One-night-only engagements and George Lucas tinkering notwithstanding, nowadays it pretty much takes the death of a beloved celebrity to get old movies back on the big screens of the multiplex; witness the recent passing of Prince and Gene Wilder, and the immediate return of Purple Rain and Young Frankenstein to first-run theaters. Once upon a time, however — the days before cable TV and VHS, to be exact — reissues were likely the only way audiences would get another chance to see a particular motion picture. Brian Hannan examines this bygone phenomenon in Coming Back to a Theater Near You: A History of Hollywood Reissues, 1914-2014, published in trade paperback by McFarland & Company. In admittedly “forensic detail,” Hannan chronologically examines this business model of sloppy seconds — initially a financial necessity for studios yet despised by exhibitors (until television and James Bond double-bills changed their tune). While the author grants big-picture visibility throughout this unusual slice of Hollywood history, his case studies — using films as disparate as Gone with the Wind and Reefer Madness — offer the greatest entertainment value. So thorough is Hannan, the footnotes to chapter one alone number 470! Don’t think that dedication to research translates into a wan read; Coming Back is a lively look back, packed with scads of incredible ads and posters that illustrate a peculiar sort of Tinseltown ballyhoo.

Man, what can’t Neil Gaiman write? (“Poorly” may be the answer, although the question was rhetorical.) Although famous for his fiction across novels both prose (American Gods) and graphic (The Sandman), the fantastic fantasist got his start in nonfiction. Published by William Morrow, The View from the Cheap Seats: Selected Nonfiction is not a collection of that early journalism, but nearly 100 essays he has penned — plus reviews he has written, speeches he has given, introductions he has contributed — since “making it.” The title refers to his surreal experience at the Oscars in 2010; attending for Coraline, an excellent animated adaptation of his 2002 YA work, the out-of-element author recounts crossing paths with Steve Carell, Michael Sheen and the Westboro Baptist Church. The movies constitute an admirable chunk of Cheap Seats’ contents, with an appreciation of The Bride of Frankenstein; three pieces on pal Dave McKean’s MirrorMask, for which he wrote the screenplay (with Gaiman’s Sundance diary being the best of the trio and somewhat of a companion to the title article); and, for the small screen, childhood nostalgia for Doctor Who. You’ll also find pages on music, comics and a lot of lit — all splendidly crafted, no matter the topic.

And now for something that could start as many arguments as the current presidential election: TV (The Book): Two Experts Pick the Greatest American Shows of All Time. Undertaking this rather intimidating endeavor with due diligence, noted boob-tube critics Matt Zoller Seitz and Alan Sepinwall have ranked and reviewed the finest 100 U.S. series in the history’s medium. After a maddeningly redundant introductory chapter that preserves their Google Chat debate on whether The Simpsons or The Sopranos is most deserving to claim that No. 1 slot (spoiler: Homer > Tony), the paperback functions as the kind of dynamic reference work that movies get all the time, while television rarely does. In our era of binge-watching and “peak TV,” their book is perfectly timed (if already dated) and rife with thoughtful, helpful, why-it-matters essays on such picks as Cheers, Twin Peaks, Batman, St. Elsewhere and Police Squad! Their taste is near-impeccable — How I Met Your Mother?!? — and extends beyond the top 100 to shout-out current newbies likely to land on the list in future editions, shows of “a certain regard” that didn’t quite make the cut (from the short-lived Kolchak: The Night Stalker to season one of True Detective) and top-10 lists of made-for-TV movies, miniseries and live plays. Peppered throughout are looser lists to celebrate the finest in theme songs, pilots, finales, bosses, homes, ridiculous names and memorable deaths (Chuckles, we hardly knew ye). Despite the dead-serious approach (not to mention insane algorithms) Seitz and Sepinwall take to their self-imposed assignment, fun is first and foremost the name of their game. It earns the equivalent of the TiVo Season Pass.

It only took several hundred years, but that anti-Santa demon known as the Krampus finally has become an American celebrity, thanks to movies like A Christmas Horror Story, Night of the Krampus, Krampus: The Reckoning, Krampus: The Christmas Devil and just plain ol’ Krampus. Exactly from where did this unconventional leading man come? That’s the global-spanning goal — cleared! — of performance artist Al Ridenour in The Krampus and the Old, Dark Christmas: Roots and Rebirth of the Folkloric Devil. Using the baby-consuming creature’s recent cinematic surge as a launching pad, Ridenour explores the horrific goat-man’s European origins, town-to-town traditions (Buttnmandl, anyone?), stage appearances and more, all pithy and neatly arranged under subheads for easy-to-digest reading. Personally, I would have preferred more focus on the aspect of pure pop culture. One of the most appealing chapters introduces readers to the Krampus’ monstrous relatives, such as Pinecone Man. As is the modus operandi of outré publisher Feral House (whose recent volumes on Grand Guignol theater, sleazy sex novels of the 1960s and men’s adventure pulp magazines are all incredible), this trade paperback is a veritable visual feast of maps, photos and possbily insane vintage illustrations. So visual is The Krampus that it’s quite possible that functionally illiterate could spend time leafing through its pages and emerge satisfied, but why? They’d miss out on half the fun. —Rod Lott

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While regular visitors to this site would join me in disagreement, the very things that make horror films from Italy so distinctive — namely, unflinching violence, oft-excessive gore and heavily linked sexuality — are why scholars and critics long have turned their collective noses up at it. And yet, even a casual viewing of Mario Bava or Dario Argento works reveals real visual artistry at work, even amid controversy.

