Just because it’s currently cold outside doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy Hollywood Surf and Beach Movies: The First Wave. In fact, since Thomas Lisanti’s book is dedicated to the sunniest of cinematic comedy subgenres, it might even make winter life more pleasurable.

The title of this paperback — a more affordable reprint of the book’s original hardcover release in 2005 — tells you everything you need to about it, as Lisanti provides the reader without spirited overviews of arguably the first 32 films, from the ones that birthed the craze to the ones that killed it.

Ironically, I’ve never seen Gidget, which started the craze, nor any of AIP’s Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello pictures, yet I’ve consumed more beach movies than I had realized, including the horror spoof The Ghost in the Invisible Bikini; the early Sharon Tate vehicle, Don’t Make Waves; the original Where the Boys Are; and Catalina Caper, thanks to its now-legendary appearance on the second season of Mystery Science Theater 3000.

Well, Lisanti has seen them all, and now I pretty much want to, as well. Even when he dogs a picture, there’s an affection to his voice — especially given the bevy of bikini babes who romp through these pictures with the skimpiest of coverage; not for nothing did he have to type the phrase “buxom blonde” so often. (With the book being published by McFarland, scads of photos are contained within, in case the reader desires visual proof.)

These films represent a squeaky-clean Americana that likely never truly existed outside of the screen, but they’re a blast to visit and revisit. Through his gossipy but substantive behind-the-scenes stories culled from many personal interviews (many of which also informed his recent, recommended Drive-In Dream Girls), Lisanti guides us through the gamut, from terrific to terrible.

He notes not only which flicks succeed on their merits, but delves deep into those merits, from whose curves best filled swimwear to whose songs fell as flat as a surfboard. (Semi-related on that note: his takedown of The Supremes’ appearance in 1965’s Beach Ball: “Diana Ross is a fright with her chipped tooth and big beehive wig. Her close-ups are scarier than anything found in The Horror of Party Beach.”)

At nearly 450 pages, Hollywood Surf and Beach Movies: The First Wave concludes with profiles of 23 actors often associated with the subject, including John Ashley, Yvette Mimieux, Sandra Dee, Chris Noel, Quinn O’Hara, Shelley Fabares, Aron Kincaid (who provides the book’s foreword) and — meow — Susan Hart. It says a lot when you can get joy from reading on-set stories for movies of which you’ve never seen a frame. I’d love to see what Lisanti had in store for The Second Wave, but considering this First Wave hit seven years ago, I’m guessing we may not be so lucky. —Rod Lott

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Hard as it may be for you to believe from a guy who named a book-review site after an orgasm, I don’t watch porno movies. However, this dared not stop me from picking up Sexytime, which rounds up poster art from the X-rated genre’s porn-chic heyday of the 1970s and VHS breakthrough of the early ’80s.

That’s only because it comes (tee-hee) from Jacques Boyreau, whose previous exploitation-art exhibits in book form, Trash and Portable Grindhouse, have earned permanent placement on my shelf. The guy has a knack for picking images; much like Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart and hardcore porn, Boyreau knows it when he sees it.

And luckily, he shares it, this time from the visual-presentation experts of Fantagraphics Books — a match made in poster-art heaven. Whereas FB’s packaging of Portable Grindhouse was appropriately the size and shape of a VHS tape, this hardcover book measures 14 inches tall, and that’s … well, you know.

Writes Boyreau in his balls-out introduction, “The idea of Sexytime is that these posters are more satisfying than the movies they advertise.” And the results suggest that’s for damn sure.

Presented in full-color, naturally, they range from photography to paintings to cartoons; from purposely artful and well thought-out to crude and thrown-together. They carry straightforward titles like New Wave Hookers, Blazing Zippers and Flash Pants; they also boast more eyebrow-raisers like Hugo’s Magic Pump, That’s My Daughter! and Librianna, Bitch of the Black Sea.

Little Orphan Dusty apes Farrah Fawcett’s iconic bikini poster, right down to a lookalike startlet. American Sex Fantasy is a “red, white & BLUE movie” whose cartoon image is meant to be the squeaky-clean teen star of Archie Comics. With its looming dinosaur, One Million AC/DC could be mistaken for an AIP sci-fi cheapie of the ’70s, until you notice the bare-breasted beauties underneath the beast.

Some are really classy; I’d frame the cutout composite image of Scorpion ’70, if not for the explanation I’d have to give to every visitor. While several are gaudy, only a select few are disgusting; in that latter category falls Juice (“It’s Suck-U-Lent!”), whose bloated red title appears to be dripping in spermatozoa.

Arguably the most clever poster of all turns out to be a fake; see if you can spot it. Here’s a hint: It focuses on a woman’s crotch. What, that doesn’t help? —Rod Lott

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As it should, reading Brian Kellow’s recent bio of film critic Pauline Kael made me want to read more of her work. Making that conveniently possible is Picador’s reissue of Kael’s 1982 review compendium, 5001 Nights at the Movies.

It does not contain 5,001 reviews; it just feels like it might. A doorstop of nearly 1,000 pages, the trade paperback carries a heft more than physical, but intellectual as well. And yet, this may be Kael at her most accessible, as the reviews are capsules culled from years of work at The New Yorker‘s “Goings on About Town” column.

