Like its subject, Sharon Tate: A Life debuts with much promise before things go south. In Tate’s case, it wasn’t her fault; in counterculture icon Ed Sanders’ book, the fault is all his.

Since the Valley of the Dolls star died so young — at age 26, slaughtered in the murder spree of Charles Manson’s “Family” in the summer of ’69 — her life story prior to marrying enfant terrible director Roman Polanski (Rosemary’s Baby) is hardly household knowledge. It’s a largely charmed existence from loving military family to accidental model-cum-actress — a woman who, despite incredible beauty, was less interested in the world of glitz and glamour in which she found herself than settling down and raising a family.

Sharing that anti-Hollywood story is why Sanders’ biography starts strong, even considering his penchant for the hyperbolic; many a sentence begins carrying the weight of overimportance, e.g. “The Fates had their say …” Clearly, his writing voice is a unique one, given to spontaneity and whimsy, such as his freewheeling description of Polanksi, “obviously propelling himself Up Up Up. … He could Get It Done! He was a picture-per-year triumph.” It begins to work against Sanders, though, especially with his habit of sporadically repeating one particular thought/sentence throughout the text:
• “The past is like quicksand,”
• “The past — often like quicksand,”
• “The past can be like quicksand,”
• “Quicksand of the past”
• and, in eventual shorthand, “Quicksand.”

We get it.

Larger cracks in the narrative appear earlier, in the form of needless tangents. For instance, it’s one thing to discuss Tate’s audition for the classic movie musical The Sound of Music, as that was something I did not know. But since she didn’t get it, what point is there is then diving into a couple paragraphs of plot synopsis, complete with mentions of the performers who were cast, not just in Tate’s role but all the other major parts?

Even a film in which Tate did star in, Polanski’s 1967 horror comedy, The Fearless Vampire Killers, why devote several pages going through its plot, scene by scene, beat by beat? It’s almost as if Sanders wants us to know that he actually did his research — something readers automatically assume of nonfiction. He tells us anyway: “In the course of writing this book, I watched a DVD of Fearless Vampire Killers …” I should hope so!

And then there’s the curious case of 1969’s The Thirteen Chairs (aka 12+1), a forgotten Italian farce in which Tate starred opposite Vittorio Gassman. Sanders again gives us a full synopsis, but what sticks out this time around is … well, just read this two-paragraph excerpt first …

Sharon and Gassman track the chairs to Paris and then to Rome. They run into an assortment of unusual characters, among them a driver of a furniture moving van named Albert (Terry-Thomas), a prostitute named Judy (Mylène Demongeot), the head of a roaming theater company that stages a strange version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (Orson Welles), the Italian entrepreneur Carlo Di Seta (Vittorio De Sica), and his curvy daughter Stefanella (Ottavia Piccolo.) [sic]

The chase for the jewels concludes in Rome, where the chair containing the treasure finds its way into a truck, and is collected by nuns who auction it off for charity. With nothing much left to do as a result of the failure of his quest, Mario travels back to New York City by ship, as Pat/Sharon sees him off and waves goodbye to him.

… and now compare what you just read to the summary on the film’s Wikipedia page:

… the two then set out on a bizarre quest to track down the chairs that takes them from London to Paris and to Rome. Along the way, they meet a bunch of equally bizarre characters, including the driver of a furniture moving van named Albert (Terry-Thomas); a prostitute named Judy (Mylène Demongeot); Maurice (Orson Welles), the leader of a traveling theater company that stages a poor version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; the Italian entrepreneur Carlo Di Seta (Vittorio De Sica); and his vivacious daughter Stefanella (Ottavia Piccolo).

The bizarre chase ends in Rome, where the chair containing the money finds its way into a truck and is collected by nuns who auction it off to charity. With nothing much left to do as a result of the failure of his quest, Mario travels back to New York City by ship as Pat sees him off and waves goodbye to him.

Hmmm.

These off-course flights happen regularly, putting Sharon’s life story on hold to a point that the reader wonders if Sanders forgot about whom he was writing. Most egregious is the procedural account of Robert F. Kennedy’s assassination, tying Tate to a conspiracy theory — one of several (another being an underground sex-film ring) that Sanders never quite knots.

