In naming his new book, Joseph Maddrey chose the wrong preposition: Beyond Fear is about fear. What the Bear Manor Media trade paperback is beyond is the usual quality of film bios seen in the indie-pub field — miles above, no less. The subtitle teases Reflections on Stephen King, Wes Craven, and George Romero’s Living Dead, which is to say essays about these terror titans’ lives and work, but imbued with threads of personality from Maddrey (perhaps best known for 2004’s Nightmares in Red, White and Blue and its subsequent 2009 documentary), all ridiculously readable. Romero actually represents just a smidge of the 336 pages, while Craven is more fleshed out, including a new-to-me nugget of how A Nightmare on Elm Street almost was made for Disney Channel. Clearly, Maddrey’s heart and soul lie with King, and it’s a testament to the volume that even if Romero and Craven’s parts were shaved away, your money still would be well-spent. He provides an enlightening encapsulation of the writer’s entire career — peaks, valleys and coke-fueled bumps — with particular attention paid to each novel’s germination. I devoured it like Constant Readers do King’s books.

In the mood for a good debunking? Are you sure? Because you might be disappointed to learn that the Mercury Theatre’s 1938 radio adaptation of a certain H.G. Wells novel did not cause widespread panic after all. Note: The operative word there is “widespread,” because as A. Brad Schwartz proves in Broadcast Hysteria: Orson Welles’s War of the Worlds and the Art of Fake News, uproar did result — just not in the teeming masses as legend has it. Kind of a book-length Snopes entry, but actually entertaining and readable, the Hill and Wang hardcover release makes its factual case while also delivering a stranger-than-fiction account of the real story behind the unreal story, full of eye-opening letters from listeners both outraged and amused. Given Welles’ eventual F for Fake documentary on hoaxes and forgeries, one would think the filmmaker himself would appreciate Schwartz’s stats-backed correction of “history”; on the other hand, he certainly ate up the post-War attention.

Don’t assume from the title of his new book, A Christian Response to Horror Cinema: Ten Films in Theological Perspective, that Peter Fraser is condemning the entire horror genre; while many deeply devout consider such entertainment to be satanic at face value, Fraser finds interest — and even pleasure — in viewing depictions of the light and the dark. In fact, he argues for their co-existence, despite not having a particular affinity for scare cinema. (This will not surprise you when he admits upfront that What Lies Beneath gave him “night terrors.”) Just over half the book is devoted to old-school chillers, one of which grants the McFarland-published paperback its highlight: his discussion of 1973’s The Exorcist. As he writes, while William Friedkin’s classic conjures evil onscreen, “the paradox … is that the story was apparently written and put onto film to lead people toward the faith.” I’ve made that argument before to deaf and deeply religious ears, so it’s refreshing to read the same from an open (if too easily frightened) mind.

As news arrives of Showtime reviving (or maybe not) David Lynch and Mark Frost’s weird, wonderful Twin Peaks television series, Andy Burns’ Wrapped in Plastic: Twin Peaks arrives as part of the second wave of ECW Press’ line of Pop Classics paperbacks. Judged as a free-flowing, long-form essay stemming from one man’s mind, Burns’ book works; judged as a story of the show’s making, it fails. (But it’s not meant to be that, for which I steer you toward Brad Dukes’ oral history, Reflections.) Small in size and page count, but not intelligence, Wrapped considers (and reconsiders) how damn risky the series was, its depiction of ultimate family dysfunction, and how influential it remains today in this age of “auteur television,” despite its all-too-brief broadcast life. Because the Pop Classics line lets its authors run wild, the results read deeply personal, if not always relatable; it depends upon your own love for each volume’s under-the-microscope subject. (For those keeping track, that has included Showgirls, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Elvis Costello, with Nicolas Cage to follow this fall.)

It is what it is: RKO Radio Pictures Horror, Science Fiction and Fantasy Films, 1929-1956. The hefty paperback from McFarland sees Michael R. Pitts covering every film that meets the book’s title criteria, from Adventure Girl to Zombies on Broadway. With even short subjects thrown in for good measure, the contents are presented alphabetically vs. chronologically. For RKO nuts — and believe me, they’re out there, given the studio’s runs with King Kong, Dick Tracy, Walt Disney, Val Lewton and Tarzan — the admittedly niche book should prove a welcome reference. For more general film lovers, only Pitts’ own critiques and historical perspective provide any sustenance, as IMDb has eliminated the need for comprehensive cast-and-crew credits, and I hear from a growing number of people that lengthy plot synopses are space-wasters as well. As per McFarland’s usual standards, original key art is widespread and tops. —Rod Lott

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As a fan of Dario Argento myself, I feel as if Derek Botelho wrote The Argento Syndrome just for me. Although Maitland McDonagh’s Broken Mirrors/Broken Minds is arguably the definitive book on the director famously dubbed (and derided) as “the Italian Hitchcock,” Botelho’s has the edge for pure entertainment value. Both books are musts for the filmmaker’s followers, as each takes a different tact.

