Truth is, every hopeless film addict has a story like comedian/actor Patton Oswalt shares in Silver Screen Fiend. The difference is we’re not famous, so who wants to hear it?

Okay, okay, so Oswalt’s knack for making an anecdote as compelling as it comedic may have something to do with it, too.

Because of this, anyone who has experienced the near-orgasmic, adrenaline rush (don’t deny it) of a movie projector flickering to life as the lights fade away — along with your disbelief — will find themselves in lockstep with a kindred spirit …

… who’s way funnier than you or I.

Although Oswalt indeed presents himself more than worthy of the title, the slim volume is really only half about the movies. This is a memoir of a four-year span in his life in the late 1990s, when he worked as hard honing his stand-up skills on the stage as he did at catching whatever double features L.A.’s storied New Beverly Cinema revival house had programmed.

What Oswalt admittedly didn’t work so hard at? Churning out sketches for his actual day job as part of the MADtv writing team. Why do that when he harbored big, shiny dreams of becoming a director? Mainlining movies — new and old, classic or crap — was, he reasoned, the most direct path to calling “Action!”

Chapters of Silver Screen Fiend open with visual evidence of this, reprinting calendar grids of Oswalt’s filmgoing exploits, from Billy Wilder and William Castle to Hammer horror marathons and whatever big-budget blockbuster happened to open at the multiplex that week. The anal-retentive cineasts among us can and will relate; same goes with his devotion to the sacred texts of Danny Peary and Michael Weldon, whose pages Oswalt not only pored over, but decorated with checkmarks as he saw the movies they celebrated.

This book is not like those books, meaning you will not find reviews per se, although the pages are rife with the author’s blessedly unfiltered opinions. Yet it rightfully earns shelf space next to those works of reference, as Oswalt’s sprocket-holed memoir is often hilarious, occasionally heartbreaking and always, always of immense interest.

If you didn’t purchase Silver Screen Fiend in hardcover when it came out back in January, good thing you waited, because the book has gained extra content on its way to this paperback debut: nearly 50 pages of Oswalt’s early film writing, including five reviews he pseudonymously penned for Ain’t It Cool News — a website whose creator and audience seems incongruous to Oswalt’s voice and taste for the likes of Philip Kaufman’s Quills and Paul Schrader’s Blue Collar.

Also in this welcome bonus section are an introductory post to the (sadly) now-defunct The Dissolve, an attempt at aping David Thomson’s Suspects exercise of hashing out bios for fictional film characters and, hilariously, an anti-AFI list of his own 100 favorite movie moments (i.e. “Blade’s entrance at the blood rave”). —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

With one of the ’90s’ most iconic television series just a few months away from returning to the tube, now’s the time for The X-Files FAQ. (The jury, however, is still out for that subtitle: All That’s Left to Know About Global Conspiracy, Aliens, Lazarus Species, and Monsters of the Week — I mean, what the hell is a “Lazarus Species”?) John Kenneth Muir, who also penned 2013’s Horror Films FAQ for Applause’s ongoing pop-culture line of guides, has the unenviable job of distilling a decade-plus of content into a single trade paperback, yet rises to the challenge by refusing to do what the average reader might expect: give an episode guide. Although Muir does tackle many episodes, he tends to do so in thematic groupings while exploring what made The X-Files click (and sometimes not). Later chapters tackle the guest stars, the two movies, the official spin-offs, the countless knock-offs and, yep, even the porn parodies. The truth is in here.

A sequel to 2013’s Great Showdowns: The Return (itself a follow-up to the previous year’s The Great Showdowns), Scott C.’s Great Showdowns: The Revenge features dozens upon dozens more of drawings of depicting some of pop culture’s greatest adversaries. That’s it: They just stand there facing one another, whether “they” are the characters of Fatal Attraction, Child’s Play, Road to Perdition — heck, even the Steve Coogan/Rob Brydon foodie comedy The Trip! And that’s fine, because Campbell — that’s what the C stands for — is a wonderful illustrator; his drawings radiate with immeasurable charm, even when they’re of some of the most evil A-holes the screen has seen. But not everything is decipherable, and there are no words, no captions, no legend at the end to let you know who was who. Not knowing can be frustrating, even if the unknowns number few. To be technical, not everything is a showdown, either. I’d hardly call Jiro dreaming of sushi anything approaching conflict.