With its last third, Sharon Tate: A Life ceases being even moderately compelling, giving itself over to rehashing the misdeeds of the Manson Family — not just the grisly slayings of That August Night, but in general; all of that, of course, is material well-trod before, from Vincent Bugliosi’s seminal Helter Skelter to Sanders’ own acclaimed book on the topic, 1971’s The Family.

Photographs related to the Manson Family’s carnage pepper these pages, but oddly, don’t seek pictures of Tate. Instead, Sanders has commissioned the highly talented comic book artist Rick Veitch (Swamp Thing) to provide illustrations. This creative choice would be more welcome if it didn’t leave such a bitter aftertaste; Veitch’s last drawing depicts Sharon and unborn child in heaven, hovering over her gravestone, in a classless manner that suggests you could purchase a velvet painting of it from a dude in a van parked in the lot of that abandoned gas station on the corner. Sanders himself contributes to that ill feeling by closing the book with a poem from his own pen, reading in part:

O Sharon
Your son’d be
what
well into his 40s by now
& you’d be
if still acting
playing comedic grandmother roles

Quicksand. —Rod Lott

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Like a less pretentious (and thereby more bearable) Chuck Klosterman, Ryan Britt mines pop culture for freakishly accessible essays — a full 14 of them soaked and sautéed in sci-fi for Luke Skywalker Can’t Read and Other Geeky Truths. In the Plume paperback, Britt reminisces about his sexual awakening to the groove of Roger Vadim’s corny-porny Barbarella; considers the power and allure of sci-fi soundtracks; compares various screen Draculas; recalls how Doctor Who saved his life; and praises Sherlock Holmes (and not so much George Lucas). Even if the author can take a while to reach his ultimate point — and can tend to repeat himself along the way — you keep reading because his voice is fresh, because humor acts as a salve against minor transgressions, and because I appreciate his pointed message to foamed-mouth fanboys to (in so many words) calm the fuck down. That said, I remain irritated by the haphazard method by which Star Wars goes unitalicized roughly half the time. Guess lonely Luke isn’t the only one with comprehension troubles … right?

I wonder if there’s an afterlife; if so, I wonder if it has a library; if so, I wonder if it stocks new releases; if so, I wonder if Alien Next Door is among them; if so, I wonder if H.R. Giger will run across it; if so, I wonder if he’ll find a way to come back and cause bodily harm to author/illustrator Joey Spiotto. In the square-shaped hardcover from Titan Books, Spiotto (2014’s Attack! Boss! Cheat Code!: A Gamer’s Alphabet) has turned the Giger-designed Alien into an adorable cartoon character who lives a quiet suburban life; each page is its own standalone joke, with the creature performing mundane household chores. Cute on the surface, the book boasts several clever gags hiding in plain sight, mostly references to the still-going franchise, facehuggers and otherwise. Spiotto’s approach amounts to sacrilege … but only if you don’t have a sense of humor.

As Fantastic Planets, Forbidden Zones, and Lost Continents’ subtitle promises, the University of Texas Press hardcover counts down The 100 Greatest Science-Fiction Films. “Greatest,” says who? Says Douglas Brode, if that means anything. Whether or not it does, such endeavors are entirely subjective and debatable, which is at least a good half of their appeal. Devoting a few pages to each, Brode covers them not in “Casey Kasem” order, but chronologically, starting with 1902’s A Trip to the Moon and ending at 2014’s Guardians of the Galaxy. He often “cheats” during the trip, jamming several slots with pairs and trilogies, whether official or merely thematic. Don’t expect much in the way of criticism; extracting nuggets of trivia and backstories is what’s truly on the menu. Occasional baffling errors are forgiven by appendices of shorter, niche-oriented lists; Derek George’s impressive design work; and Brode’s own brave, oddball choices, e.g. the Wachowskis’ Cloud Atlas or Disney’s Flubber-fueled The Absent-Minded Professor.

