Whether you love, hate or tolerate the movies of Charles Band, there’s no denying the man has no shortage of terrific offscreen stories to share. Otherwise, his autobiography, Confessions of a Puppetmaster, would not exist — or at least not be a must-purchase.

Subtitled A Hollywood Memoir of Ghouls, Guts, and Gonzo Filmmaking and written with three-time Emmy nominee Adam Felber, the book opens with a line all but scientifically calculated to hook and retain: “Unaware of just how insane things had gotten outside her door, Barbie took a shower.” Move over, “Call me Ishmael”!

Having played a pioneering part in sell-through VHS, video stores, license-based video games, the special-features market and, the name “Harry Potter” and toilet-based advertising campaigns, Band takes the reader on the near-Gumpian journey that is his life thus far — a merry-go-round of risk that has earned him as many fortunes as he’s lost, not to mention wives. You’ll learn about him being babysat by Marilyn Monroe, his affair with the very married Demi Moore, his battles with Klaus Kinski and Gary Busey, and his recalibration with director David DeCoteau after finding his erotic flicks “too damn gay!” (Hilariously, DeCoteau prefers to call them “tighty whitey frighties.”)

He may be the only person to go on record as having nice things to say about Helen Hunt. Outside of his actors, cameos include Liberace, Michael Jackson, John Carpenter, Barbra Streisand and “ancient Japanese horse piss.”

While not quite up there with the autobios of Roger Corman and William Castle (to name two filmmakers as beholden to ballyhoo), Band’s collected Confessions make for a delightful afternoon. While he and/or Felber show too much distrust of the reader (“We’ll get to that,” “More on that in a moment,” et al.), the book flies at 288 pages. I would welcome triple that, easily. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Sean Egan is hardly the first damn, dirty human to chronicle what is arguably sci-fi’s smartest film franchise, but his Planet of the Apes: The Complete History has the benefit of recency other notable overviews have not. Thus, it’s able to cover the celebrated trilogy that followed the fumbled footsteps of Tim Burton’s remake.

Er, sorry: reimagining.

Published by Applause, Egan’s book works well as a crash(-land?) course in All Things Apes. Beginning with Pierre Boulle’s source novel and moving movie to movie from there, he examines each work, smoothly weaving in insight on how societal changes influenced the story.

Don’t dismiss this as stuffy academia; despite overuse of the word “putative,” Egan’s book is the very definition of accessible, not to mention unafraid to wonder how the monkeys took care of, well, business — toilet business, that is. Speaking of crap, in his chapter involving the short-lived Saturday morning cartoon, the author rightly dubs it “anti-animation.” He’s more enthusiastic about the live-action series, which deserved a better shot; Egan shares all the forces working against it.

Elsewhere, readers will find a near-forensic breakdown of the origin of the 1968 film’s classic twist ending. Many have laid claim to birthing that shocker, including Pink Panther shepherd Blake Edwards, briefly attached as director. Egan considers several what-ifs — that is, unmade Apes iterations and sequels, from Edwards’ own take to Boulle’s out-of-touch Planet of the Men submission and ’89 Batman scribe Sam Hamm going full Howard the Duck with a script that sees the simians patronizing the likes of fast-food chain BK — that’s Banana King to you and me. (Groan.)

Even POTA’s various video games, soundtrack albums, comic books, novelizations and tie-in novels (the latter “an exercise in plugging holes”) earn considerable ink. I can’t imagine someone unfamiliar with the storied franchise would want to go in cold, but as a fan, I’m glad Egan has done more than his fair share to keep it alive. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

To many, the Chateau Marmont is the hotel where John Belushi died from a drug overdose in 1982. While this tragic event is true, it is only one that define this Sunset Strip monument and the surrounding area.

Author Shawn Levy (Dolce Vita Confidential) recalls and details all these events in The Castle on Sunset: Life, Death, Love, Art, and Scandal at Hollywood’s Chateau Marmont, a chronicle of the hotel from its inception to the current day. It is a history as lively and engaging as that of any movie, TV or music celebrity.

In the late 1920s, Fred Horowitz, a downtown Los Angeles lawyer who had begun to speculate in property and construction, envisioned a structure at the intersection of Sunset Boulevard and the road that led north into Laurel Canyon. Inspired by the Italian Chateau d’Amboise in the Loire valley, Horowitz built a castle-like building to serve as residential apartments. He named it Chateau Marmont after its official city address. Not long after completion, the structure changed to a hotel.

