Orgy of the Dead Soundtrack
(Strangelove)
by Nik Rainey
The auteuriosclerotic mad genius of Edward D. Wood, Jr. is assuredly familiar to most readers of this rag (not to mention those who just look at the pretty pictures). His name is invoked almost religiously by those who value their visionaries of cine-trash (to steal a phrase from one of my colleagues). Yet it’s easy to be misled into missing the whole Ed-chilada when the prevailing view of the Woodman, thanks to Tim Burton and Johnny “Look-at-me,-I’m-hangin’-with-Gibby” Depp, is that of a sweet, misunderstood outcast – Edward Angorachest. But Woody’s post-Plan 9 career is a tale too pathetic for even the Master of Mainstream Macabre – a long, depressing fall into alcoholism, ignominy and soft-core sleazemongering. (The best full-frontal exploration of the whole sorry tale can be found in writer/musician Rudolph Grey’s bio, Nightmare of Ecstasy, which has the coveted Rainey seal of approval.)
Orgy of the Dead (1965), written (but not directed) by Wood and based on his novel (!) of the same name, is one of the most valuable examples of the Transvestite in Transition. It arrived at the tail end, so to speak, of Hollywood’s stifling Production Code, when certain enterprising individuals discovered the profitability of what were then called “Nudie-Cuties,” films that existed solely for the purpose of parading bunches of bountiful babes in various states of undress in front of the camera, with occasional half-assed (heh) swipes at plot and character development tossed in to avoid obscenity laws. Orgy, as anyone who’s beheld its gorgeous Astravision and shocking Sexicolor can tell you, shows that Wood was uniquely qualified to place his own unmistakable imprint on this largely faceless genre.
And now, thanks to Kramer (the one from Shimmy-Disc, not the one from Seinfeld, dweeb), we now have a soundtrack album to commemorate this work of high art. This ain’t just your usual score-excerpts-and-intermittent-dialogue audio hack job – it’s the entire movie on CD. Wisely, Kramer opted not to touch up or alter it in any way – it’s a raw cord of Wood, warts, pustules and all. All the better to hear the sudden leaps in continuity, the surreal autobiographical touches (the male “hero” is a failed writer whose fiancee doesn’t understand why he wants to write horror instead of “dog stories”), and, of course, the inimitable dialogue (“It will please me very much to see the Slave Girl with all her tortures… TORTURE, TORTURE, IT PLEASURES ME!”). What’s lacking… well, I think you can guess what’s lacking. The “plot,” the goofy performances, and the appearance of the Wolfman and the Mummy for no good reason at all – these things are but window-dressing for the flick’s true purpose: topless necro-babes doing interpretive dances of the dead, something you can’t see on CD (although the sleeve photos help). Jaime Medoza-Nava’s score is disappointingly competent ’60s B-movie stuff that only achieves high-camp glory once – on “A Pussycat Is Born to Be Whipped,” a sprightly little shuffle punctuated by the lash of a bullwhip (and never quite on the beat). That, the undeniable thespian talent of the legendary Criswell, and the high weirdness quotient of the whole endeavor, are still enough to make this a worthy addition to your own personal necro-file. And remember, there’s nothing to forgive – it was all a dream.