Following similar genre-celebratory collections on vampires, zombies, ghosts, adventurers and pulp heroes (all from Vintage Crime’s Black Lizard line), anthologist extraordinaire Otto Penzler rounds up 83 — repeat: 83! — tales of the great detective for The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories. “Today,” as Penzler notes in his introduction, “Holmes continues to be a multimedia superstar” on screens both big and small, which hopefully (as I’ve counted on ever since Robert Downey Jr. took the role to blockbuster status) will continue to expose more and more readers to the joys of Arthur Conan Doyle’s canon of four novels and 56 short stories. It’s important to note Penzler’s collection is not that. It does contain a couple of Conan Doyle contributions — just not the kind you expect, which is a theme carried throughout this wonderful treasury, short on neither suspense or surprise. You get imitations, tributes, pastiches, parodies and so on, from authors as skilled and varied as O. Henry, Neil Gaiman, Stephen King, James M. Barrie, Manly Wade Wellman and even Anonymous. No Penzler collection — much less a mystery anthology in general — would be complete without a whodunit from the late, but forever exquisite Edward D. Hoch; his inclusion is simply elementary. —Rod Lott

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Without question, the ideal gift book for genre film enthusiasts this holiday season is The Art of Horror: An Illustrated History, a beautiful book depicting ugly things. Edited by Stephen Jones, the full-color hardback from Applause Theatre & Cinema Books presents thousands of images from several centuries past to about a year or so ago, all neatly organized among 10 themed chapters (Halloween, aliens, ghosts, etc.) with accompanying text by an expert in that field. (For example, David J. Skal tackles vampires; S.T. Joshi handles H.P. Lovecraft.) It will surprise that no one that film posters and pulp magazines figure heavily in the mix of monsters and madmen, as do comics and original art, but Jones curates deeper to showcase 3-D sculptures, rare collectibles and even stained glass! Within the chapters, spreads are devoted to more specific studies, from spiders, Cthulhu and Jack the Ripper to Italian zombie movies, various book covers for Bram Stoker’s Dracula and the Halloween postcards of John O. Winsch circa 1910. Opulent in its scope and sporting a fright-friendly foreword by Neil Gaiman, The Art of Horror is that rare kind of coffee-table book: the kind its target readers actually want to read. You’ll get lost in it for hours, and love every minute, making it a more-than-worthy investment.

Like art, what is funny is all in the eye of the beholder. I get that. But with The Top 100 American Situation Comedies, Mitchell E. Shapiro and Tom Jicha set themselves up for a good ribbing, even by subtitling their book An Objective Ranking, because at the bottom of their list stands Family Matters. I mean, if only 101 sitcoms existed, I might see Urkel earning the grade, but as is, it makes the cut, while the likes of Parks and Recreation, It’s Garry Shandling’s Show and, heck, even The Brady Bunch do not. Arrested Development is on the list, yet considered inferior to Coach, Night Court and — gag — Full House. All over the Internet as blog posts, these kinds of lists — wholly subjective, yet presented as definitive — are silly, and even sillier expanded to nearly 300 pages. Devoting a full essay to each of their selections, however, Shapiro and Jicha prove themselves fine writers who make their arguments concisely and credibly — just not always convincingly. Prepare to be further enraged by the appendix, which presents rankings all the way to No. 377.

Books on American horror movies are dime-a-dozen. Not so with our friends to our north, so I welcome any book on Canada’s counterpart. Enter the University of Toronto Press’ The Canadian Horror Film: Terror of the Soul, edited by Gina Freitag and André Loiselle. As Andrea Subissati puts it in her piece on 2008’s Pontypool, “There are uniquely Canadian stories to tell, and … they are stories worth telling.” With 14 essays from almost as many authors, the collection touches on topics of gender, belonging, national anxiety and the environment, while also discussing and dissecting films both little-known (Death Weekend, Rituals) and higher-profile (Orca: The Killer Whale, Ginger Snaps). You may learn more about the Great White North’s tax-shelter system and the history of animation house Nelvana than you ever dreamt possible (if at all), but that’s the point in a text leaning heavily academic. While the book does a terrific job of proving that the country’s contributions to cinematic terror don’t begin and end with David Cronenberg, the pieces on his work from William Beard and James Burrell prove the strongest. —Rod Lott

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