There’s something you should know about Simon Sheridan’s Keeping the British End Up: Four Decades of Saucy Cinema: It stinks. But only literally. I don’t know what paper stock Titan Books used for this hardcover, but it carries the waft of B.O., crossed with perhaps a hint of eau de post-coital, so maybe it’s appropriate.

Anyway, what matters is whether the contents are worth reading, no matter how obnoxious the scent, and that is a resounding “why yes, guv’nor!” In chronicling the history of the UK “slap-and-tickle” subgenre, Sheridan whips up a big bundle of fun. The book originally saw release a decade ago, but this recent new edition has been, according to the copyright page, “completely revised.”

Ask Sheridan in his introduction, does risqué equal sexy? Answers the remaining 300 or so pages, again, “why yes, guv’nor!” As was in America, the floodgates to depicted sex onscreen — we’re not talking hardcore porn here, it should be noted — opened only after the dawn of the “educational” health film and the “nudie cuties” that gave Russ Meyer and Herschell Gordon Lewis their starts.

Once Agneta Ekmanner gave moviegoers their first glimpse of pubic hair, in 1968’s Hugs & Kisses, there was no looking back, especially in the UK, where for a solid quarter of a century, the sex film saved cinema from the threat of television. In other words, the raunchy comedies were the CGI-laden superhero adventures of their era, making bona fide stars of physically gifted gals like Fiona Richmond and Mary Millington (an actual prostitute).

The bulk of the book is comprised of a chronological look of sex flick to sex flick, not just with lively plot summaries, but candid, behind-the-scenes bits from those involved on either side of the camera. It matters not if you’ve seen none of these movies, because Sheridan makes it entertaining reading; I haven’t seen a single one, but I came away with more than few for which to look out.

At the end, as the sex film moves from theaters to home living rooms via VHS, where they can be better — ahem! — appreciated, Sheridan includes brief bios of some of the subgenre’s superstars. Whether or not they’re covered in that section, it is interesting to note how many of the players are known to those shores: You have not only actresses like Joan Collins and Ava Cadell (an Andy Sidaris mainstay), but legit mainstream directors at various stages of their careers, including Jack Arnold (The Creature from the Black Lagoon), Michael Winner (Death Wish) and perhaps most notably, Martin Campbell (Green Lantern).

None of this would amount to anything if Keeping the British End Up were just text. It’s lavishly illustrated with stills and poster art throughout. While there’s a color insert, it’d be nice to see all of the art not in black and white, but just be glad it survives and that, hey, boobs aplenty. Keep it away from the kids, and close to your never-ending to-watch list. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.

Although I’m sure it could be done, it is extremely difficult to imagine a Batman filmography more exhaustive than, well, The Batman Filmography. Now in its second edition (a lot has happened in Bat-cinema since the original publication in 2004, you know), Mark S. Reinhart’s book is the complete history of the caped crusader on screens big and small. It does everything but weigh in on the controversial casting of Ben Affleck as Batman for the upcoming Man of Steel sequel. (Third edition, perhaps?)

As the title should clue you in, the book is a tour through every iteration of Batman, whether live-action or animated, whether in serials, specials, series or the big ol’ blockbusters.

In between, Reinhart supplements these chapters by relating what changes the character underwent with the times, on the pages of DC Comics, which helps put the various adaptations into a cultural perspective. This makes up for the extensive, start-to-finish plot synopses the author works into his essays/reviews; such beat-for-beat summaries are neither needed nor helpful when just spilling a few details of the setup is enough to either remind readers of what they’ve already seen or give enough context to those who haven’t yet.

McFarland & Company’s trade paperback contains a healthy inclusion of images, although it could stand to include more to break up long paragraphs of black. Hardcore Bat-fans should enjoy it regardless. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.

John Kenneth Muir’s Horror Films FAQ will appeal most to those who have read his many, many books on scary movies before, yet they will gain little from it. There are better starting places for newcomers to the genre, many of whom I would bet already know more about the likes of Dracula and Frankenstein than this guide assumes.

To be fair, the Universal Monsters and their archetypes are hardly the only cinematic bad guys the book covers; also under the spotlight are aliens, animals, serial killers, zombies, ghosts, kids and ol’ Scratch himself (aka Satan).

Later in the book, and this is where Muir excels, he turns more toward trends than creatures to give brief rundowns of torture porn, Asian remakes and adaptations of video games and Stephen King novels. There’s even a chapter on TV shows, despite the fact they’re not films and that Muir already has written an entire book on the subject (2001’s cost-prohibitive Terror Television).

In his introduction to Horror Films FAQ, he writes, “Countenancing a good scary movie is not just fun, it’s actually cathartic.” I’d be inclined to agree if I knew exactly what he meant; “countenance” means “sanction,” but that doesn’t quite fit the line. No big deal — it’s just the first of many odd choices, opinions and phrases that pop up throughout, whether classifying Lovely Molly as found footage (only in part, but not overwhelmingly) or deeming the TV series Dexter and The Walking Dead as soap operas.

With only a little overlap, worth exploring more is Dale Sherman’s Armageddon Films FAQ. Because “armageddon” is not a genre as “horror” is, the canvas is comparatively blank, allowing for surprise.

