One thing the Amazing Criswell didn’t predict: the existence of Edwin Lee Canfield’s Fact, Fictions, and the Forbidden Predictions of the Amazing Criswell, the first biography of the “psychic,” “actor” and other professions you could put in ironic quotes. Published by the great Headpress, which makes perfect sense, the book is so exhaustively researched, it gives itself chronic fatigue syndrome.

If at all, older generations are most apt to know Jeron Charles Criswell King through multiple sits on the hallowed couch of Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show, from where he spouted outrageous prophecies. Younger generations, however, likely came to know him through the films of Ed Wood, most notably Plan 9 from Outer Space, in which he plays himself, and Orgy of the Dead, in which he doesn’t, but may as well be since his approach is unchanged.

Since the Ed Wood rediscovery — roughly from the Medveds’ The Golden Turkey Awards in 1980 to Tim Burton’s Oscar-winning biopic of 1994 — Criswell has become a semi-legend of outré cinema. As Canfield demonstrates in detail, Criswell’s corniness wasn’t confined to the screen; the Renaissance (or Rent-a-Sance, perhaps) man was an outré figure in real life itself.

While the Wood association-cum-collaboration is well-explored, so are the less visible aspects of Criswell’s nearly eight decades on this mortal plane. His close friendship with sex symbol Mae West — then so past her prime, she was practically a recluse — may be oddball, but appears to be the definition of normal compared to his relationship with one Halo Meadows: that of longtime spouse, despite almost certainly being homosexual. Although Criswell was no stranger to embellishment when he met his Meadows, the wannabe theater icon thoroughly schooled her husband in self-promotion and -delusion.

All too often, figures on the cultural fringe are dismissed as mere crackpots to be laughed at like obliviously masturbating zoo animal, but Canfield gives Criswell the bio he deserves. Not because Criswell wasn’t a crackpot; he totally was, but he also was human. His Walter Mitty-style life comes across as both blessed and miserable, because while he enjoyed a mild celebrity, he seemed unable to fully capitalize on it, with he and Meadows always scraping for the next buck, not always legally.

If you’ve never read a Criswell prediction — as bold and brazen as they are baffling — Fact, Fictions has plenty loaded in its chamber, from his newspaper columns and books. The samples reprinted number many — sometimes too many, as a little goes a long way. Readers definitely get a full sense of his soothsaying showmanship … and wonder not only how anyone could take it seriously, but if it were all an act. You’ll find the answers — and more! — in this thick ’n’ quick read. For close to 400 pages, Canfield cannily celebrates Criswell’s bullshit while pulverizing right through it. —Rod Lott

Get it at Headpress or Amazon.

After covering the filmographies of Herschell Gordon Lewis and Ted V. Mikels, Christopher Wayne Curry turns his completist’s eye to a more difficult subject with The Incredibly Strange Features of Ray Dennis Steckler. Certainly this is the only text to draw a dotted line between the director of Rat Pfink a Boo Boo and Luis Buñuel. After all, Steckler was the kind of low-low-budget filmmaker who thought nothing of ending a movie “with three characters the viewer knows and five they do not.”

Published by McFarland & Co., the book is a thorough examination of the man’s nearly 50-year outré oeuvre in — but mostly on the fringes of — Hollywood. As Curry puts it, “Hollywood was not answering and Steckler was tired of calling.”

Those aware of the psychotronic legend largely do so for his early pictures, including the Arch Hall Jr. vehicle Wild Guitar, the aforementioned accidental superhero spoof Rat Pfink a Boo Boo and the mouthful-titled, monster-musical madness from which Curry’s book takes the most opportune pun, The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies!!?

The author takes readers through each in an amazing amount of detail, essentially scene by scene. This would be frustrating if not for Curry using the opportunity to weave in behind-the-scenes stories and facts, historical context, interview quotes and related minutiae all the while; thus, the effect is akin to listening to a solid DVD commentary, both informative and lively. Naturally, his own opinions play a great part. While Curry sees many of Steckler’s deficiencies as a plus, it’s hilarious when he doesn’t, as in his coverage of the padded slasher Blood Shack (aka The Chooper): “Simply put, there should never be protracted conversations about irrigation and filtered water in a horror film.”