Given that its subject is alive, kicking and ridiculously prolific, the St. Martin’s Press trade-paperback release of The Stephen King Companion: Four Decades of Fear from the Master of Horror marks the third edition of George Beahm’s work, and he’s clearly in danger of busting through the page count of what publishing technology currently allows; as is, it stands at a mighty 624. Although it bears some resemblance to Hans-Åke Lilja’s 2010 brick from Cemetery Dance, Beahm’s is far better written and better packaged, thereby transcending what could have been merely a reference title to pluck off the shelf only if Google failed you. Instead, Beahm’s book can be consumed as an actual narrative or in pieces; it works both ways. Supplemented with a wealth of essays, interviews, sidebars, photos, Glenn Chadbourne’s illustrations and a gorgeous, full-color section of Michael Whelan’s paintings, this Companion resides in a netherworld of not quite a proper biography and not exactly a trivia collection, yet it should satisfy King’s fans looking for either or both. No stone in King’s career path — books, movies, van accidents — appears to have been left unturned.

From title alone, your first instinct is to make fun of something like Hollywood Death and Scandal Sites: Seventeen Driving Tours with Directions and the Full Story — Second Edition. Then you realize that, dammit, author E.J. Fleming has done so much research and homework that snark turns to respect. Although the 17 of the title doesn’t sound like a lot of stops, note that those are “tours” — a term Fleming doesn’t take lightly. Arranged between district groupings like Sunset Strip, Brentwood and The Palisades are some 650 sites! The generally curious and the downright morbid can maneuver their way through Fleming’s succinct and exacting instructions, fully fleshed out with the historic, tragic details about the site in question, be it a home in which a celebrity expired or a spot marking one’s murder. From superstars and up-and-comers to everyone I could think of (Rebecca Schaeffer? Dominique Dunne?), they’re all here. It’s not quite as macabre as you’d think it to be; sorry if that disappoints you. —Rod Lott

Get them at Amazon.

I thought that Rudolph Grey’s now-classic Nightmare of Ecstasy was the only book one needed to read about Ed Wood. I was wrong.

Andrew J. Rausch and Charles E. Pratt have proven as much with The Cinematic Misadventures of Ed Wood — not a biography, but a film-by-film examination of the crazed career of the legendary “bad” filmmaker. What sets it apart is the authors’ assertion that while Wood’s talent could not match his ambition, his passion is worthy of respect. After all, here we are, decades later, still watching and talking about his much-maligned movies, even if his reputation is not entirely earned or fair. For example, as wanting it is in polish, 1959’s Plan 9 from Outer Space is hardly the worst picture ever to grace the cinema screens, as it has been called.

Or, as Ted Newsom puts it in his immensely lively foreword, “How much can you say? He tried, mostly failed, then died.” But he gave it a shot.

In covering each movie in which Wood was involved (including those he did not direct), Rausch and Pratt note recurring themes that pop up throughout his CV: a distaste for homosexuality, despite his own plea for his cross-dressing fetish to be accepted; apple-pie morality, often forced with heavy hands; and a rather peculiar idea as to what passes for erotic, including the actual pornos he scripted.

Other themes don’t pop up until a rock-bottom Wood entered his X-rated phase: namely, “grotesquely hairy” asses.

More often than not, the authors’ synopses provide more entertainment than the movies. This is evident from the start, when they intro Wood’s 1953 debut: “With Glen or Glenda? Wood first proved his unique inability to tell a coherent story.” Later, 1969’s Love Feast makes the most out of what sounds like the least sexy scenario in sexploitation history: “The two beautiful women are completely naked while [Wood] resumes crawling around amongst them wearing only unappealing baggy underwear. … When he leaves to answer the door, the two models left on the bed begin to kiss each other passionately in an overly-long scene that reminded us of a mother bird trying to feed her hungry chick.”

Most memorably, of his faux sex-ed skin flick of ’71, The Undergraduate: “One of the film’s most (only?) interesting scenes features a narrator quoting from the Bible as a man’s testicles are massaged on screen. This is surreal as all hell.”

No matter the movie or the era, expect “illogical” and its variants to be bandied about like a badminton cock.

