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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Limelight Editions has put out half a dozen If You Like … pop-culture guidebooks over the last year, using everything from The Beatles to The Sopranos as jumping-off points for recommended media, but Katherine Rife’s If You Like Quentin Tarantino … is the most logical of them yet.

Why? Because Tarantino is the perfect subject for such as series, for what are his movies but built-in recommendation lists? They wear their influences on their sleeves, right out in the open. Thus, Rife can feel safe in recommending, say, an Ennio Morricone album, because QT has drawn from that well many a time already.

A filmmaker herself, the Chicago-based Rife has structured the paperback into eight chapters, one for each of his directed features, from Reservoir Dogs 20 years ago (feel old yet?) to next month’s hotly anticipated Django Unchained. Moving chronologically through them, she delivers mini-essays and reviews on flicks and other media that directly match each; thus, she covers crime, noir, blaxploitation, martial arts, Italian horror, biker pics, war epics and spaghetti Westerns at large, with many subgenres peppered about.

She doesn’t always pick the obvious, too; although those are there — say, Sonny Chiba’s Street Fighter trilogy, the first part of which is practically a plot point of True Romance — she also digs down to the obscure, or obscure enough that you’ll curse her when you can’t find the film in print. The lady knows her stuff; depending on what her feet look like, she could be QT’s idea of a perfect woman.

Personally, I love her ain’t-screwin’-’round writing voice, as witnessed by such lines as “Dicks don’t get more dickish than Mike Hammer” or for pegging Martin Scorsese’s Boxcar Bertha as “hobosploitation.” That’s new.

Generously but not overly illustrated, the book swims in sidebars, too, in order to suggest some pulp fiction (as in novels, mind you), count down the seminal blaxploitation soundtrack albums, or sludge through the high (low?) points of rape-revenge movies. These shortened bits also serve as quick-fix 101s as such important topics as Wu-Tang Clan, Brian De Palma or Goblin. We all should be as schooled. —Rod Lott

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What makes Skyfall, the new James Bond film, all the more terrific is that its theme song is, too. That hasn’t happened in, what, decades?

I’ve long thought that the 007 franchise producers have grown to be behind the times in selecting artists to do the theme, grabbing them well after their flame has burned brightest. As a result, the songs simply don’t chart anymore. This time, with Adele fresh off two arms full of Grammys, the tide will have reversed.

That’s a story I’m sure we’ll see covered in the next edition of Jon Burlingame’s The Music of James Bond. Until then, this does just fine as is.

Coming from Oxford University Press, the handsome hardback tells not only how each and every 007 main theme came to be, but how its overall soundtracks — and accompanying albums — were assembled and shaped. Broken into chapters movie by movie, logically enough, the renowned music critic Burlingame covers the entire canon, both official and not; therefore, the stories behind Michel Legand’s Never Say Never Again score nor Burt Bacharach’s wonderful Casino Royale ’67 melodies don’t go untold.

Who knew there was anything to reveal? While the “true authorship” debate between Monte Norman and John Barry over the series iconic, indelible, immortal main theme has been covered elsewhere, I don’t recall it being done so at this depth, this lively, and with something that at least approaches a modicum of suspense. Same goes for the tale of Barry’s battles in studio with Duran Duran for the A View to a Kill theme, which turned out to be the biggest Billboard hit of all.

While it’s interesting to read how the likes of Paul McCartney and Carly Simon came aboard, Burlingame also reveals stories of the Bond themes that never were. Among others, you’ll learn about Kate Bush almost breathed her way through Moonraker‘s credits, and how Eric Clapton jammed in a Licence to Kill track that was scrapped.

The author also briefly discusses David Arnold’s excellent Shaken and Stirred electronica tribute album of 1997, which helped him become Barry’s heir apparent to the franchise, and notes other 007 collections of interest. Sidebars in each chapter review the score highlights, time-coded to their appearance in the films.

Illustrated with a wealth of archival photos and original album covers, The Music of James Bond is as much fun to look at as it is to read. If that Skyfall isn’t covered is the only negative I can find — OK, second, because I wished Moby’s remix of the 007 main theme for Tomorrow Never Dies merited more than a mention — I can recommend it strongly to the series’ legion of fanatics. Dare I say it? Nobody does it better. —Rod Lott

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