While Botelho curiously fails to delineate Argento’s films on a year-by-year timeline, he covers Argento’s directorial efforts chronologically. Whether largely or nominally giallo (with one sex comedy sticking out like a sore penis), each movie merits its own chapter, from 1970’s wildly influential The Bird with the Crystal Plumage to 2012’s imperfect but harshly judged Dracula 3D.

The result? A thoroughly winning, armchair-style examination of a distinguished career, supplemented by wonderfully stylistic illustrations by Micha Maté to introduce each chapter and interviews of key players when the author could get them. Bonus points are due to Botelho for including Argento’s TV work, particularly 1973’s four-episode Door into Darkness anthology series, and for actually having something to say. Sadly, many indie film books lack this latter element, opting instead for fanboy service instead of genuine introspection.

Published by Bear Manor Media in a oversized paperback format as splashy as the director’s saturated colors, The Argento Syndrome sports a nifty design that complements the text. Only one thing bugged me about Botelho’s book: the chapters in which he recounts his face-to-face meetings with Argento and his famous daughter, Asia (xXx). These come off too starstruck, which I’m guessing was not the first-time author’s intent; the problem is not a fatal one because he calls Argento’s turds when he sees them, so his objectivity appears to remain intact. —Rod Lott

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Thus far, 2015 has brought us two movie-loving memoirs from major publishers: Comedian Patton Oswalt’s Silver Screen Fiend ushered in the New Year and now Adam Rockoff greets the sweltering months with The Horror of It All. Rockoff is just the guy you don’t know by name.

Or at least comparatively speaking. Fright fans — the crowd most likely to snap up this heartfelt hardback — may know Rockoff as the author of 2002’s Going to Pieces: The Rise and Fall of the Slasher Film (a nifty book which became the nifty documentary of the same name) and as the screenwriter of 2010’s I Spit on Your Grave remake. Okay, so he actually hid behind a pseudonym on that project, and the reason why makes for one of many good stories in The Horror of It All.

Unlike Oswalt’s book, which carries a narrative through-line, Rockoff’s could qualify as an essay collection. Although its breath-robbing subtitle (One Moviegoer’s Love Affair with Masked Maniacs, Frightened Virgins, and the Living Dead … ) suggests an adherence to fiction’s three-act structure, that tale is more or less told in the first chapter. It and the other nine aren’t really linked, other than that they are:
a) full of the author’s opinions, and
b) about horror movies.

Each can stand alone. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Not when they’re this damned entertaining.

In chapter two, Rockoff rips apart the now-notorious 1980 episode of Sneak Previews, in which Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert hypocritically decried the trend of slasher movies, while chapter seven examines supposed “snuff” films, from (what else?) Snuff and Faces of Death to Guinea Pig and, ergo, the extreme gullibility of Charlie Sheen.

Others pieces are historical-minded. One details the PMRC Senate hearings/attacks on heavy metal music; another, how the 1996 release of Wes Craven’s Scream resurrected the moribund genre of horror for the big screen to a degree that it has yet to abate (and, he argues with extreme confidence, never will).

And other sections are more personal, such as chapter four, dedicated to how and why the author’s teenaged self turned down a hand job in favor of watching a VHS tape full of horror trailers. He peppers the book with such nostalgic asides, from seeing his first Playboy to trolling the local flea market for life-altering issues of Fangoria.

Of that bargain-bonanza site, he writes, “Where else could you possibly find Chinese stars, a rattlesnake paperweight, and a ‘Kill a Commie for Mommy’ T-shirt within fifty yards of each other?” I bring this quote up to illustrate Rockoff’s most welcome sense of humor, which permeates every page; of renting vids with his buddies way back when: “And we had our minds blown by Sleepaway Camp. Sure, the film’s gender politics might have escaped us, but sometimes a girl with a dick trumps all.”

As if you couldn’t tell, Rockoff is unafraid to say what’s on his mind, even when it comes to admittedly (and wildly) unpopular opinions, such as Ridley Scott’s classic Alien being boring, Brett Ratner’s Red Dragon reigning superior over Michael Mann’s Manhunter, and — sacrilege of sacrileges! — the iconic shower scene of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho being “totally overrated … one big letdown.” (Don’t shoot the messenger, folks.)

If there’s an element to dislike about The Horror of It All, it’s not his mass slaughtering of sacred cows; after all, he presents them with conviction and compelling arguments. It’s that in the back half of the book, he increasingly comes off as kind of an asshole, as even the most well-constructed defense tends to come undone when it concludes with “Fuck you” or a variation thereof. At least these instances are few, none of which — alone or collectively — detract from the sheer enjoyment of reading the book, which I did in one weekend afternoon and instead of watching a horror movie. That’s how much fun it is. —Rod Lott

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Having written the so-far-definitive book on Eurocrime with 2013’s Italian Crime Filmography, film critic Roberto Curti sticks within Italy’s borders — and the McFarland publishing family — to deliver Italian Gothic Horror Films, 1957-1969. And damned if it isn’t the best book I’ve read on that subgenre, too, despite being much smaller in physical size and page count.

