Matching in ambition, Pete Schuermann’s The Creep Behind the Camera would make a good double feature with Tim Burton’s Ed Wood. I only wish it shared the latter’s focus and greatness.

A mix of documentary footage and fictionalized re-enactments, The Creep Behind the Camera chronicles in part the production of The Creeping Terror, generally and rightly considered to be one of the worst films ever made. The 1964 cheapie is, as one of this film’s interviewees puts it, “a very low-budget movie made by a very psychotic person.” The madman in question is Terror’s director, producer and star, Art “A.J.” Nelson, better known as Vic Savage. By all accounts a big ball of sleaze, Savage is portrayed with a predatory, slime-dripping smile by Josh Phillips (Text), in a durable performance that seems to channel early-career Bill Paxton.

A former juvenile delinquent who never quite grew up, the bisexual Savage (who died in 1975) hustles and schemes and cheats his way through life and into grandiose dreams of Hollywood fame. That he has no discernible talent outside of fleecing others and abusing his long-suffering wife (Jodi Lynn Thomas, TV’s Preacher) hardly deters him.

Overall, this tale of monsters, mobsters and Manson (yes, as in Charles) is at its best and brightest when either recreating or commenting upon the tortured shoot for The Creeping Terror, with its shambling creature of carpet scraps looking to extras not unlike giant labia. Savage’s disasterpiece was a natural for its eventual experimentation on Mystery Science Theater 3000, given that the black-and-white pic relied more on narration than dialogue, not to mention solicited a music score from a high school band; not for nothing does critic and Golden Turkey author Michael Medved say to Schuermann’s camera, “You will never see incompetence more sincere.” Other greatest bits depict Savage’s crazier off-set antics, from shooting Carl “Alfalfa” Switzer through the hand to stalking Mamie Van Doren and Lucille Ball (although not at the same time).

One has to appreciate Schuermann’s unique take for The Creep, even if the timeline can be janky and the narrative ultimately derails in the second hour. Utilizing more interviews would have helped sweeten the utterly sour turn in tone from lighthearted schlock to downright depressing, because that third act is so relentlessly glum and humorless that the viewer is worn into a state of despondence as well. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Rightfully tanked, Josh Trank’s Fantastic Four reboot is so awful, it may be the worst Marvel Comics movie made. On the eve of opening weekend, the sophomore director of the sleeper hit Chronicle famously tweeted his way out of the studio’s favor, not to mention a lucrative Star Wars gig, by basically disowning his Four in 140 characters or less: “A year ago I had a fantastic version of this. And it would’ve recieved [sic] great reviews. You’ll probably never see it. That’s reality though.”

Somewhere, Oley Sassone shook his head and mutters to himself, “You want to talk reality? Hey, at least your movie got released.”

Sassone should know. He directed the first film version of The Fantastic Four. Not the 2005 summer smash with Jessica Alba and Chris Evans, but the 1994 one made with no stars and little money, but a lot of heart. That one, produced by Roger Corman, was shelved permanently and might never have been intended to see the light of day, depending upon whom you ask.

Well, Marty Langford asked, and the whole sordid affair is recalled and revealed in his documentary, Doomed!: The Untold Story of Roger Corman’s The Fantastic Four. While crowdfunded docs rarely rise higher than the level of “glorified DVD bonus” (assuming they aim that high at all), Doomed! is pretty polished and unexpectedly moving. Yes, that’s right: moving.

As conveyed through their candor, the ill-fated Four’s cast and crew were pumped about this project, in an age where not only did superhero cinema barely exist, but the entries that did were DC Comics properties: Richard Donner’s Superman, Tim Burton’s Batman and Wes Craven’s Swamp Thing. Marvel, meanwhile, was stuck to the small screen, where The Incredible Hulk spent five years in prime time, roaming town to town.

Yet here was what they all considered to be Their Big Break: one with a larger budget than any Corman project in history. On one hand, they shot on recycled sets from the thrifty producer’s Carnosaur; on the other, a 40-piece orchestra was performing the score. The end result was not perfect (Doomed!’s principals exercise healthy self-deprecation in detailing the flubs that made it to final cut), but they believed in it and couldn’t wait to share it with audiences.

Bootlegs aside, they’re still waiting. And while they may have given up on that dream, they have not given up on the movie itself. Alex Hyde-White, who played the elastic Mr. Fantastic, feels Sassone is the person most owed, having worked so hard to deliver a picture that would propel him out of the low-budget world of straight-to-video sequels to Bloodfist and Relentless: “He deserved this film.” Stuntman Carl Ciarfalio, who donned faux orange rock to play The Thing, is literally owed, having sunk $12,000 of his own money into promoting the film nationwide … while it’s entirely possible the financiers had specific plans not to release it, ever.

