Understandably, Andrew J. Rausch just can’t seem to pull himself away from Herschell Gordon Lewis. Having co-authored a book with Lewis last year in the heartily recommended The Godfather of Gore Speaks, Rausch wrangles Lewis once more as a participant in Gods of Grindhouse, a collection of interviews with 16 notable filmmakers, almost all known best for their work as directors.

I’ll state my one caveat right upfront since it’s right there in the alliterative title: While synonymous, the term “grindhouse” is not always interchangeable with “cult movies.” That quibble aside, I had an absolute blast with this book from Bear Manor Media. I read it in one sitting, in roughly the time it takes it watch any given one of the guys’ most memorable flicks.

Although all 16 interviews adhere to the Q-and-A format, not all of the Qs stem from Rausch’s mind. He interviews Lewis, Night of the Living Dead co-creator John A. Russo and multihyphenates Roger Corman and Larry Cohen; the rest of the talks come from a dozen others. Lengths vary and all but two have been published elsewhere previously. That turned out not to be a problem, as I had read only one previously: Mike White’s conversation with Wacko‘s Greydon Clark.

Kicking off Gods, Brian Layne speaks with Full Moon Pictures emperor Charles Band, which is nice to see because one rarely, if ever, finds Band in these sorts of things. Among the rest of the paperback’s contents, certain pieces stand out, including:
• Frank Henenlotter bemoaning his own job on Basket Case 3: The Progeny;
• Bill Rebane detailing how he started shooting The Giant Spider Invasion without the benefit of, y’know, money;
• and Ray Dennis Steckler decrying Mystery Science Theater 3000‘s episode of his Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up
Zombies as “just disgusting” and “anti-Semitic” (!).

Also grilled about their careers — although not always in full — are David F. Friedman, Jack Hill, Lloyd Kaufman, William Lustig, Russ Meyer, Ted V. Mikels (of course he’s pictured with that god-awful boar’s-tooth necklace) and, the odd man out of the group, Alejandro Jodorowsky. Posters and photos pepper the pages.

After reading Gods of Grindhouse, you may find yourself filling your free time with viewings of some of the films mentioned. This should be listed on the back cover as a possible side effect. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon or Bear Manor Media.

Recently I read Stefan Jaworzyn’s The Texas Chain Saw Massacre Companion, which sets out to cover the entire franchise (up to its 2004 publication date, at least), yet does it in a way that’s lazy, shoddy and unfriendly to the reader. By contrast, Paul Kane’s The Hellraiser Films and Their Legacy shows how a retrospective on a horror-film franchise — or on any genre, really — should be done. It’s not difficult.

Jaworzyn’s book is not new, and neither is Kane’s, but the latter is now available in a reprint — and in a much more affordable paperback edition, at that — from McFarland & Company. Needless to say, any Hellraiser fan worth his or her satanic salt should own it.

Benefitting from a wealth of interviews, Kane recounts Clive Barker’s creation of the world of the Cenobites in The Hellbound Heart and his aim to bring that novel to the big screen himself, having been less-than-enthused about what filmmakers had done with adapting his work prior (see: Transmutations or Rawhead Rex — or don’t, as Barker would prefer).

We now know he succeeded, but in real life, conclusions aren’t so foregone. Turns out, there’s a real story to be told of the 1987 hit’s making, including battles over the budget and its rating. Hollywood’s response was not to give Barker creative freedom on his next project … but to offer him Alien 3.

Kane could’ve stopped there, but instead continues giving the same thorough, behind-the-scenes treatment for each and every sequel (except 2011’s Hellraiser: Revelations, made after the book’s original 2006 publication), whether released theatrically or straight to home video. Among them, the greatest tale of production belongs to the tortured one of the series’ fourth, 1996’s Hellraiser: Bloodlines, the one that sent Pinhead into space and took three directors to complete, if you count the infamous Alan Smithee disowning pseudonym to whom it’s credited.

Smartly avoiding start-to-finish, beat-for-beat synopses, Kane instead follows each film’s story of conception with an exploration into the themes it presents and probes. Luckily, the author does a damn good job of it. Rounding out the book is a brief look at Hellraiser‘s entry into other media, most notably comics.

Jesus wept … for joy! —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.

Fans of outré horror cinema are urged to order Zombi Mexicano right freakin’ now — not just because it’s an excellent publication, but because author/designer Keith J. Rainville has printed only 250 of these babies, with no plans for a wider run.

In other words: You snooze, you lose, and the trade paperback represents 20 of my dollars that were as hard-earned as they were well-spent.

¿Comprende?

Zombi Mexicano is not a definitive text on Mexican zombie flicks, nor is it intended to be (although now I’m convinced he should embark on that project immediately). It is an overview on a franchise that Rainville believes has been ignored, and he’s right; even a cult-film enthusiast such as myself hadn’t heard of the “Guanajuato mummies” movies, not to mention their producer, Rogelio Agrasánchez Linaje.

As Rainville writes, “Ever see a zombie use karate, then try to stomp a baby, all to the tune of a circus pipe organ?” I can’t say that I have, but I can say that I must.

Numbering roughly seven or so films, the series began with 1970’s The Mummies of Guanajuato, starring the “holy trinity of lucha-heroes: Santo, Blue Demon and Mil Mascaras.” Following in quick succession over the next five years were such sequels as Castle of the Mummies of Guanajuato, Mansion of the Seven Mummies and Macabre Legends of the Colonial Era.

I now need to see all of them.

Rainville runs through each with a spirited discussion that’s supplemented with scads and scads of crazy screen grabs, vintage posters and garish lobby cards. It’s laid out like a magazine, professionally and in eye-popping full color (except those instances where the source material was not).

The jam-packed 64-pager also contains an introductory essay that touches upon the movies you likely have heard of (i.e. the Aztec Mummy trilogy) and Mexico’s yesteryear comics featuring zombies and/or mummies.

So you don’t just have to take my near-worthless word for it, you can get a peek at Zombi Mexicano‘s insides here. Now go buy it, funky film fan, before that right is taken from you. I accept your thanks in advance. De nada. —Rod Lott

Buy it at From Parts Unknown.