And now for a new book Martin Scorsese won’t be reading: Canadian journalist Shawn Conner’s Superheroes Smash the Box Office: A Cinema History from the Serials to 21st Century Blockbusters, from McFarland & Company. If you have any interest in the subject, though, I recommend it.

As a child of the 1970s, this voracious comics reader wondered why Superman was the only true four-color do-gooder at a theater near me; I longed for more. As a new adult of the 1990s, I couldn’t believe the studios finally caught up. Now, as an older adult of the 2020s, I honestly want the mighty Marvel movie machine to break into an irreparable state. How did we get from there to here? Film by film (more or less), Conner charts the answer.

His book is a zippy run through eight decades of examples — sometimes too zippy. Example: While 2004’s The Punisher isn’t a good movie, it seems odd to not mention its megastar antagonist, John Travolta. On the other hand, the author has a lot of ground to cover; luckily, he doesn’t waste time with scene-by-scene retellings like other books on this subject often do, instead focusing on development, production and reception.

As the chapters progress into our current times of Avengers ad infinitum, either he was rushed or simply less enthusiastic; either way, I don’t blame him. Every now and again, you’ll run across an egregious error — James Gunn didn’t direct The Specials, just as screenwriter Scott Frank has never won an Oscar — but not so many to question his credibility. I’ve encountered far worse offenders just among those writing about caped-crusader cinema.

With a surfeit of similar texts, what really kept me invested in Superheroes Smash the Box Office was Conner’s sense of humor about the whole enterprise. Fanboys may bristle for him for refusing to kneel at their false idols. For instance, CBS’ Incredible Hulk pilot is “a great show if you want to watch Bill Bixby change a tire in the rain.” And of Todd McFarlane’s stated quest for “integrity” and “dignity” in shepherding Spawn to the screen, Conner writes, “Strong words from a man with creative control over a film with a dwarf clown who emits green farts.” I’m still laughing over that one. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Thanks to the recent resurgence of “folk horror,” one of Nigel Kneale’s more underappreciated works of British television, the single-season anthology series Beasts, finally has earned the attention and reputation it didn’t quite get in 1976. Case in point: Andrew Screen’s first book, The Book of Beasts: Folklore, Popular Culture and Nigel Kneale’s ATV Horror Series.

Published by Headpress, which already has a Kneale biography in print, the weighty tome embraces — and achieves — its mission to be the definitive text on the show. The only way it could surpass that would be inclusion of Beasts’ episodes themselves, whether through disc or download. As the song goes, you can’t always get you want.

But if you try sometimes, you just might find you get what you need. It certainly made my day of airport layovers and flight delays easier. If you’ve enjoyed Beasts, this book is just that. If you have yet to see it, I wouldn’t recommend reading until you do, because, c’mon, spoilers. (The ending of “The Baby” alone will thank you.) Luckily, it’s readily available.

For all six episodes (and “Murrain,” a 1975 one-off rightly considered to be an unofficial precursor), Screen doesn’t just dig; he excavates. Reading each chapter is like getting a DVD commentary so detailed — on-set information, post-airing reaction, every moment broadcast and each evolution from Kneale’s original script — it runs over the allotted time. For example, for “Special Offer,” a standout hour in which only a mousy grocery employee can see the mischievous critter she blames for items literally flying off shelves, Screen gives further context by exploring other telekinesis-themed works (yes, Carrie) and real-life reports of poltergeist activity of the time.

Going above and beyond, the author includes information on what viewers might have seen if Beasts had been granted a second season. Not a ton exists — in some instances, an episode title is all Kneale wrote — but where else would you find it?

Kneale’s name never will go unassociated with his most famous creation, the Quatermass franchise. But the celebrated screenwriter left behind such a remarkable body of work, other items not named The Stone Tape or The Year of the Sex Olympics deserve top-of-mind consideration, too. The Book of Beasts goes a long way to push a certain animal-themed series there — invisible dolphins, rat attacks and all. —Rod Lott

Get it at Headpress.

To tell the history of the Warner Bros. studio is to tell the history of the movies. Reading Warner Bros.: 100 Years of Storytelling makes this apparent. Written by Forbidden Hollywood’s Mark A. Vieira, the hefty Running Press hardcover is an all-gloss affair, but in an impressive way, as the presentation matches its subject’s prestige.

Decade by decade, Vieira covers the WB releases as it transitions from silents to sound, from Technicolor epics to New Hollywood shake-ups, from blockbuster cinema to the franchise-driven today. This being a coffee-table book, Vieira’s text can’t go in depth, so he weaves as big a coverage blanket as possible, knowing the poster art and still photos are the project’s true stars. —Rod Lott

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To consider Vincent A. Albarano’s look at SOV horror movies, Aesthetic Deviations: A Critical View of American Shot-on-Video Horror, 1984-1994, knowing what it’s not is the best starting point. As he makes clear from the outset, the paperback is neither a review guide nor a work of reference; by no means is it complete, restricted to a 10-year period.