Individuals and couples from the growing movie industry and other creative arts were attracted to the locale, not only because it was close to Hollywood work locations, but also due to the quirky suites and bungalows different from one another. It also developed a reputation for tolerance – where, for example, gay performers could indulge in their sexual preference without fear of unwanted publicity.

Eventually, the location of the hotel became known the world over as the “Sunset Strip,” and the Marmont itself became the short- or long-term home for a seemingly endless array of actors, directors, screenwriters and other Hollywood employees.

At lease one classic movie was developed at the hotel. In his bungalow, director Nicholas Ray enlisted the then little-known actor named James Dean along with co-star Natalie Wood and, with script in hand, conducted readings for what would become Rebel Without a Cause.

Levy traces the Sunset Strip’s changing scene over the years, how the evolving crowd of youngsters who flocked there affected the surrounding area, and how the Chateau Marmont weathered these changes while maintaining its reputation for privacy and tolerance. He focuses on the various hotel owners, but enhances the history with numerous episodes of its residents and their sometimes-outrageous behavior.

Levy’s prose style is lively and engaging. The beginning of each section features a drawing or photograph of the hotel from that period, and includes a section of photos of the various owners, residents and the surrounding areas. Having previously written about such celebrities as Jerry Lewis, Paul Newman, Robert De Niro and the members of the Rat Pack, Levy makes the history of the hotel as dynamic and involving as any of his books’ earlier subjects.

Highly recommended. Not many hotels are worthy of their own biography. But, as The Castle on Sunset so aptly demonstrates, few in the world are like the Chateau Marmont. —Alan Cranis

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I’ve been a fan of Jason Bailey’s work for several years. To tie me over waiting for his next “real” book, I bought both of his self-published books — extended essays, really; physically thin, figuratively meaty — on Richard Pryor and private-eye pictures of the 1970s — sight unseen.

Now, Fun City Cinema: New York City and the Movies That Made It is finally here! Bailey’s such a terrific writer, the book’s magnificence is a foregone conclusion. But upon its arrival, when I opened the book to a random page, only to find my second-favorite film in history, Martin Scorsese’s After Hours, staring back from a dedicated spread, I have to acknowledge this may have been destined in the stars.

Hyperbole? Yes and no. This book couldn’t, wouldn’t exist if NYC were “just” a city; it’s an icon. As Frank Sinatra crooned, if you can make it there, you can make it practically anywhere. When it comes to capturing the city that never sleeps on celluloid, however, you must make it there. (Just ask Rumble in the Bronx, the Jackie Chan actioner actually shot in Vancouver, as the Canadian mountain skyline fails to disguise.)

The movies Fun City Cinema examines and celebrates employ New York City as not merely a setting, but a supporting character. Would Taxi Driver feel as threatening in Dallas? Would the grandeur of Gershwin translate if Manhattan were, say, Boston? Would the suspense of Dog Day Afternoon tick with such piercing intensity if the bank stood in Boise?

All three questions are rhetorical; you didn’t need to be told that. But maybe you don’t know how Bailey goes about managing about 100 years worth of material. Starting with the 1920s, he provides an alarmingly cogent essay of how each decade’s movies reflect the Big Apple at that moment in time — and in grime and in crime, economically, politically, sexually — weaving reality and fiction like an expert tailor.

While he’s picked one film as the encapsulation of the city’s era to front each chapter (not always the title you’d expect), dozens upon dozens of others are recruited to complete the full picture: big and small, commercial and indie, beloved and unknown, Criterion and not Criterion — nary a one is shoehorned in to check a box or fulfill some fan obligations. Not even cult items like Maniac Cop, which other authors would dismiss outright; each serves a purpose.

Like the aforementioned placement of After Hours, a select few films earn end-of-chapter honors for dedicated two-page looks. While this is where you’ll find such top-of-minders as Ghostbusters and The Taking of Pelham One Two Three, you’ll also be wowed by some real left-turn choices, from Ramin Bahrani’s Man Push Cart and Claudia Weill’s Girlfriends to Allen Baron’s Blast of Silence. (While I’m slinging plaudits, let me point out if you haven’t heard The Projection Booth podcast’s interview with an irritated and irascible Baron on Blast of Silence, you simply must. It’s all kinds of awkward and hysterical.)

