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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According to Gene Blottner in Columbia Noir: A Complete Filmography, 1940-1962, the Columbia Pictures studio proceeded with caution when it came to making noir pictures. Nonetheless, it eventually produced some of the genre’s all-time classics: The Lady from Shanghai, Experiment in Terror, Anatomy of a Murder, On the Waterfront and Gilda (poster art from which adorns the McFarland & Company paperback’s cover). Each of these and 164 other films — revered to forgotten — gets its own entry, so why isn’t Blottner’s book more interesting? Honestly, it suffers from the same drawbacks as Ronald Schwartz’s recent Houses of Noir: Dark Visions from Thirteen Film Studios, from the same publisher: There’s too little substance. More ink is given to beat-by-beat plot summaries and complete cast listings than anything that passes for commentary and criticism. And in covering a single studio’s output, it’s even too niche to work well as reference material. I didn’t dislike it so much as I didn’t get anything from it.

From Dragnet to Justified, Cop Shows: A Critical History of Police Dramas on Television gives 19 mini-histories of some of the tube’s all-time greatest series of the men and women (but mostly men) behind the badge. Written largely by Roger Sabin, with assists from Ronald Wilson, Linda Speidel, Brian Faucette and Ben Bethell, the trade paperback proves a fun read for Gen X-ers who grew up on the 1970s prime-time powerhouses — both live and in reruns — and then played as the characters throughout the neighborhood (um, not that I’m speaking from experience), as a bulk of the contents covers that era forward. Although the collection could be read cover to cover, I found it worked best for me by skipping around, based on which programs I either liked the most or wanted to learn more about. Of particular note are Sabin’s chapter on CSI: Crime Scene Investigation and Fawcett’s on Miami Vice, reminding us how revolutionary these programs are and were. Speaking of the R word, one wishes Sabin and company would have involved the insight of their subjects’ creators, à la Alan Sepinwall’s The Revolution Was Televised; this’ll do for true police-tube aficionados, even if it is by no means essential. (One also wishes McFarland had found stock photography for the cover that wasn’t embarrassing.)

Kids: Can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em! Paraphrased old joke aside, the big screen has served as home to plenty of bad seeds, many of whom have met their demise by the hands of had-it-up-to-here adults, and Markus P.J. Bohlmann and Sean Moreland have edited an entire book on the subject, Monstrous Children and Childish Monsters: Essays on Cinema’s Holy Terrors. As you’d expect, most of the 15 chapters explore examples from the horror genre — Rosemary’s Baby, The Shining, It’s Alive, Orphan and other arguments for birth control — but not wholly; one of the most memorable pieces is Debbie Olson’s live-wire takedown of the Oscar-anointed Precious for “its validation … of the monstrousness of the black female.” Other less-obvious suspects include the chicken baby of Eraserhead, an obscure Beowulf adaptation few have seen and the entirety of Ridley Scott’s CV. (What, no chapter on John Ritter’s Problem Child trilogy?) Variety is the spice of life for this collection; just expect the bun to come out of the oven more academic in tone than its title suggests. —Rod Lott

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Don’t be dissuaded by the rather extended-pinky subtitle of B Is for Bad Cinema: Aesthetics, Politics, and Cultural Value, part of State University of New York Press’ ongoing “Horizons on Cinema” series. (Also don’t be dissuaded that Leos Carax’s critically revered Holy Motors adorns the cover; co-editors Claire Perkins and Constantine Verevis have some ’splainin’ to do regarding that curious choice, and try to in their introduction.) Available in both expensive hardcover and affordable paperback, this is a livelier-than-anticipated collection of intelligent essays addressing not-always-intelligent film. Nothing encapsulates the approach better than Jeffrey Sconce’s truly funny “Explosive Apathy”; if you never thought an academic piece would examine Hollywood’s physics-ignorant love of shooting characters walking toward the camera in slow motion as a fireball rages behind them, think again. Amid evaluations of William Friedkin’s notoriously (and arguably?) homophobic Cruising and Guy Green’s muddled Magus come works on botched subtitle translations, the technique of rear projection and the various DVD commentaries of Sam Raimi’s The Evil Dead. While the book’s concept remains not quite clearly delineated upon reaching the back cover, its contents are strong enough to survive without the overarching cohesion.

Embarrassing as it is (especially when spoken aloud), the subtitle of Quentin Tarantino FAQ: Everything Left to Know About the Original Reservoir Dog rings true: There’s a lot I didn’t know about one of my favorite directors, and Dale Sherman has compiled an infinitely readable history of the man and his movies in a paperback package just shy of 400 pages. Last seen authoring another book in Applause’s FAQ series (2013’s Armageddon Films FAQ), Sherman fashions an honest-to-goodness narrative in Tarantino’s rise from high school dropout and video store clerk to multiple Academy Award winner and indie-film revolutionist. The road to his Reservoir Dogs debut is paved with far more stops than the “overnight sensation” label would have you believe, and the level of detail Sherman employs to tell that tale also is applied to the behind-the-scenes stories of each subsequent project. Also discussed: everything from grindhouse fare to Green Lantern — can you imagine Tarantino directing that? He considered it “for a second,” and fans will enjoy their hours spent reading this FAQ, excusing a few “royale” errors.

As David Meuel demonstrates throughout The Noir Western: Darkness on the Range, 1943-1962, more examples of this unusual marriage of shadows and saddle sores exist than I would have guessed. The McFarland & Company paperback gives Meuel — who penned Women in the Films of John Ford for the publisher last year — 11 chapters (not including intros and outros) to discuss representative works of “the dark cowboy.” Among them are such iconic Westerns as William A. Wellman’s The Ox-Bow Incident, Delmer Daves’ 3:10 to Yuma and Ford’s The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance; Meuel divides his essays thematically and/or by director, yielding pieces both knowledgeable and enlightening. The one digging into maverick Sam Fuller’s subversive contributions to the genre was my favorite, and stands as a great litmus test for any book browser considering taking the ride. I only wish the author had extended his scope beyond ’62, but at least his afterword acknowledges a post-date existence and influence. —Rod Lott

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