Ah, the sweet diversion of an Ed Wood, Jr film, like a comfortable pair of kinky stiletto shoes. And so we witness Orgy of the Dead. Of course, given the time this was made, there's nothing that even remotely resembles the type of orgy teenage boys were imagining when they sneaked into the local drive-through to see this. It's more an orgy in the sense of "a secret rite in the cults of ancient Greek or Roman deities, typically involving frenzied singing, dancing, and drinking." And not even that, unless your definition of dancing includes a woman awkwardly tossing her breasts around like twin propellers. So yes, there is nudity, but it's way more perplexing than it is erotic. I promise.

The movie is narrated by Criswell, an unnaturally blond, cherubic man with a cape, who introduces himself as the Emperor of Darkness. He's assisted by a vampiric mistress-of-the-dark with a bosom that heaves wildly at the slightest mention of bloodshed. Enter two local yokels—John, an unapologetic writer of horror stories, and his vacuous red-haired girlfriend, Shirley—who somehow find themselves at a cemetery after a terrible car crash. They spy on some of the "dancing" before being spotted by eagle-eyed Criswell, who orders them to be tied up and forced to watch the festivities (nasty punishment, indeed). And so the couple stands there, tied to these stakes with their hands sometimes bound and sometimes not so much (the kind of continuity errors that are Ed Wood's trademark). Criswell pauses periodically to address them, but John keeps shouting "Fiend!" and Shirley can only scream when spoken to. It's clear that Criswell is willing to spare the lady, so that she can join his harem of ghoulish dancers, but no such beneficence is in store for our little Stephen King. "No one wishes to see a man dance!" shouts Criswell, with a dramatic flourish of his cape.

Then comes a parade of mostly naked dancers. One of these dancers, the one we are told murdered her husband on their wedding night, comes out in a veil and panties to perform some spastic go-go dancing. The result would be reminiscent of Annette Funicello in Beach Blanket Bingo, if Annette Funicello's leg had been gnawed off by a shark during filming. Oh, and she's dancing with a skeleton. I kept imagining my own narration for this weirdness, "Gentlemen, please put your hands together for the upbeat murderess, Kimmy! On her wedding night, she go-goed until her husband was a-gone-gone!" Another dancer is a young lady in a drafty cat suit with her naughty bits hanging out. Predictably, she is being chased by a guy with a whip. "This kitten was born to be whipped!" exclaims the increasingly rubicund Criswell. Then comes the slave girl, and the pseudo-Native American girl, doing an unconvincing tribal dance that makes me embarrassed for her. The most appalling display, however, is the zombie dancer, who merely moves her arms like a robot and ambles back and force across the clearing. These were probably the least sexy moments ever captured on film, except perhaps for that scene in Christmas Vacation where Randy Quaid is pumping excrement from their RV into the sewer. ("Merry Christmas! The shitter's full.")

The orgy of clunky dancers goes on and on, ad nauseum. It's a lot like the Nutcracker, if you've ever seen it, except that instead of Clara and the Nutcracker prince watching a parade of elegant dances from around the world, you have Criswell and Elvira watching these graceless "ethnic" dancers who look unmistakably Aryan. You can tell which dances are supposed to be exotic because they're accompanied by mambo music.

Occasionally, we get some pointless dialogue from the Mummy, who tells the Wolfman all about how he used to be afraid of snakes back in ancient Egypt. Several times, Elvira approaches the redhead with her knife brandished, tearing open the woman's shirt, only to be informed by a testy Criswell that she must wait until he has finished with his entertainment. Okay, whatever. When she does finally gets her chance to kill little Pippi Dumb-stockings, I really want her to do it because the woman only seems programmed to scream and complain about how her old boyfriend never would have gotten her into such a mess. Elvira, however, dilly-dallies for too long, flashing her knife around in the moonlight, and then the sun comes up and turns her into Cajun cookin'.

The couple wakes up at the site of the car crash, with conciliatory words and the realization that it was all a dream. Or was it? Ms. Redheaded Stepchild still has a big ol' X marked in lipstick on her abdomen, which the medic somehow identifies as being a contusion caused by the accident. Apparently, he's part of the Orgy of the Blind that is filming next door.

The thing that amuses me most is that Ed Wood, Jr. went into serious debt making these films. These films were his dream, his darlings, his singular ambition in life (although to be fair, he only wrote this one, he didn't direct it). Furthermore, he knew his movies were bad—he didn't even make an effort to fix the glaring inconsistencies, such as when the characters are talking about moonlight but it's clearly closer to high noon, or when the primary actor DIES and the film just sort of, you know, stops mentioning the character (as with Plan 9 from Outer Space). I love these movies, but it's difficult for me to imagine someone being driven nearly to Hamlet-esque madness trying to get them made. After all, he wasn't doing this so he could go on and direct the next Citizen Kane. He was doing this because there was nothing in the world he wanted to do more. It's difficult to fathom, but I suppose I'm wasting my time trying to dissect the mindset of a man who favored pink angora sweaters. And anyway, I certainly can appreciate weirdness for its own sake. (Weird gratis weird?) Thanks, Ed, for reminding me that there are more things on heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy. Now, bring on the zombie dancers!

Tags: movies