A shameless self-promoter, Steckler (who died in 2009) would no doubt be overjoyed with being the focus of an entire book. But no doubt he’d be livid over the chapter devoted to the roughly 75% of his directorial career he not merely disowned, but denied: the dozens and dozens of hardcore pornos. Curry covers them all, but only in brief, because they’re so bad, they don’t merit, er, probing. (And considering how bad Steckler’s legit pics could get, that says a lot.)

Curry’s all-encompassing description of the X-rated fare says it best: “These films contain the usual humping, bumping and pumping, all of this augmented by mounds of unkempt curlys, arcing ropes of reproductive fluids, pimples, cold sores, in-grown hairs and lots of sweat. … The viewer’s sense of smell is spared, but for the eyes and earls it is an all-out assault.”

The book would not be complete without looking at this sordid bulk of Steckler’s work. Same goes for his oft-leading lady, the beautiful Carolyn Brandt (Body Fever), detailing Steckler’s marriage-wrecking infidelities. Without venom, Brandt sheds a light on their personal life to a degree of candidness I’ve not seen reported (not to mention shares a curious tidbit about Ilsa star Dyanne Thorne’s nipples). Curry deserves commendation for telling the whole story, proving a writer can show reverence without being disingenuous.

The only knock against the book is one of unavoidable timing: Severin Films’ recent Steckler box set, in which Curry participated, renders some of the contents out of date, in that projects regarded as lost no longer are. However, these are few and minor.

If you’ve never experienced the uniqueness of a Steckler film, you’re not ready for Incredibly Strange Features. For everyone else, it’s fascinating and fun. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

On Oct. 5, 1962, two titans of popular culture were unleashed to an unsuspecting public: Beatles records and James Bond movies, in the respective form of “Love Me Do” and Dr. No. Whether the result of kismet, fate, dumb luck or preordained from the heavens, this much is incontestable: Although born in Great Britain, these fraternal twins today belong to the world.

Brighton-based author John Higgs tracks how both were able to achieve the near-impossible — on often-perpendicular paths, no less — in the wonderful new book Love and Let Die: James Bond, The Beatles, and the British Psyche.

From the acrimonious Phil Spector to the acronymous SPECTRE, the similarities along the way are mind-blowing. But this is hardly some Lincoln/Kennedy-style listicle. Rather than merely drawing parallels between his two subjects, the author seems more interested in examining their differences on such stances as class structure and racism.

Even topics that hardly shake the earth are considered — including sports, hairstyles, intoxicants and transcendental meditation — as Higgs chronologically mines history, showing how Bond and The Beatles influenced this ever-changing world in which we live in.

Although Love and Let Die is not a salacious book, sex plays a large part in the story. How could it not? It’s present from the start, revealing the BDSM proclivities of 007 creator/virulent racist Ian Fleming. Higgs even notes Fleming’s first novel, 1953’s Casino Royale, referring to a potential tryst of Bond’s as possessing “the sweet tang of rape.”

With that style of misogyny galore, George Lazenby’s final test for securing the Bond role in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service shouldn’t come as a shock, and yet it does: Producers watched him have sex with several hired hookers “to make sure that he wasn’t gay.”

On The Beatles’ side, I certainly knew each member had his womanizing ways. But I didn’t know — or need to know — about their early-days group masturbation sessions. (Fap Four, anyone?) If Paul McCartney’s candor there is outrageous, miserable asshole John Lennon later outdoes him by sharing regret in not balling his own mother after grabbing her breast as a teenager. (Imagine!)

With more than a little help from that story and others, Higgs succeeds in explaining why Lennon’s reputation as the “genius” Beatle wasn’t exactly well-earned, while restoring the luster of the others. He does several things right throughout Love and Let Die‘s pages, including not ignoring Operation Kid Brother (although many would) or 1967’s ill-fated all-star “comedy” version of Casino Royale (although many should). —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.