moon banner.

Turns out they had a great reason for ignoring that second chapter: because it demanded its own book — and one even larger than the first. Now we have it in It Came from the Video Aisle!: Inside Charles Band’s Full Moon Entertainment Studio. From Schiffer Publishing, the hefty trade paperback is co-written by Jay, Dewi and William S. Wilson — the latter in for Shumate, who nonetheless provides occasional assistance as one of several other contributors.

While a sequel to the previous volume, Video Aisle approaches things a little differently, eschewing the title-by-title chronology in favor of divvying up its history lesson by whichever entity Band had convinced to fund his endeavors, from the highs of Paramount Pictures to the current lows of Band’s own wallet. It is a story of Hollywood-outsider hubris (or something close to it), with the rubber Band bouncing back from the theatrical detritus of his crumbled Empire Pictures by blazing a trail to direct-to-VHS product. Birthing the Puppet Master series, Trancers sequels and Stuart Gordon lit-horror adaptations, the results were — for a time — quite golden. Low in budget yet high (enough) in production value, these genre pictures found favor in the Blockbuster age and, in tacking VideoZone featurettes at the tape’s end to show how the sausage was made, Band built a fervent fan base as he presaged the bonuses appeal of the DVD format.

But the man’s title-and-a-poster development process could generate solid returns for only so long, and his quest to deliver more quantity than quality took its toll. Luckily, Jay, Dewi and Wilson do not shy away from being critical of the movies that demand and/or deserve it. Although their affection for the Full Moon brand clearly makes them more receptive to, say, Seedpeople or Shrunken Heads than the average bear, they don’t hesitate to call a turd a turd, and neither do the subjects they interviewed. The deeper into the page count (480!) the reader dives, the more of a lashing Band takes, particularly in his “personal penchant for minuscule monsters.”

Perhaps putting it best is effects man Tom Devlin (Unlucky Charms, Reel Evil, et al.): “Sometimes Charlie makes these decisions, most recently with the Gingerdead Man vs. Evil Bong movie, where he just won’t let some of the worst ideas go.”

Candor like that helps mitigate the one true fault of the book: photos so small, they strain the eye. For a project on a man who presold flicks that existed only as colorful artwork, it’s a shame we can’t revel in those visuals. Then again, enlarging them beyond their postage-stamp size might result in having to lose some of the material, which I would not be willing to do. Bearing well-earned stripes for completeness, It Came from the Video Aisle! covers seemingly everything there is to cover among Full Moon’s many phases: the Moonbeam line of kiddie films; the Torchlight Entertainment/Surrender Cinema line of softcore porn; the short-lived, William Shatner-hosted Full Moon Fright Night TV series; and — from Puppet Wars to The Primevals — even the movies that never had a fighting chance to be completed. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.