Hard as it may be for you to believe from a guy who named a book-review site after an orgasm, I don’t watch porno movies. However, this dared not stop me from picking up Sexytime, which rounds up poster art from the X-rated genre’s porn-chic heyday of the 1970s and VHS breakthrough of the early ’80s.

That’s only because it comes (tee-hee) from Jacques Boyreau, whose previous exploitation-art exhibits in book form, Trash and Portable Grindhouse, have earned permanent placement on my shelf. The guy has a knack for picking images; much like Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart and hardcore porn, Boyreau knows it when he sees it.

And luckily, he shares it, this time from the visual-presentation experts of Fantagraphics Books — a match made in poster-art heaven. Whereas FB’s packaging of Portable Grindhouse was appropriately the size and shape of a VHS tape, this hardcover book measures 14 inches tall, and that’s … well, you know.

Writes Boyreau in his balls-out introduction, “The idea of Sexytime is that these posters are more satisfying than the movies they advertise.” And the results suggest that’s for damn sure.

Presented in full-color, naturally, they range from photography to paintings to cartoons; from purposely artful and well thought-out to crude and thrown-together. They carry straightforward titles like New Wave Hookers, Blazing Zippers and Flash Pants; they also boast more eyebrow-raisers like Hugo’s Magic Pump, That’s My Daughter! and Librianna, Bitch of the Black Sea.

Little Orphan Dusty apes Farrah Fawcett’s iconic bikini poster, right down to a lookalike startlet. American Sex Fantasy is a “red, white & BLUE movie” whose cartoon image is meant to be the squeaky-clean teen star of Archie Comics. With its looming dinosaur, One Million AC/DC could be mistaken for an AIP sci-fi cheapie of the ’70s, until you notice the bare-breasted beauties underneath the beast.

Some are really classy; I’d frame the cutout composite image of Scorpion ’70, if not for the explanation I’d have to give to every visitor. While several are gaudy, only a select few are disgusting; in that latter category falls Juice (“It’s Suck-U-Lent!”), whose bloated red title appears to be dripping in spermatozoa.

Arguably the most clever poster of all turns out to be a fake; see if you can spot it. Here’s a hint: It focuses on a woman’s crotch. What, that doesn’t help? —Rod Lott

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As it should, reading Brian Kellow’s recent bio of film critic Pauline Kael made me want to read more of her work. Making that conveniently possible is Picador’s reissue of Kael’s 1982 review compendium, 5001 Nights at the Movies.

It does not contain 5,001 reviews; it just feels like it might. A doorstop of nearly 1,000 pages, the trade paperback carries a heft more than physical, but intellectual as well. And yet, this may be Kael at her most accessible, as the reviews are capsules culled from years of work at The New Yorker‘s “Goings on About Town” column.

Whether you agree with her opinions — I find them incredibly unpredictable — it’s tough to deny her unique voice, making it a joy to read both praise and pans. I was surprised to find her a fan of 1980’s much-maligned Flash Gordon (“pleasurable giddiness”), Tim Burton’s blockbuster Batman (“mean and anarchic and blissful”) and Stuart Gordon’s line-crossing Re-Animator (“the bloodier it gets, the funnier it is”).

She also classified the latter as “a silly ghoulie classic,” which proves how unhip and grandmotherly she could sound. Who else would call Ghostbusters “a scare comedy” or Cleopatra Jones “a swashbuckler”?

Redeeming herself is her near-effortless wit, whether it’s in discussing someone onscreen (George C. Scott is “that great spangled ham,” while American Hot Wax‘s not-yet-famous Jay Leno is “shovel-faced”), summarizing a plot (“He hates porno the way John Wayne hates rustlers and Commies”) or just plain ripping into a film, as she does so splendidly to 1962’s “extremely unpleasant” Gypsy: “Rosalind Russell is the psychopathic stage mother who uses and destroys everyone within reach of her excruciatingly loud voice.”

On too-rare occasion, Kael ventured off into sections of weirdsville that suggest an extra drink or two while at the typewriter. For example, she opens her take on Clint Eastwood’s Heartbreak Ridge with this WTF line: “It’s well known that many people have strong feelings about anal intercourse, but it’s doubtful if a while movie had ever been devoted to the expression of those feelings of this one.”

And finally, much more often, the grande dame of cinema criticism could be dead wrong. Look, I like Brian De Palma’s The Fury, but in no way would I ever suggest that “no Hitchcock thriller was ever so intense, went so far, or had so many ‘classic’ sequences.” Pour me one, too, please, Pauline.

5001 Nights at the Movies is full of such surprises. Unlike a majority of movie reference guides, she’s the star here, making this a perfect gift for the film buff on your holiday list, yourself included. —Rod Lott

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I’m not sure whether to be proud or ashamed that I’ve seen so many of the movies covered in Brian Albright’s Regional Horror Films, 1958-1990, a state-by-state reference guide to fright flicks made independently of the studios, major and minor. I just assumed that the titles covered would be completely obscure.

To a majority of moviegoers, I’m sure they are. Yes, they include Sam Raimi’s The Evil Dead, Tobe Hooper’s The Texas Chain Saw Massacre and Troma’s The Toxic Avenger, but those are exceptions to the rule — one populated by the likes of Zaat, Terror at Tenkiller, Dungeon of Harrow, Don’t Go in the Woods and Mardi Gras Massacre. Home video may have extended their audience greatly, but rarely so far to have penetrated the mainstream.

But before Albright gets to those, he gives a great introduction in “I Hear America Screaming,” offering a quick overview as he establishes the definition and criteria for the films covered. Why stop at 1990? Because the explosion of digital video and iMovie would have necessitated something the size of the Yellow Pages for the greater Los Angeles area. That’s a smart decision, because in my view, the luster seems to have been lost when the technology is no longer something people had to work to get.

Blood, sweat and tears inform these films — not trust funds, iPhones and Kickstarter campaigns. That’s not to say the end results are all good — heavens, no; in fact, the opposite is often the case. And it’s refreshing to hear the filmmakers admit their own faults in the 13 Q-and-A-style interviews that compose roughly half the trade paperback’s 336 pages. Among the most notable are, in order of ascending talent, J.R. Bookwalter (The Dead Next Door), William Grefé (Stanley) and Lewis Jackson (Christmas Evil).

The back half contains the state-by-state rundown (ignoring California on purpose, save for one), with the flicks presented in capsule format, but not as reviews. To his credit, Albright doesn’t pretend to have seen all of them, especially when one considers how difficult many are to acquire. His entries make me want to see scads of them.

With poster art galore, this is a reference book that horror-film fans didn’t know they needed. —Rod Lott

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