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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In 1985, I was 14 and at the peak of my obsessive love for Mad magazine. Late that summer, when I read a one-sentence mention in TV Guide that a syndicated show titled Mad Movies was among that fall’s new fare, I flipped. Finally, something to look forward to in my so-called life!

Imagine my disappointment when Mad Movies soon premiered, and under the full title of Mad Movies with the L.A. Connection. Not only did the program have zilch to do with my favorite “cheap” mag, but I didn’t find it all that funny, either, no matter how hard its rather desperate laugh track tried to convince me otherwise. (Don’t even get me started on FTV, the woeful MTV parody that shared the hour on my local station.)

The premise of Mad Movies was simple: The California-based improv troupe The L.A. Connection lip-synched a comical new storyline to heavily condensed versions of various films in the public domain, including comedies (The Little Princess), mysteries (Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon), thrillers (D.O.A.) and horror (Night of the Living Dead).

I share all that so I can say that even with my relationship with the show being brief and unsuccessful, I still looked forward to reading the world’s first — and likely only, ever — book on the short-lived series: the straightforward-titled Mad Movies with the L.A. Connection by Cashiers du Cinemart madman Mike White. After all, the show has its cult, and I admire its playfully anarchic, subversive spirit even without loving the final product. It’s possible that without it and similar experiments (see below), Mystery Science Theater 3000 would not exist.

From BearManor Media, the slim paperback details the show’s history, and it’s one that includes such players as Alan Thicke, Will Ferrell and — va-va-voom! — the Landers sisters. While not exactly sordid, the behind-the-scenes stories are candid enough to reveal a fair share of dueling egos at play, so perhaps it’s for the best the series lasted only one season. White includes an episode guide shortly after the halfway mark, and the book is illustrated with photos and old ads throughout.

It’s to White’s credit that the book would be interesting enough telling The L.A. Connection’s brush with nationwide mainstream television. Yet he doesn’t stop there; as readers of Cinemart’s most recent issue know (being treated to a preview excerpt), White discusses the comedic art form of “mock dubbing” as a whole, which has resulted in such niche features as What’s Up, Hideous Sun Demon (with Jay Leno among the voice cast), Blobermouth and Hercules Returns, all of which I now must see.

Love or loathe Mad Movies the TV show, any fan of that culture-spoofing style will enjoy Mad Movies the book. If there’s a bone to be picked from this chicken, it’s that White often quotes what should just be paraphrased, if not all but stricken, and yet his prose flows. (Allow me to pause and plug his outstanding collection of film criticism, 2013’s Cinema Detours.) At 132 pages, it can be read in less than two hours, which is roughly equal to the total time I spent watching the show in ’85 before deciding to stop tuning in; there were many Mads to be read and re-read, after all. —Rod Lott

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