Yes, Sherman delves into the expected disaster films and/or nearly the entire CV of Roland Emmerich, but also zombie uprisings, ape planets, Martian invasions, killer viruses and body snatchers. His scope is so wide, some titles are included that might not have come to my mind for “end of the world” viewing even after hours of thinking: Fight Club, Judge Dredd (the Stallone one) and Kids in the Hall: Brain Candy.

As with Muir’s book, Sherman also includes a chapter dedicated to examples on the tube, plus adds one on music videos. Again, these aren’t films, but I guess whenever civilization does collapse and we’re without electricity, we’ll all need more to read, right? —Rod Lott

Buy them at Amazon.

Nearly 20 years ago, I had the pleasure of interviewing Gunnar Hansen, who forever will be known as Leatherface in the 1974 horror classic The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. While his iconic character is terrifying and evil, Hansen himself is not. He’s a teddy bear, nice and gracious as can be.

Therefore, it’s not a surprise to me that his book on the making on that movie, Chain Saw Confidential, is like its author: well-spoken and informative, yet also politely quiet and respectfully subdued. Those hoping for a Fangoria-style exercise in gore will be disappointed.

I didn’t, so I wasn’t. After all, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre isn’t nearly as violent as its title or reputation suggests. It’s an intense film, no doubt, but so much of its brutality isn’t onscreen — it’s filled in by viewers’ minds. The movie is also not a cult film, because, as the book reminds us, it simply was far too successful to qualify.

Success was hardly on the minds of any of the cast members, all unknowns just happy to be making a Real Movie, even if they didn’t think anything would become of it. Financed in part by drug money, Tobe Hooper’s Massacre proved tougher to make than it is to watch, thanks to the unbearable summer heat of the Lone Star State and, during the now-famous dinner scene that took 26 hours to shoot, the smell of dead dogs and headcheese.

With remarkable clarity and detail for something that took place four decades ago, Hansen recounts the treacherous, unpredictable shoot, plus the squabbles over profits the creatives never saw when the film hit big. Given the flick’s monster grosses, they thought they would be rich; “Instead,” Hansen writes, “things just got weird.”

The book retreads a lot of the info from documentaries on the various DVD editions over the years, but gives readers much, much more. (Example: learning that Hooper and company wanted and thought they were going to get a PG rating.) Hansen leans on co-stars for quotes and recollections (but not, tellingly, Hooper), yet the story is told from his frontline perspective. It’s a tale uniquely his own. —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.

I wish I could say I’ve been eagerly waiting the release of Greg Sestero’s The Disaster Artist since he mentioned it on a 2011 episode of the How Did This Get Made? podcast, but really, I’ve been eagerly waiting it longer than that — in fact, mere minutes after I saw 2003’s The Room, this millennium’s arguably strongest candidate for Best Worst Movie.

Someone, I reasoned, just had to write a book to answer all my questions surrounding such a misbegotten production, not the least of which was simply, “What the hell?”

Sestero does not disappoint. As one point of The Room‘s wretched love triangle and inadvertent line producer, the actor had a front-row seat not just to the chaos of shooting of the $6 million vanity project, but the chaos that was (is?) the life of Tommy Wiseau, “mastermind” of the movie. Years before The Room said, “Oh, hi” to an unsuspecting world, Sestero was a friend and roommate of Wiseau.

The author’s recollections (undoubtedly goosed by Disaster co-writer Tom Bissell) are hysterical from the start. On page 2, I was already laughing out loud at Sestero’s descriptions of the … how you say, “unique” look of Wiseau: “Gene Simmons after three months in the Gobi Desert? The Hunchback of Notre Dame following corrective surgery? An escaped Muppet? The drummer from Ratt?”

A terrific sense of humor is the book’s greatest asset. Unlike The Room, the laughs are intentional. Laughter was something every poor soul who had the unfortunate experience of working on the picture struggled to stifle — everyone, of course, except Wiseau, who failed to see his acting/screenwriting/directing/producing debut as anything but life-altering brilliance.

So delusional is Wiseau that he paid for The Room to play a theatrical run (to empty houses, no less) for two whole weeks, because that time frame is required to qualify for Academy Awards consideration. That’s merely one baffling decision of a thousand that Wiseau makes over the course of The Disaster Artist’s pages. God bless Sestero for taking mental notes the whole time.

So harsh is he on Wiseau at times (“The only casting directors who’d be willing to call Tommy in on the basis of this headshot were the ones curious about what it was like to be murdered”) that I wonder if their friendship experienced a fatal falling-out after the film’s premiere. If so, it goes unaddressed, but that’s about the only thing readers will be left wanting to know. Sestero even sheds light on the enigmatic Wiseau’s past, to disturbing detail.

All of this might come off as an exercise in petty cruelty, if not for two things:
1. Sestero is quick to point out his own shortcomings, e.g., “It’s pretty obvious that I mailed in my performance throughout the entire production, but during this scene I didn’t even bother to lick the envelope.”
2. The Room deserves it. Anyone who’s seen it, knows it, and anyone who’s seen it needs to read this book on its making. Apologies to the word “making.” —Rod Lott

Buy it at Amazon.