If Bailey’s words alone didn’t already make Fun City Cinema the essential book on New York Movies and the Movies That Made It, the exquisite design work of Eli Mock would push it over the edge. Abrams, the publisher, could have let this project be a “coffee table book,” where the text is secondary to imagery, included to be skimmed if read at all. That’s not the case here; they complement one another to form an irresistible whole. (Intentional or not, Mock’s choice to use sans-serif text for body copy reminds me of the signage for the arterial subway system.) This isn’t one you’ll want to leave on any coffee table, lest it encounters a spilled cup — greatest in the world or otherwise. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

I was looking forward to reading Douglas Brode’s Midnight Matinees: Cult Cinema Classics (1896 to the Present Day so much, I didn’t realize until after reading that its main title is — like “jumbo shrimp” and “military intelligence” — a true oxymoron. Intended or not, this catchy term operates in the spirit of many of the movies featured, from absurdist to rebellious. I welcome that attitude of levity.

What the world doesn’t need now — or tomorrow — is yet another introduction on what makes a cult film. At least Douglas Brode frames his intro with his personal experiences growing up, so we get it from a specific POV vs. a one-size-fits-all overview. That’s one of the three things I like about the book from BearManor Media, which published his 2015 appreciation of the movies’ femme fatale, Deadlier than the Male. Before we get to the other positives, let’s get the negatives out of the way. They number a few.

As mentioned in my review of Deadlier, Brode has a chronic spelling problem with names; for example, witness “Caesar” Romero, Frank “Miler,” “Cybil” Shepherd, “Rickie” Lake and, as noted in his entry on The Cabin in the Woods, that star Chris Hemsworth soon joined the Marvel Cinematic Universe as the superhero “Thorn.”

It’s especially disheartening to see the errors spread to the headers for some of the featured films’ reviews. For example, the piece on Requiem for a Dream botches the first word as “Requium.” Meanwhile, Tangerine becomes “Tangarine” and Teaserama becomes “Teasearama.”

Maybe that’s why Brode chose to abbreviate titles after first mention? While not present in the two Brode books I’ve previously read, such a practice is perfectly understandable when those abbreviations are known and logical, like “ID4” or “T2” (neither of which are in Midnight Matinees, for the record). But, for example, has anyone ever referred to When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth as “W.D.R.T.E.”? And abbreviating single-world titles is just lazy, such as “F.” for Fitzcarraldo. Not even people are immune! Just ask “S.T.” (Oh, Shirley Temple.)

More baffling to me is the way each film is rated, which is to say multiple, complicated and overly specific ratings on the five-star scale. No description would better convey what I mean than just showing you. Here are his ratings for The Doors:

Val Kilmer Fan Rating: *****
Jim Morrison Fan Rating: ****
Doors (The Band) Fan Rating: ** 1/2
Oliver Stone directorial Rating: *

And for Hard Candy:

Ellen (now Elliot) Page Afficionado Rating: *****
General Cult Rating: *

In either case, I’m unsure what purpose the ratings serve. Since they’re rarely directly explained in the reviews, I started ignoring them. Or maybe I just became more distracted by several of Brode’s picks: a lot of Oscar bait. Marriage Story is a cult film? Little Miss Sunshine? Hugo? Roma? Crash? (Haggis, not Cronenberg.) Really?

Enough complaining. Now for the rest of Midnight Matinees’ positives. As I already knew from Deadlier than the Male (as well as Brode’s Fantastic Planets, Forbidden Zones, and Lost Continents: The 100 Greatest Science-Fiction Films, not from BearManor), Brode is fun to read. Although he’s taught film at the collegiate level, his writing doesn’t reflect hallowed halls — meaning it’s neither pompous nor stodgy; in fact, it may not curry favor in the academic world, especially when it’s as zero-fucks-given as his recounting of Andy Warhol’s Bad: “Hideous looking females slowly stab adorable dogs to death and toss innocent babies from rooftops.”

Speaking of Warhol, the artist’s eight-hour shot of the Empire State Building, Empire, is among the 500-plus titles chosen for inclusion. Yes, so are the usual suspects — basically almost everything on the cover — but he also tosses in the unexpected, such as the 1945 musical Ziegfeld Follies, the Spanish snuff thriller Tesis and the 1901 short What Happened on 23rd Street, New York. Those types of picks are the discoveries one hopes to get from such books. He also throws a couple of curveballs in the form of the critically reviled box-office bombs The Dark Tower and Welcome to Marwen. He may be before the curve there, but at least he’s taking a risk. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon or BearManor Media.