Quibbles with the BearManor release are minor and twofold: Too many rhetorical questions are posed, and it doesn’t quite make sense to me that 1978’s Hot Ice is excluded from the circus just because he served as assistant director. No matter, though — Misadventures still has plenty to offer, finishing off with a handful of interviews that includes the aforementioned Grey and one-half of the screenwriting duo behind Tim Burton’s Oscar-winning Ed Wood biopic.

For those keeping track of such things, Misadventures marks Rausch’s second book this summer, following Trash Cinema: A Celebration of Overlooked Masterpieces, also heartily recommended. Based upon this pair, I hope he keeps forgoing sleep. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon or BearManor Media.

About a decade ago, while folding laundry, I watched a fun primetime special about TV shows that, for one reason or another (but mostly because they were bad), never made it past the pilot stage. What I didn’t know at the time was that hour-long special was based on a book! While that 1991 edition is now out-of-print, it has been revived, revised and republished as The Best TV Shows That Never Were by author Lee Goldberg under his aptly named Adventures in Television banner. (He simultaneously released two companion volumes, but we’ll get to those. Patience, my dear.)

While boob-tube employment is no requirement for penning such a volume, it no doubt helped Goldberg, whose screenwriting credits include the aforementioned special, plus episodes of shows as varied as Monk, Diagnosis Murder, She-Wolf of London, SeaQuest 2032 and Baywatch. In other, dumber words, dude knows his teevee.

Covering programs from 1955 to 1990, The Best TV Shows That Never Were is an absolute hoot. Of the three books, it’s the one to get, if not the one with which to begin. Divided among categories like “Star Vehicles,” “Ghosts, Angels and Devils” and “Big Screen to Small Screen,” the shows include 300 false-starters, a few of which today live as standalone movies, such as Leonard Nimoy as an ESP-afflicted race-car driver in 1973’s Baffled! and the 1977 Exorcist rip-off starring James Farentino, The Possessed.

But mostly the book is filled with rotten eggs that only can wish they’d seen such light, however dim. An an alarming number of them:
• are set in space;
• star Granville Van Dusen or Barry Van Dyke; or
• involve a flatulent, crime-solving dog.

When Goldberg ventures into criticism for the entries, the results range from amusing to hysterical. Of ABC’s failed Al Molinaro sitcom of ’77, Great Day, he writes, “This pilot was supposed to illustrate how fun life is as a skid row bum in New York’s bowery. It failed.”

Also failed, to name but a few at random:
• “Wacky monks.” Mickey Rooney as a superhero. A jukebox that doubles as a time-travel device. Believe it.
• Kathleen Beller as a private eye assisted by a trio of animated clay figures. Believe it.
• The Starsky and Hutch spin-off, actually titled Huggy Bear and the Turkey. Believe it.
• The Beverly Hillbillies Solve the Energy Crisis. Believe it.

I mean, can you frickin’ believe it? I’m dying for a Volume 2, Lee.

That latter pilot is part of Never Were’s chapter on retro revivals. If nostalgiasploitation rings your proverbial bell, then good news: Television Fast Forward is like an expansion of that section, trafficking in nothing but.

Covering the 1950s to the early ’90s, Fast Forward divvies the sequels up by source-material series and goes from there. For example, Gilligan’s Island contains items on its three Nielsen-smashin’ telepics: Rescue from Gilligan’s Island, The Castaways on Gilligan’s Island and, of course, the immortal The Harlem Globetrotters on Gilligan’s Island. (Where’s Gilligan’s Planet, you ask? In the appendix of animated adaptations, where it should be.)

Mileage varies depending on if the shows merit encapsulating; for some, Goldberg devotes pages, while others are lucky to get a sentence or two beyond perfunctory listings of the cast and crew. And quite honestly, I completely forgot The New WKRP in Cincinnati existed — all for the best, I’m sure.

Finally, there’s the one most likely to give you a hernia: Unsold Television Pilots: 1955-1989. Weighing in at 3 pounds and 828 pages, it’s an intimidating monster … and yet, it’s not meant to be read in the traditional sense, because it’s a reference work. For each year contained in the range of the subtitle, Goldberg breaks the pilots out initially by production company and network, and later exclusively by the latter, with further categorization between comedies and dramas.