Whether you agree with her opinions — I find them incredibly unpredictable — it’s tough to deny her unique voice, making it a joy to read both praise and pans. I was surprised to find her a fan of 1980’s much-maligned Flash Gordon (“pleasurable giddiness”), Tim Burton’s blockbuster Batman (“mean and anarchic and blissful”) and Stuart Gordon’s line-crossing Re-Animator (“the bloodier it gets, the funnier it is”).

She also classified the latter as “a silly ghoulie classic,” which proves how unhip and grandmotherly she could sound. Who else would call Ghostbusters “a scare comedy” or Cleopatra Jones “a swashbuckler”?

Redeeming herself is her near-effortless wit, whether it’s in discussing someone onscreen (George C. Scott is “that great spangled ham,” while American Hot Wax‘s not-yet-famous Jay Leno is “shovel-faced”), summarizing a plot (“He hates porno the way John Wayne hates rustlers and Commies”) or just plain ripping into a film, as she does so splendidly to 1962’s “extremely unpleasant” Gypsy: “Rosalind Russell is the psychopathic stage mother who uses and destroys everyone within reach of her excruciatingly loud voice.”

On too-rare occasion, Kael ventured off into sections of weirdsville that suggest an extra drink or two while at the typewriter. For example, she opens her take on Clint Eastwood’s Heartbreak Ridge with this WTF line: “It’s well known that many people have strong feelings about anal intercourse, but it’s doubtful if a while movie had ever been devoted to the expression of those feelings of this one.”

And finally, much more often, the grande dame of cinema criticism could be dead wrong. Look, I like Brian De Palma’s The Fury, but in no way would I ever suggest that “no Hitchcock thriller was ever so intense, went so far, or had so many ‘classic’ sequences.” Pour me one, too, please, Pauline.

5001 Nights at the Movies is full of such surprises. Unlike a majority of movie reference guides, she’s the star here, making this a perfect gift for the film buff on your holiday list, yourself included. —Rod Lott

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I’m not sure whether to be proud or ashamed that I’ve seen so many of the movies covered in Brian Albright’s Regional Horror Films, 1958-1990, a state-by-state reference guide to fright flicks made independently of the studios, major and minor. I just assumed that the titles covered would be completely obscure.

To a majority of moviegoers, I’m sure they are. Yes, they include Sam Raimi’s The Evil Dead, Tobe Hooper’s The Texas Chain Saw Massacre and Troma’s The Toxic Avenger, but those are exceptions to the rule — one populated by the likes of Zaat, Terror at Tenkiller, Dungeon of Harrow, Don’t Go in the Woods and Mardi Gras Massacre. Home video may have extended their audience greatly, but rarely so far to have penetrated the mainstream.

But before Albright gets to those, he gives a great introduction in “I Hear America Screaming,” offering a quick overview as he establishes the definition and criteria for the films covered. Why stop at 1990? Because the explosion of digital video and iMovie would have necessitated something the size of the Yellow Pages for the greater Los Angeles area. That’s a smart decision, because in my view, the luster seems to have been lost when the technology is no longer something people had to work to get.

Blood, sweat and tears inform these films — not trust funds, iPhones and Kickstarter campaigns. That’s not to say the end results are all good — heavens, no; in fact, the opposite is often the case. And it’s refreshing to hear the filmmakers admit their own faults in the 13 Q-and-A-style interviews that compose roughly half the trade paperback’s 336 pages. Among the most notable are, in order of ascending talent, J.R. Bookwalter (The Dead Next Door), William Grefé (Stanley) and Lewis Jackson (Christmas Evil).

The back half contains the state-by-state rundown (ignoring California on purpose, save for one), with the flicks presented in capsule format, but not as reviews. To his credit, Albright doesn’t pretend to have seen all of them, especially when one considers how difficult many are to acquire. His entries make me want to see scads of them.

With poster art galore, this is a reference book that horror-film fans didn’t know they needed. —Rod Lott

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I can’t remember the first time I heard of the boys who made a shot-for-shot remake of Raiders of the Lost Ark. I do remember thinking, “Cute, but what’s the point? Perhaps there’s more to the story.”

Turns out, there is … but only technically. With writer Alan Eisenstock, the once-juvenile filmmakers Chris Strompolos and Eric Zala tell their seven-year tale of production in Raiders!: The Story of the Greatest Fan Film Ever Made. While certainly rife with details, it offers little in terms of meaty stuff that inquiring minds outta know.

For example, you’ll learn that Chris was a class clown, that Eric met him over the Marvel Comics adaptation, that Chris liked to lip-sync to Frank Zappa’s “Valley Girl,” that Eric’s home eventually was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina, and so on. You may think otherwise, but I don’t think they add up to a compelling behind-the-scenes story. That they made a movie in and of itself was not enough for me.

At the end of each chapter — and even sections within those chapters — Eisenstock tries his hardest to squeeze drama out of mundane situations, or create drama where there is none. Dialogue here in particular rings false, with lines carrying the same clichéd cinematic weight of “You ain’t seen nothing yet” or “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout!”

Telling it from the kids’ viewpoint is what sinks it. Overall, the book has the feel of being the literary equivalent of re-enactments on America’s Most Wanted. —Rod Lott

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