As with that book, Curti tackles the titles individually, year by year, from ’57’s I Vampiri, arguably the boot-shaped country’s first horror film, to the takeover of the giallo. Before doing so, however, his preface serves to break down Italian Gothic’s 10 key elements. The man clearly knows his stuff — and not just because he’s one of the few writers who actually spells Edgar Allan Poe’s middle name correctly, although that certainly goes a long way in credibility.

When you hear the word “filmography,” you might (as I often do) fear the pages will be plagued by heavy, detailed (if not outright droning) plot synopses. Not Curti. He knows cinephiles either are familiar enough with the movies to need only the barest of reminders or haven’t seen them and don’t wish to have them spoiled, so summaries are just that: summaries, and blessedly brief. They’re also contained to a single italicized paragraph for easy skipping, so readers can get right to the meat of each entry: his critical analysis.

Naturally, the more iconic and influential the film, the more Curti has to say about it; for example, I think nothing eclipses Mario Bava’s Black Sunday in terms of weight here, and the author’s essay reflects that. (Although I also often do, Black Sunday is not to be confused with Bava’s Black Sabbath, which coincidentally adorns this volume’s front cover.) Curti singles out another Bava effort, 1963’s The Whip and the Body, as “the quintessential Gothic film — or rather, it looks like it.”

From legitimate terrors (Nightmare Castle) to goofy pulp (Bloody Pit of Horror) and juvenile tease (The Playgirls and the Vampire), Curti covers all with an essay that dives deeper than even the filmmakers would expect. So in depth does he get, he practically plays P.I. to relate the muddled making of Antonio Margheriti’s Castle of Blood.

A wealth of poster art and production stills exists to liven up the layout, as well as set mood. It’s one thing to read about the Gothic, but an entirely different experience — meaning enhanced — to read about it as you see illustrative examples, and these films arrived in theaters with some of the most eye-catching, artistically rendered one-sheets in the biz — all heaving bosoms and headless torsos. Barbara Steele fans in particular will have much to rejoice.

And as a whole, lovers of Italian Gothic horror film will find much to praise about Italian Gothic Horror Films, an enjoyably precise, lovingly penned examination of a stylistic wave of cinema that didn’t live long, but endures in an afterlife thanks to digital media, fervid fans and, yes, texts like Curti’s. —Rod Lott

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When Aliens was days away from hitting theaters in the summer of 1986, I distinctly remember reading a piece about it in Rolling Stone. In particular, I recall a reference to the original Alien’s Nostromo ship designed as vaginal, while the creature was a phallus.

How this oddball kernel of film theory snuck in such a mainstream mag escapes me, but it struck me as odd: something I had never thought about before and something that has stuck with me ever since. I was pleased to see the subject merits its own chapter — plus half of another among a full 23 — in the University of Texas Press’ second-edition release of The Dread of Difference: Gender and the Horror Film, edited by Barry Keith Grant.

In “Genre, Gender and the Aliens Trilogy,” Thomas Doherty pegs the aforementioned Nostromo’s design as “‘abstract genital’, a style that is alternately penile and uterine, all sharp tumescent shafts, vaginal entrances, and fallopian interiors.” In later interpreting all three of the major creatures as a dick, he may be reading a bit too much into it, but it’s fascinating to consider nonetheless. (But no, Mr. Doherty, Sigourney Weaver was not nominated for a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for the 1979 classic.) Elsewhere, Barbara Creed’s “Horror and the Monstrous-Feminine” also discusses Alien, to illustrate how the horror film presents female genitalia as objects of both “dread and fascination.” In space, no one can hear you scream about vagina dentata.

As you would imagine, Lianne McLarty has a field day examining all the sexual imagery running (and dripping) rampant in the work David Cronenberg, in “‘Beyond the Veil of Flesh’: Cronenberg and the Disembodiment of Horror.”

The Dread of Difference has more than the act of copulation on its cerebrum. Grant’s own essay (cleverly titled “Taking Back the Night of the Living Dead”) casts light on the feminist stance of George A. Romero’s films; Lucy Fisher outlines how Roman Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby heralded both “the birth of horror and the horror of birth in the modern cinema”; and Shelley Stamp presents an excellent reading of Carrie (which adorned the cover of Dread’s 1996 first edition) in that Brian De Palma’s shocker endorses the views of Piper Laurie’s crazy-mom character — a position I’ve certainly never considered.

Puberty, family, AIDS, affairs, homosexuality — The Dread of Difference covers a lot of ground. From Cat People and lesbian vampires to slashers and torture porn, many types of fright flicks are thrust under the academic microscope as well. Naturally, these essays are highly intelligent, yet also highly readable, and because of that, the book comes highly recommended. It’s a fantastic, meaty-thick collection as is, but also a good gateway for cinephiles who haven’t yet dared make the leap into reading film criticism, as opposed to the mere “movie review.” There’s nothing frightening about wanting to absorb highbrow talk of a genre generally derided as lowbrow. —Rod Lott

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