Why? Well, that’s a long story — and a damned good one, as Langford’s film tells it. His Doomed! stands strong as a compelling case study of the tributary of commerce flowing into the river of art; it investigates the executive-suite machinations as it celebrates the creative process. Stan Lee even makes his usual cameo, this time playing Two-Face. —Rod Lott

Get it at Doomed!

Through taking a camera into Chinatown Fair during the famous New York City arcade’s final days in 2011, freshman filmmaker Kurt Vincent found the story he wanted, and also a better one he had not foreseen.

The expected focus of The Lost Arcade would be to chronicle the closing of what was an institution for the Pac-Man generation — those boys and (a scant few) girls for whom Chinatown Fair represented more than a game’s three coin-op lives: an escape from their real ones, 25 cents at a time.

And yes, the documentary is that, but what also emerges from that construct is what makes the movie special: a story of the fabled American dream made reality for Sam Palmer. A Pakistani gentleman, Palmer was not the founding owner of the place, but he was its heart. In the days of gorillas hurling barrels at chivalrous plumbers, of defending Earth from symmetric lines of invading aliens and, in the arcade’s rare non-video attraction, of a live chicken that danced and played tic-tac-toe, the kindly Palmer trusted the young men whom no one else would and created an all-inclusive community in our nation’s most iconic melting pot — a task as daunting as conquering Dragon’s Lair on a single quarter.

Talented poultry aside, there appears to be nothing special about the arcade at face value. In fact, it looks too cramped for the claustrophobe and too grimy for the germaphobe, but the patrons don’t seem to care — hell, they like it the way it is. While you and I may have no familiarity with the Fair — and, therefore, no nostalgia for it — Vincent finds the angle that makes the subject remarkably relevant for us … and unexpectedly moving. The Lost Arcade is a quiet find. —Rod Lott

Get it at arcademovie.com.

So deep is my love for 1982’s Creepshow that, although I already had paid $20 for a brand-new VHS of it back in the day, I happily parted with a similar amount once the George A. Romero film debuted on DVD. Only one problem existed with that disc, as well as the eventual Blu-ray: It was bare-bones, featuring a trailer and nothing else. (Chapter selections and interactive menus do not count, Warner Bros.)

In the category of Better Late Than Never comes Michael Felsher’s Just Desserts: The Making of Creepshow, a feature-length documentary previously available only in the UK. Remarkably, it’s worth the decadelong wait. Even if Stephen King declined to participate, Romero is all aboard, as are FX wizard Tom Savini, actress Adrienne Barbeau, actor Tom Atkins, comic artist Bernie Wrightson — hell, even that noted ray of sunshine Ed Harris! (And yes, thank the Lord, he does discuss his improvised disco-dancing skills.)

No stranger to the world of documentaries for genre pictures, Red Shirt Pictures head Felsher doesn’t waste time with reiterating EC Comics history lessons, because, really, if you do not already possess at least a primer-level understanding of the once-controversial Tales from the Crypt and its companion titles, would Just Desserts even be up your alley? Topics of relevant discussion instead include Romero’s approach to coaxing King in his first acting role, how they faked Ted Danson’s drowning and the in-camera methods used to give Creepshow its unique, comic-book look. Best of all, however, are the anecdotes — and they number many — surrounding the challenges of cockroach wrangling … and the unavoidable mishaps.

The highest praise one can give such a thorough behind-the-scenes undertaking is that he or she could have sat through another half-hour or more. With Just Desserts, the Creepshow superfan in me says, “Duh, you lunkhead.” —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

A missed opportunity all around, Kings of Cult is a meeting of the indie-cinema minds Roger Corman and Charles Band. Strange pairing, so why Band? Because his company, Full Moon Features, is behind this shoddy documentary, that’s why.

For about 52 minutes, the two men sit in front of a backdrop seemingly pilfered from the J.C. Penney Portrait Studio and shoot the shit about their long and storied careers, their financial troubles starting out, studio interference, the changing state of the motion picture industry, milking the public through merchandising and the origin of Ghoulies’ infamous toilet-bowl poster art. Okay, so maybe it’s just Band who talks about those last two points.

By now, B-movie fans are familiar with both men to a T, so they will know in advance that Band tends to dominate the conversation, despite being the one in the room who doesn’t have an Academy Award for lifetime achievement. Perhaps Corman’s age has something to do with his remarks being brisk and to-the-point, whereas Band is long-winded, especially for someone whose movies nowadays barely crack an hour. He also somehow gets away with not answering the unseen moderator’s softball question on their all-time favorite film: For Corman, it’s Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin; for Band, it’s … well, let him ramble for several minutes about a project he hasn’t even made yet, because a plug is a plug, kids.

There’s just not enough meat to Kings of Cult to justify it: no occasion, no structure, no clips! No, thanks. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.