The book’s subtitle wasn’t assembled for SEO purposes; Albarano has written a work of true scholarship, conceived as a thesis, which accounts for the use of words like “pugnacity,” “egalitarian” and “simulacrum.” It just so happens to study, in part, a horny ventriloquist’s dummy that looks like Rick James. (If your reluctance needs further calming, remember this one unassailable fact: Guys, it’s published by Headpress, K?)

After a brief history lesson on SOV’s start with such slashers as Blood Cult and Sledgehammer, Albarano combs through an overlooked, often spurned subgenre of “cinematic undesirables” in which “subtext is removed from the equation,” he writes. “They stick with the viewer despite their every wrong move. As a fan of these films, I’ve been puzzled by their very existence as much as I’m transfixed by their unique operations.”

Works from such backyard-and-basement moguls as Charles Pinion, J.R. Bookwalter, Carl J. Sukenick, Todd Cook and occasional punching bag Todd Sheets are examined. Other than the sheer range of titles covered, from the obvious to the unexpected, what I like most about Aesthetic Deviations is the author’s honesty; while he’s a fan of SOV, that doesn’t translate to slavish hyperbole. Instead, he’s unafraid to highlight both the uniqueness and misogyny of Chester N. Turner’s Black Devil Doll From Hell, praise the bravery of the Polonia Brothers’ Splatter Farm as he questions its anal-trauma fixation, or call out Gary P. Cohen’s Video Violence for reveling in the very thing it purports to vilify.

Although I didn’t realize until a footnote mentioned it, I’d read earlier drafts of two chapters in 2020, through Albarano’s one-shot zine on the topic, When Renting Is Not Enough (worth tracking down if you’d rather dip your toe before taking the full plunge). I’ll admit being skeptical of such a serious look at movies that “gain points,” per Stephen Thrower, “for being truly incoherent.” Yet like that lone issue of Albarano’s zine, the book that’s grown out of it is intelligent, thorough and, if you’ll grant it patience to make its case, accessible. —Rod Lott

Get it at Headpress.

While Roger Corman’s reputation of frugality holds merit, it’s all too often considered synonymous with “talentless,” which simply isn’t true. Whenever someone has questioned Corman’s competence as director, his cycle of Edgar Allan Poe films for AIP has served as my go-to defense. Genuine art and entertainment reside in that octet.

Chris Alexander needs no such swaying; he’s been all-in since childhood. Now, the Delirium magazine editor and filmmaker himself (Necropolis: Legion) devotes an entire book to the subject in — take a breath — Corman/Poe: Interviews and Essays Exploring the Making of Roger Corman’s Edgar Allan Poe Films, 1960-1964. Annnnnd exhale.

For anyone already in Alexander’s camp, myself included, the Headpress release is a must-own.

Whether Tales of Terror or Tomb of Ligeia, each movie earns its own chapter. Without fail, each chapter is split into three sections: a synopsis, an interview with Corman, then Alexander’s analysis — let’s just call it a review so you don’t discount the work as pud-pulling academia. Alexander may be prone to hyperbole on occasion, but the mofo can write.

Of these sections, the interviews are the book’s raison d’être. Corman graciously gives credit where it’s due, primarily to production designer Daniel Haller, cinematographer Floyd Crosby and screenwriter Richard Matheson. (Oddly, future director Nicolas Roeg’s exquisite photography on The Masque of the Red Death goes undiscussed.) Without bad-mouthing Mark Damon, Corman also dispels the actor’s claim of directing The Pit and the Pendulum.

In the same gentlemanly manner, Corman reveals how he got Vincent Price to emote on the proper wavelength on the first film, The Fall of the House of Usher; how Ray Milland measured against Price, who was unavailable for The Premature Burial; how Peter Lorre’s style threw off Price and Boris Karloff on The Raven; how he worked around Karloff’s health issues; and what he thinks of AIP turning an H.P. Lovecraft adaptation into a Poe pic with a mere slap-on quote and title switcheroo for The Haunted Palace.

Because the interviews are presented Q&A-style, the reader can hear Corman’s every word in their head — even when he talks about the act of orgasming.

For the cycle’s last couple of entries in the cycle, the credit pages contain some inaccuracies — more likely due to layout. Visually, though, Corman/Poe is generously illustrated throughout. Of particular value is a full-color appendix of posters (Poe-sters?) from all around the globe, plus novelizations and comic books. —Rod Lott

Get it at Headpress.