To say Unsold is exhaustive is an understatement; the index alone runs almost 150 pages! Admittedly of far narrower appeal than the other two titles, it best functions as a flipper atop the toilet tank. Flip to random pages with each movement and soak in the quick-take details on, say …
• the barbershop-set sitcom Handsome Harry’s;
• the Steven Spielberg-directed Savage, a vehicle for Martin Landau as an investigative reporter;
• William Friedkin’s action-packed C.A.T. Squad;
• or the incredibly titled Flatbed Annie and Sweetiepie: Lady Truckers, starring Annie Potts and Kim Darby.

Whatever you do, don’t miss the introduction, which gives a fascinating peek into the business of the pilot process — from someone who’s been there, no less. —Rod Lott

Get them at Amazon.

It’s a good thing that Edinburgh University Press has a paperback of Grindhouse Nostalgia: Memory, Home Video and Exploitation Film Fandom on the schedule, because the hardcover’s list price may put off some otherwise interested parties. And that’s too damned bad, because I’d wager true exploitation-film fans will appreciate this smart, swift volume. Although technically an academic tome, it’s hardly work when the subject matter is so fun, and David Church traces the history of grindhouse cinema from its dirt-cheap roots (when what was playing was largely secondary) to its corporate co-opting today as a catchall term. While Bill Landis and Michelle Clifford’s Sleazoid Express remains the definitive depiction of the Times Square moviegoing experience, Church’s book excels in examining the scene ever since: namely, the second wave ushered by Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez’s big-screen Grindhouse; the subsequent coattail-riding DVD reissues of B-, C- and Z-level fare; and now the faux-retro vibe of such titles as blaxploitation spoof Black Dynamite and women-in-prison romp Sugar Boxx.

Arguably, the films of the 1960s and ’70s yielded the best soundtracks of cinema history thus far, and The Music of Counterculture Cinema, edited by Mathew J. Bartkowiak and Yuya Kiuchi, supports that theory with 14 chapters on some of those seminal titles, although not necessarily the titles you’d expect (for example, no essay is dedicated to Simon and Garfunkel’s game-changing work for The Graduate). Your enjoyment of the McFarland & Company collection may vary, depending on your love for the subjects visual and aural. For example, examining Wendy Carlos’ Moog-tastic score for Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange and the squarely futuristic “now” sounds of Roger Vadim’s Barbarella appeal to me, yet I don’t give a damn about what Country Joe McDonald has to say, on Woodstock or anything. What I admire most about the book is how it encompasses such a wide swath of pics, from Roger Corman’s misunderstood Gas-s-s-s to the bom-chika-wow-wow of the X-rated Deep Throat.

No question regarding the aptness of the title of Joi Lansing: A Body to Die For, as the actress indeed had that; Alexis Hunter’s unusual biography, however, does not inspire equal hyperbole. Available in hardcover and paperback, the BearManor Media release is not the full-life book many Lansing fans want and expect; instead, it’s a chronicle of the loving, lesbian relationship the author (aka “Rachel Lansing”) had with the B-movie bombshell after meeting on the set of 1970’s Bigfoot and extending until the 44-year-old actress’ untimely death two years later from breast cancer. I had never heard of their couple status (much less Hunter at all), and if shots of them together were not included in A Body to Die For’s generous-enough photo section, I might have doubted Hunter’s story outright, because it’s written with such over-reverence and awe that it often reads stalkery. From shrimp cocktails to silicone implants (say it ain’t so!), the tale is heavy with day-to-day details, but light on momentum.

To talk specificity is to talk William J. Fanning’s Death Rays and the Popular Media, 1876-1939: A Study of Directed Energy Weapons in Fact, Fiction and Film. And as that unwieldy title makes known, it’s only fractionally about the movies, yet when I hear the term “death ray,” my mind immediately flashes to villainous Auric Goldfinger expecting James Bond to die by slicing him vertically with one, crotch first. Goldfinger is one of the titles discussed, barely, with the bulk of the 15 pages on film spent on serials and real obscurities. Because so little of the McFarland release concerns itself with the cinematic — and those 15 pages failed to click with me — I can’t recommend it to film buffs at all. Perhaps those with rabid interest for the intersection of history, science and warfare will be able to glean something from it. —Rod Lott

Get them at Amazon.