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

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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

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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

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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

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Two years ago, editor Stephen Jones delivered a coffee-table book for the ages with The Art of Horror, and now he and his gang of talented writers and artists are back for another go-round, this time silver screen-cemented, with The Art of Horror Movies: An Illustrated History. Again published in a handsome hardback by Applause Theatre & Cinema Books, this full-color follow-up tackles its admittedly intimidating mission by slicing and dicing the subject matter into by-decade chapters, starting with a broader look at “The Sinister Silents.” In doing so, whether accidentally or purposefully, the book presents a compelling visual history of cinema’s bastard child, as we see its ad campaigns evolve before our very hungry eyes. While Jones and company primarily are focused on providing broad-stroke, bird’s-eye views, it’s also not unusual to see them get creative in themed pages that celebrate everything from Rondo Hatton and Sherlock Holmes to covers of fanzines and hand-painted flour sacks used in African villages!

With Kong: Skull Island a massive hit earlier this year and sequels to Godzilla and Pacific Rim already on deck, the oversized-creature feature is enjoying quite the colossal resurgence, and Giant Creatures in Our World: Essays on Kaiju and American Popular Culture is but one piece of the proof. The McFarland & Company release comes co-edited by Camille D.G. Mustachio and Jason Barr, and while the latter dealt with this subject all by his lonesome in last year’s The Kaiju Film, this unofficial (but worthy) companion widens the net to let its contributors dig into the niche. Thus, while Barr theorizes about the nostalgia drive of the adult toy collector, Se Young Kim examines how American superheroes like Spider-Man become enemies of justice when incorporated overseas, and Karen Joan Kohoutek wonders if all those Gamera episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000 aren’t maybe a wee bit racist. As Godzilla proved in his ’54 debut, rampaging monsters are to be taken seriously, and this collection does just that, examining these cultural giants with the gravity they deserve, but also the fun audiences expect.

If there will be a better encapsulation of the history and evolution of the medium than David Bianculli’s splendidly penned The Platinum Age of Television: From I Love Lucy to The Walking Dead, How TV Became Terrific … well, I doubt it will occur in my lifetime. A longtime TV critic for NPR, Bianculli takes what had to be a bear of a self-imposed assignment by foregoing the expected chronological route in favor of genre. For each of those — workplace sitcoms, medical dramas, Westerns, miniseries, et al. — he chooses five series that best represent the forwarding of the format and explains not only what they did and how they did it (and, in the case of something like The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, how they got away with it), but also how their DNA thrives in the programs of today, in the style of this-beget-that. It’s rather amazing how essays so compact yield so much fascinating material; even the chapters on genres I have no interest in (like war) proved unskippable. Interstitial interviews with/profiles of key players — such as Carol Burnett, Carl Reiner, Ken Burns and, um, Kevin Spacey and Louis C.K. — make an already excellent book that much more rewarding. Tune in immediately.

It is strange to remember a time when The X-Files was just another under-the-radar, possibly doomed-to-fail show on the fourth-ranked (and occasionally fourth-rate) Fox network, rather than the cultural touchstone it has been for, oh, two decades and counting. But Ireland-based critic Darren Mooney sure does, and lays out that progression in Opening The X-Files: A Critical History of the Original Series. From McFarland & Company, the book opens with a foreword from superfan Kumail Nanjiani (whose 2017 romcom The Big Sick practically gives the series a subplot) before a headfirst plunge. Admirably, rather than following an episode-by-episode formula, which would get dull, the author discusses each season largely in standalone terms, while weaving in the various spin-offs and 1998 feature film. I’m calling it a success because it made me eager to revisit the Blu-ray box set; in fact, if The X-Files studies were a college course (and I’m sure it is somewhere), Mooney’s book would have to be one of its essential texts. —Rod Lott

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