It’s not as if 1957 was a banner year for genre movies, but that hasn’t stopped Rob Craig from dedicating an entire book to the 57 such flicks that invaded theaters over those 12 months — 11, really, as January stood barren. The result is It Came from 1957: A Critical Guide to the Year’s Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror Films, a McFarland & Company release in trade paperback.

Craig takes a chronological tour down memory lane, reviewing such B-level works as Tobor the Great, The Black Scorpion and The Brain from Planet Arous, whose poster imagery provides the cover art. On a rare occasion, there’s even a bona fide classic, with arguably none greater than The Incredible Shrinking Man or The Thing from Another World.

With a modicum of plot info (thank goodness), each entry is concentrated on actual criticism and insight. That would be enough as is, but until it reaches page 50, the book spends time putting the reader in the historical perspective, so one can see how the times shaped the entertainment. In this case, the Atomic Age was in full force, with TV threatening theaters and women eager to shed their “baby factory” labels.

Some readers have taken umbrage at this initial section and casting the light of politics at the silver screen, viewing the exercise as “lefty infused nonsense,” as one put it. I didn’t get that. Craig may overanalyze a film or appear inconsistent in his praise and brickbats, but the book is — as labeled — “a critical guide.” In other words, the viewpoint is his and his alone; just because you don’t agree with it doesn’t make it wrong (or vice versa). If reading reviews isn’t your thing, this isn’t your book. I do, and while the author is far from a Roger Ebert, his approach remains entertaining enough for your time, provided you’re really into this era of sci-fi.

I like the concept of devoting a book to one year of film; it would be neat to see Craig continue the concept. But really, if you were to read only one 2013 cult-movie book by the man, I’d suggest Gutter Auteur: The Films of Andy Milligan over this one. —Rod Lott

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One can appreciation the idea behind Ronald Schwartz’s Houses of Noir: Dark Visions from Thirteen Film Studios without doing the same for the execution.

That idea is simple: Pick the best example of film noir from each studio in play of that golden era, and discuss it. Granted, this mean the work is driven by the author’s subjectivity — no problem there. What ultimately makes the McFarland & Company paperback lacking of substance is what passes for discussion and criticism.

Schwartz, a New York film professor, has great taste. For his baker’s dozen of bullets, broads and blackmail, he’s selected some excellent movies, including Charles Vidor’s Gilda, starring Rita Hayworth at her va-va-voomiest; Edgar G. Ulmer’s cheapie Detour; and Billy Wilder’s Double Indemnity, certifiable classic.

I hope you’ve seen them, because should you choose to read the book, you’re given lengthy, detailed, beat-by-beat plot summaries of each. What’s the point? Following each summary is a list of the film’s main actors, each of whom is presented with a list of other notable titles from his or her filmography. What’s the point? More futility lay ahead, as Schwartz closes each chapter by describing each photograph. What’s the point?

Far better books from earlier this year tackle the same subject. Spend your ever-valuable time and money on David J. Hogan’s Film Noir FAQ or John Grant’s A Comprehensive Encyclopedia of Film Noir instead. —Rod Lott

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Early in last year’s Alfred Hitchcock biopic (Hitchcock, natch), a reporter asks the master of suspense, “You’ve directed 46 motion pictures. You’re the most famous director in the history of the medium. But you’re 60 years old. Shouldn’t you just quit while you’re ahead?”

Greydon Clark had nothing to do with Hitchcock, but I was reminded of that scene throughout his autobiography, On the Cheap: My Life in Low Budget Filmmaking, because it’s rife with that kind of quick-draw, big-picture exposition.

The reason? Clark chose to write On the Cheap in the format of a screenplay. That means rat-a-tat-tat dialogue and lightning-fast transitions — in other words, the kind of efficient storytelling the writer/director has near perfected in a career of B movies. Those attuned to the unique rhythms and pleasures of such films as Satan’s Cheerleaders, Black Shampoo and Without Warning will get it. All others have a lot of catching up to do — don’t worry, it won’t hurt. Much.

The speed doesn’t mean readers will be short-shrifted. At almost 300 pages, the paperback takes us through Clark’s work chronologically, film by film. No time is wasted on his childhood and upbringing, because he knows no one cares about that. They want to know behind-the-scenes stories on movies, dammit! And throw in some tits while you’re at it, why don’t ya?

Clark delivers by jumping right in, starting with working for Al Adamson. The author holds little love for the schlock titan, but it yields the first of On the Cheap‘s great stories, from the set of 1970’s Hell’s Bloody Devils, when Clark was ordered to convince a cameoing Col. Sanders (of Kentucky Fried Chicken fame) to say a line he refused to say: “Ain’t that chicken finger-lickin’ good.”

