Eternal Rewards: ORGY OF THE DEAD (1965)

If you watch Plan Nine from Outer Space two or three times a year, as many of us do, you probably wish there could be a whole movie of Vampira lolling around the mist-enshrouded graveyard, arms raised classic cartoon sleepwalker fashion. Maybe this time she could talk? Maybe was emceeing a Halloween-style strip show line-up of lost female souls summoned to dance to escape damnation? And a mummy and werewolf acted as bouncers? And there was enough mist, skulls, and Martin Denny-style lounge music to fill six ordinary movies? And Criswell ruling over all of it, lolling in his shiny black cape and mirthlessly laughing as women are doused in liquid gold? Such a dream would be--in the words of a bare bodkin-contemplating Hamlet, devoutly to be wished! 

ORGY OF THE DEAD (1965) has what you need, oh bare bodkin-fancier: Fawn Silver as the Black Ghoul isn't quite on Vampira's level, but she does manage to keep a straight face as she introduces the girls. Criswell, the Emperor of Darkness, looks all boozed-up--dilated and doughy, glazed-eyed and cue card-dependent--but his hair and black cape shine in the starlight and his voice is the same never-ending source of resonant delight and his words, written and cue-carded by the great Ed Wood, send the whole thing over into paroxysms of surrealist bliss:

And thus we meet two members of the living world: burly horror writer Bob (Edward Bates) and his stacked but virgin redhead girlfriend Shirley (Fawn Silver) are in the car, headed off to a remote graveyard under a spooky full moon. Why? Bob needs inspiration for his monsters and full moons are the best time to go. She would rather not; and insistence on dragging her there seems disrespectful, but who are we to judge? She wishes he'd write about something other than monsters (you can imagine Ed's first, very square, wife and/or girlfriend Dolores Fuller, harping on these very points). Bob argues: "My monsters have done well for me," Bob says, "they sell in the top spots. You want me to give all that up and write about trees, or dogs, or daisies?"  

Their love life is--we glean--a nonstarter too (maybe like Ed's first wife, who the story goes, was holding out for marriage, and then divorced him as soon as she 'met' Glenda): "Your puritan upbringing holds you back from my monsters, but it certainly doesn't hurt your art of kissing."  Like Brad and Janet in Rocky Horror Picture Show, it's clear these two are going to need a night orgy, with some degenerate swinger undead, to loosen sexual repression's buzzkill shackles. But will it loosen them too much, as in from their mortal coils? It all depends on how fast the dawn comes. 

The dance floor is a cemetery clearing, flanked by above ground tombs, and surrounded by grave markers and ominous portent (i.e. swirling fog). Seated on the stairs around one of the tombs comes Criswell, Emperor of the Night, who bids the Black Ghoul (Fawn Silver), his right hand woman, to come monster-walking forth (i.e. slowly, with arms outstretched in front like a cartoon sleepwalker). A werewolf and a mummy watch and do the Emperor's bidding, as do a pair of mute dudes in island native wear who escort, whip and dip the dancers into a liquid gold cauldron as needed. In sum, Criswell is not playing around: "If I am not pleased by tonight's entertainment I shall banish their souls to everlasting damnation!" And with that...

And thus, with a clap of the Black Ghoul's hands, comes the first in a very long line: a Native American fire dancer, "one who loves flame,' says the Black Ghoul, "Her lover was killed in flame... She died in flame." As a kind of lounge-era version of Native American chants and tribal drumming plays on the score, she 'dances' as if half-heartedly trying to remember a calisthenics class.  At one point the music ends. We see a shot of Criswell, barely awake --are we done!? Not so fast! The needle is pulled back and the tom-toms beat on! A fire is burning to symbolize flame but for some reason the camera keeps it offscreen. A streetwalker (Colleen O'Brien), (one who prowls the lonely streets of life is bound to prowl them in eternity") sashaying barefoot to a laid-back Spanish guitar, tinny piano and hazy sax combo, is next. Much better. With her awesome red hair, pink dress and blue feather boa, O'Brien seems to be at least able to convey a good time, winking at the camera (which Criswell loves in a cutaway) and cavorting with a skeleton under nice Gold Key comic / pulp magazine lighting. 

"Throw gold at her!"

Next up is the "one who prized gold above else" (Pat Barington, who also plays Shirley). Natural, full but not grotesque, hers is a perfect burlesque body, and her dance gets the best introduction; lying on a slab in a comely crypt, opened by two Pacific islander type slaves, and the most loungey track, replete with bongos, mariachi trumpet, xylophone, and skittery flute. "Throw gold at her!" declares mighty Cris, adding "more gold!" over and over before cracking up in mirthless laughter.

 "For all eternity she shall have gold!" 

Obligingly melting down the gold in a big cauldron and baptizing her in it, she emerges a gold-covered corpse ala Goldfinger (which came out the year before), the natives have created the ultimate idol - we worship thee, Mickey! She really is totally gold covered. We can only hope she left a patch for her skin to breathe through! We never know, as the natives carry her back to her slab, the fog comes rolling in, the crickets and piano pound "and both couldn't help but remember a line from one of Bob's stories" and goes onto basically quote The Final Curtain, "I know I should think of other things, pleasant things, but how can I when shadows are all around me..."

"Could it be a college initiation? "

By now the disconnect between movement and music has become as vast as the ocean.  And yet, in that disconnect there is a kind of modernist thrill to be unearthed. Dyed-wool Woodsians know this. Wood didn't direct it, but he wrote it, cast Criswell, and he was there on set to hold his cue cards. Director Stephen C. Apostlof, would go on to partner with Ed on titles like The Cocktail Hostesses and Drop Out Wife), full of--as Dead2rights says-- "pasty white Californians halfheartedly pretending to hump each other in blandly-hideous bedrooms, motel rooms, and living rooms, while drowsy "beautiful music" drones on in the background"  Most of them seem lost to time. Orgy is one time Ed and Stephen got it right.  And thanks to a beautiful remastering by Vinegar Syndrome, it looks stunning, mesmerizing, inviting and ever-so radiantly ghoulish. The endless parade of half-asleep strippers are now couched in a gorgeously-lit (by Ted Mikels!) set, rich with lurid blazing colors and real 3-D depth in the swirling fog. And while most of the dancers make time seem to stand still, we can take comfort in bleary-eyed Criswell's odd commentary, the cutaway reaction shots to the buxom redhead human witness (the red of her hair and lips is insane on this new restoration), the lesbian Vampira substitute with her belated knife act, the werewolf and mummy hanging back in the bushes, The lovely fog and Gold Key comic book cover colors, the skeletons and skulls. It's all sublime. 

It gets a bit disappointing when after whining for her reward, the empress wastes too much time dancing with her knife and staring at the camera, rather than molesting Shirley. But you can't have everything. You can always pop in Jess Franco's Succubus immediately after and pretend Fawn has become magically Jeanine Reynaud and is picking up right where we left off. But that is the catch. Both Criswell and the Black Ghoul turn instantly into skeletons before she can plunge in the knife. Girl, you wasted too much time with your damned blade dance!