Standing on our side are Stefano Baschiera and Russ Hunter, co-editors of Italian Horror Cinema, and their 11 fellow contributors, giving the form that study of which others find it unworthy. The best kind of academic-minded texts (read: accessible), the trade paperback is ready-made reading for the genre’s most fervent enthusiasts, whose hunger doesn’t end with the final shot.

New from Edinburgh University Press, Italian Horror Cinema pushes Lucio Fulci on the shark-vs.-zombie cover and, within a baker’s dozen of essays that awaits inside, seemingly every remaining Italian filmmaker of note, right up to such current directors as Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani, the team behind The Strange Color of Your Body’s Tears.

Russ Hunter lays the trade paperback’s foundation with an informative survey of the country’s early fright fare, including a silent Frankenstein picture and — exclamation theirs — 1916’s I Prefer Hell! This provides proper context for the articles that immediately follow, chronicling Italian horror’s international dawn in the 1960s to its largely retro-reflexive existence today, with an in-between stop to the living rooms of a VHS-obsessed ’80s. While chapters on Bava and Argento are expected, their theses are not; in the latter case, that means Karl Schoonover’s study on how the maestro treats the ecological and the unwanted.

The further the reader goes, the more specific the contents become. Adam Lowenstein demonstrates the influence of the giallo on the all-American slasher film, with a primary focus on the now-iconic Friday the 13th; turns out, the relationship is akin to the peanut butter and chocolate of a Reese’s cup. Meanwhile, a less healthy marriage — that of (often unsimulated) animal cruelty in the cannibal epics — is probed by Mark Bernard (whose terrific Selling the Splat Pack was published by Edinburgh last year). Those moviegoers who extend their love of cinema into their choices of reading material and listening pleasure will appreciate the chapters on Italian film journals and the unsettling yet irresistible soundtracks of Goblin. —Rod Lott

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As any child of the 1980s will tell you, the video store was an essential part of growing up. You discovered movies in a manner Netflix and other streaming services cannot replicate: by browsing boxes. And because you paid per movie, you actually watched them — actively, not “second-screen” passively — thus giving them a fairer shot than any click-happy finger does today under the all-you-can-eat model. As a result, you discovered some gems. They may not all have been “good,” but gems nonetheless.

If you thought it was a wild time to feed the VHS monkey with cassettes like Parasite, Slave Girls from Beyond Infinity and Cavegirl, imagine how much wilder it was to make them. Better yet, consume the concrete evidence that is It Came from the 80s!: Interviews with 124 Cult Filmmakers, the debut book from Italy-based film scholar Francesco Borseti. Published by McFarland & Company, it shares the behind-the-scenes drama of 28 low-budget features — stories that never have been revealed before, mostly because no one ever cared to ask.

Thank the rewind gods that he did, because Borseti often ends up with gold. The experience of reading — and watching the flicks themselves — can be summed up by three quotes, which I present to you with no further context:
1. “He wanted to direct and star in the film and do everything. But he did not know how to write, direct, or produce.”
2. “He will be shooting his own horror feature entitled Demonic Aborted Sewer Fecal Fetuses Revenge. If a script I wrote inspired someone to be creative, yes, that’s worth something.”
3. “He was an alcoholic, and he lost his pants just before he was due on camera.”

It Came from the 80s! isn’t “written” so much as transcribed or perhaps even copy/pasted, as many interviews were conducted through email. Not among the 124 subjects, oddly enough, is director David DeCoteau, who seems like he’d pick up your dry cleaning for $10, and is repped here by a pair of his early pictures, Creepozoids and Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama. His name is constantly dropped, as is Charles Band’s — an anecdotal trend throughout, rivaled only by suspected mob ties, directors taking undeserved credits and the number of porno filmmakers trying to go legit using straight-to-video horror and sci-fi as their express pass into the mainstream.

Included among the book’s 300 pages are such tantalizing tales as:
• how the AIDS epidemic affected the title of Blue Monkey, through three differing accounts;
• the dilemma of whether to get erect or not during the shooting of The Carpenter’s sex scenes;
• the infamous producer Harry Alan Towers‘ habits of visiting high-class hookers and bouncing checks to his screenwriters;
• Anthony Franciosa having to read his Zombie Death House lines off bread loaves;
• Dan Haggerty’s drunken rants between takes of The Chilling;
• how Roger Corman’s Gremlins-“inspired” Munchies can be used as leverage to score pot in Hawaii;
• and how crew members of Terror Night (aka Bloody Movie), while shooting at an actual nunnery, had to keep nuns from walking in on a sex scene between Michelle Bauer and actor Jimi Elwell, who claims the following: “I remember she was sitting on my face and then sliding down to my crotch. After the second or third take, I looked down at my chest and seeing a trail of female juice, I said to her, ‘Nice snail trail, you’re having fun!'”

Much more fun is to be had. Borseti could have done a better job in editing the conversations of the few people who are so long-winded, they venture into unrelated tangents. For example, I don’t care what the director of Deadly Intruder thinks about our nation’s health care system. I do care, however — and deeply — about Elizabeth Foxx’s memories making the T&A romp School Spirit; it’s just a shame the actress is not among those weighing in on that invisible-boy sex comedy. And that’s really my only complaint. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.