There are dozens more irresistible anecdotes, from Martin Landau backing out of the horror spoof Wacko because of a lack of humor to how Robert Englund accidentally got cast as a man and a woman in 1992’s Dance Macabre, a Russian ballet thriller (!) backed by Menahem Golan, formerly one-half of Cannon Films. In fact, Golan’s craziness leads to the book’s funniest part: the entire chapter on The Forbidden Dance, one of three movies rushing to be first to cash in on the short-lived Lambada dance craze.

Clark’s own humor stops when it comes to two of his movies being featured on Mystery Science Theater 3000: Angels’ Brigade and Final Justice; that he doesn’t like that scenes were cut suggests he doesn’t quite get what the show is all about. Still, I came away from On the Cheap with a great deal of respect for Clark, both for mortgaging his home (more than once) to get his movies made and for being screwed over by shady distributors (also more than once) when he should have earned a windfall. One wishes the industry hadn’t changed so wildly as it has, so that Clark could continue the work he’s left behind since 1998.

One last note: In typical ballyhoo fashion of the Bs, the back cover’s trumpeting of “Over 150 Color Photos” should be taken with a lowering of expectations, as small snapshots are crammed onto collage-style pages. On the other hand, praise be to Eddy Crosby for the incredible, ever-colorful front cover. —Rod Lott

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To call Roberto Curti’s book an Italian Crime Filmography, 1968-1980 is to do it a bit of disservice. Yes, the McFarland & Company trade paperback qualifies as a reference book, but by definition, a “filmography” is merely a list, and this is far more than that.

Across a heavy 332 pages, the Italian film critic Curti covers a lot of Eurocrime ground from the country shaped famously like a boot: 13 years worth, to be exact, from 1968 to 1980. Such movies existed before the earlier date, of course, but the author pinpoints that year as the beginning of the subgenre’s peak period, due both to real-life political events and the financial wane of the almighty spaghetti Western.

An introduction addresses the Italian crime pictures before ’68 at the book’s opening and then the ones after ’80 near the book’s end. These bookends provide nice context and closure, but it’s the meat between that really matters.

Here, going year by year — and then alphabetically within those — Curti runs through a good 220 or so films. A cursory plot summary merits a mercifully brief paragraph before a full piece that doubles as essay and review, and this is why “filmography” doesn’t cut it. Curti offers incredible insight and credible criticism throughout, and reading his book is like gaining additional perspective on the titles you’ve seen and compiling recommendations on those you haven’t … yet.

Per McFarland’s usual treatment of film books, poster art and still photos are hardly in short supply. Bravo! —Rod Lott

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It’s amazing how often publishers put superlatives like “ultimate” or “best” in the titles of nonfiction works that don’t merit such use. John Grant’s A Comprehensive Encyclopedia of Film Noir: The Essential Reference Guide dares to have two, but damn if it doesn’t fulfill them.

From Limelight Editions, this weighty hardcover — nearly five pounds, nearly 800 pages — has “Christmas gift” written all over it for the film fan on your list. (Or “Hanukkah gift” if he/she is Jewish.) And after the holidays pass, consider it for yourself with any cash or gift card balance you may acquire.

Pay note to one more word in the title: “encyclopedia.” It is that; in other words, the book is not meant to be read cover to cover, although you sure could. Approximately 3,250 movies are covered, with each entry being built on the base information (year, country, key talent), a brief plot summary (minus spoilers) and briefer bits of criticism. On occasion — say, with a Citizen Kane or your Vertigo — Grant extends the usual paragraph or two into a mini-essay; more opinion and background material are included when this occurs.

If picky readers are to have a problem with A Comprehensive Encyclopedia of Film Noir, it’s going to be with the author’s loose definition of the subject. He acknowledges this in his introduction, and one need only flip open to nearly any spread to see the kind of films whose presence may raise an eyebrow. A mere random sampling: the glitzy Whitney Houston assassination vehicle The Bodyguard, the hyperkinetic visual feast known as Germany’s Run Lola Run, the Zucker/Abrahams/Zucker broad comedy Ruthless People. To those who may be upset, I say, “Calm down, Tex. It’s not like your Double Indemnity has been kicked out because of it.”

Besides, any film noir text that doesn’t think twice about including the likes of Ray Dennis Steckler (Body Fever) and Ed Wood (The Sinister Urge) is one after my own heart. —Rod Lott

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